One Night With You (16 page)

"
Promise
me you won't tell him," Desi insisted.

"I promise I won't tell him," Dorothea said solemnly.

*

Desi went about her job for the next few days with a vague feeling of apprehension hanging over her head. It wasn't that she didn't trust Dorothea—but Jake was such a favorite of hers, and he reminded her so much of her beloved Richard. Add to that the fact that Dorothea felt that she—Desi—was doing the wrong thing...

It caused Desi to be apprehensive. Quite justifiably apprehensive, she thought. Especially when she caught sight of Dorothea and Eldin, their heads together, as they conversed very quietly, glancing her way now and then. Eldin didn't think she was doing the right thing either. He'd told her that more than once.

"You're underestimating him, luv," he'd said in that understated British way of his. "Jake's not the kind of man to turn his back on his responsibilities."

"I'm not his responsibility," Desi shot back.

"No, but Stephanie is, or should be," he answered her with calm logic. "Besides, luv, don't you think that your daughter should know her father? One day she'll ask, you know, and then what will you say?"

But Desi had already resolved to face that problem when she came to it. It wouldn't happen for years yet. And, in the meantime, Eldin and Dorothea had both promised not to tell. No matter what their personal feelings were they had assured her that they wouldn't say anything to Jake.

And she believed them. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling they were planning
something
.

"Weston!" Jake summoned her with his usual abruptness, and Desi took a deep breath, preparing to face him, to pretend. He hadn't referred to that afternoon again and, so, neither had she. "Weston, where are you?"

"Here." She came up behind him, her sneakered feet masking the sound of her footsteps.

He turned to her, no sign on his handsome face to show that she had startled him, although she knew she had. She could tell by the tensing of his shoulder muscles when she had spoken from behind him.

"Have you got Audrey and Michael ready for this next scene?" he asked.

The question was totally unnecessary, she thought with a brief flash of irritation. Both Audrey and Michael were standing directly in his line of vision, not twenty feet away, talking over the scene with two other supporting actors and the assistant director while they waited for Jake to join them. He was in this scene, too. Any fool could see that they were ready.

Even Jake, she thought, a small grin suddenly dispelling her agitation.

"You find something amusing, Weston?"

Her grin faded, replaced instantly by the carefully blank look that she cultivated over these past couple of weeks to protect herself from him—and from her own emotions. Or, at least, she hoped it was blank. Dorothea had seen something, hadn't she?

"It's nothing," Desi said. He still scowled down at her. "Nothing to do with you," she lied. "Just a passing thought—"

"Everything on this set has to do with me," he informed her arrogantly. "You'd save yourself a lot of trouble if you learned that, Weston."

"Yes, sir," she said, suppressing the absurd desire to salute him. "I'll try to remember that, sir."

He grinned then, a curiously unwilling sort of acknowledgment of his own bad temper. "You do that, Weston," he said softly, his eyes roaming hungrily over her upturned face. He half raised a hand as if to touch her.

Desi