Lovers and Liars (26 page)

R
ick leaned against the tree in the parking lot. He was standing a few yards from a sparkling, gleaming red Porsche. It belonged to Froth, and it was spanking new. The way the sun was casting shadows, he was nearly invisible. Unconsciously he rubbed his tender abdomen.

He heard Patty’s laughter first. She and Froth were walking hand in hand toward the Porsche. School had let out at least forty minutes ago—Rick idly wondered what they’d been doing. He imaginai Patty in Froth’s arms, French-kissing, her voluptuous body straining against him, Froth with one hand kneading her breast. He shoved the image away grimly.

Behind them he could make out Dale and Patty’s girlfriend. Rick watched them approach out of narrowed eyes.

Froth had opened the car door, and both girls had just
climbed into the back. Dale was standing by the car’s rear bumper, waiting. Rick burst out of the shadows, grabbed Froth by the shoulder, spun him around, and kicked him right in the balls.

Froth went down with a howl.

Dale came forward to meet him with an aggressive right hook. Rick ducked, grinning like a madman, and popped up, landing a solid blow to Dale’s jaw. Dale’s head snapped back, and he was momentarily off balance. Rick swung again, connecting with Dale’s soft belly. As he doubled over, Rick kneed him in the face. Dale crumbled. Rick kicked him once for good measure in the ribs, hard enough to bruise but not to break. He wasn’t crazy. He had learned long ago that if you fight, don’t turn your back until you’re positive your enemy is down and out. Rick relaxed. He was positive both Froth and Dale were exactly that.

Froth was groaning and clutching himself on the ground, and he twisted to look at him, his face deathly white. “You’ll be sorry!”

Rick smiled. “Don’t you ever fuck with me again,” he warned.

Patty had climbed out of the car, now that the fight was over, and she knelt beside Froth. She looked up at Rick, her expression confused. Rick glared at her with contempt and turned and strode away.

He wouldn’t think about tomorrow.

Froth had a whole school full of allies.

He had no one.

But he wasn’t a coward, and he never had been. He would fight until they killed him.

44

“W
e’re not friends, Derek—and we never have been.”

An absolute silence descended over the saguaro-studded set, not even broken by a bird’s trilling. Ford stood rigid and strained and grim, eyes dark, warning—the perfect hero, Belinda had to admit. Mascione yelled, “That’s it! Fucking fantastic! Print!” Belinda also had to admit that Ford was playing Ryder perfectly. At least in this one scene.

He hadn’t looked at her once since that morning, and it was almost one o’clock.

What was she—invisible?

The sun was high now, and true to the desert’s extremes of climate, the day was warm and springlike. Belinda had shed her jacket hours ago and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. She watched Ford striding toward his RV, Mascione trotting alongside, blabbing away at a mile a minute. The two of them disappeared into the trailer.

For the first time that day Belinda found herself able to relax. She could feel the tension—emotional, physical, sexual—draining from her body. And she had to face it: She was in deep water. Ford was only going to be on the set for two weeks, then they would all break for the holidays. But it was going to be a long two weeks unless she could get her reactions to him under control.

Under control?

Just how in hell did one control an inferno?

And the worst of it was, it was one-sided. Other than the fact that his ego was sorely wounded, he didn’t give a damn whether she was there or not. No, Belinda corrected herself, he was attracted to her—somewhat. If she shoved it in front of his face. It’s better this way, she told herself, the tension, anger-laced, rising again. The last thing I need is to
wind up in the star’s bed. Remember Nancy. Think about your career. I mean, don’t I have enough problems?

“Hey, Belinda,” the assistant to the assistant director said. “The King has called.”

Belinda, about to purchase a sandwich, went stiff. “Excuse me?”

“You are summoned to the King’s court.” The assistant grinned. She was a lesbian and one of the few females on the set impervious to Ford’s appeal. Now she was pointing at his RV.

“Mascione wants me?” Her throat was dry.

“Uh-uh.” The assistant to the assistant shook her head.
“He
wants you.”

Belinda stared at the RV.

Mascione had left.

Jack’s gut was tight, cramped. And his body, well, his body was alive, pulsating with awareness. It had been that way all day—since the moment she had entered his RV that morning.

She was the fucking writer
.

He couldn’t goddamn believe it.

She was the writer. She was a screenwriter. A Hollywood screenwriter. That meant she had to know who he was—she had to have known who he was at the North-Star party. Back then she had been playing a game. She was playing a game now. Who in hell did she think she was?

Jack ripped off his shirt, balled it, and threw it in a corner. Where the hell was she? He’d told Mascione’s assistant’s assistant twenty minutes ago that he wanted to see her.
Who in hell did she think she was?

Strutting around in that tight, tight sweater with that great pair of tits, in those tight, tight jeans with that high, round ass, long, strong legs, legs perfect for fucking, for wrapping around a man’s hips … He was getting a hard-on.

He had told the assistant to the assistant that he had some dialogue to discuss with her. Right. The script was open and waiting on the table. He wanted her open and
waiting, legs spread, pussy glistening, for him. It was hot now, and he began shoving open windows. He relished the physical release. If he wasn’t careful, he’d break a window.

Shit. She was doing it deliberately. Teasing, leading him on—he knew a come-on when he saw it. Just as she’d done it at the Majoriis party. Was that how she got her kicks? Getting a guy all fired up with no place to go?

She was a screwed-up broad.

She was impossibly sexy.

There was only one good thing about this entire setup. Her being here had fueled his performance like never before. Never had he been so good, so intense. His acting was taking on new dimensions, new depth. For her. Jesus Christ, he was performing for her. Because the entire time he was out there, on his mark, he knew,
he knew
, she was out there, too, watching him. He didn’t have to look at her to know it. He could feel it.

I’d like to perform for her, all right, he thought grimly. In bed.

She knocked.

Jack hesitated but only for a fraction of a second. Every muscle in his body was tight and wired. He opened the door. The expression in his eyes when he opened it was derisive—and mostly meant for himself.

She looked at him.

All self-derision vanished She knew how to look at a man. Gazes riveted, locked. His body increased its throbbing awareness, and he was sorry he hadn’t left on his shirt. He was half hard and growing. He made an easy gesture. “There’s some dialogue I want to discuss.”

Belinda moved into the RV, her gaze taking in the script on the table, aware of Jack close behind her, aware that he’d shut the door. “Is there something you have a problem with?” She turned to face him.

His eyes blazed. “You might say that.”

Belinda lifted her chin. She knew what was coming—and it had nothing to do with the script. But she could play the game—his game. From under her arm she pulled out her own script and once again became aware of the sexual connotations
they’d attached to it. She stared at it and thought about Jack—naked and huge and aroused, standing over her. Don’t fantasize now, she told herself, breathless and tight, and she lifted her eyes to his.

He was staring at the rolled-up script in her hand, and again his gaze met hers. Belinda knew, without a doubt, that his mind was on the same track as hers. “You have a problem with some dialogue?” Too husky.

“Yes, you could say that,” Jack said, his slight smile sarcastic.

Belinda opened the script “What page?”

It was an explosion. He grabbed it from her hand. “You know damn well it’s not on any page in there—although you’re the one who wrote it!”

“I’m tired of your yanking the damn manuscript out of my hand—”

Jack threw the screenplay on the couch. “You knew who I was at the North-Star party!”

“All right, yes!”

“You lied. You were playing some kind of game with me, and you lied!”

“No, I didn’t lie—”

“Just what would you call pretending that you didn’t know who I was?”

“Why the hell is it so damn important whether I knew or not?”

“Because you’re playing a game!”

“You don’t like games?”

He tensed, then smiled suddenly. He abruptly closed his hands on her shoulders, tightly, ruthlessly. Belinda tensed, her blood pounding. She knew she couldn’t move free of him unless he let her. His smile was not pleasant. He had pulled her closer—so close that their bodies almost touched. “Oh, I like games, all right,” he said softly. “You want to play games?” His breath was warm.

“I’m not playing a game,” Belinda managed.

“Good—then neither am I.” It was one little movement, a slight pull but with iron strength, and she was there. Against him, touching him from her knees to her breasts.

Hot, hot currents raced between them. Her jeans had never been so tight, and she could feel the heat of him, huge and aroused now, against her own plump, swollen groin.

“Why did you pretend you didn’t know who I was?” he asked huskily.

“I didn’t want to stroke your ego.”

She felt his anger as his hold tightened; she was pressed more solidly against him. “How in hell would you know anything about my ego?”

“We all have egos,” she managed.

When he spoke next his voice was a sensual rasping, meant to caress, seduce. “I want to stroke your ego, Belinda.”

She forced her gaze from his mouth to his eyes. The tightening in her chest was instantaneous. “Jack!” Protest or plea? She didn’t know.

“Let me stroke your ego,” he said, his hands sliding down her arms. His large palms cradled her buttocks, holding her tightly against his swollen penis. “I want you, Belinda … I want to make love to you, want to worship every inch of you … in bed, baby, that’s where I’m going to stroke your ego, stroke it … fuck it …”

On fire. She closed her eyes, pressing her hips hard against his. His hands tightened on her buttocks, lifting her closer. She was clinging to him. He was grinding against her. She was going to have an orgasm soon, any second. “Touch me,” she demanded.

He reached down and grabbed her between her legs. Belinda gasped. His mouth covered hers, hot, urgent. His hold on her crotch tightened. Belinda cried out.

The door opened and shut. “Jack?” Melody said.
“Oh!”

45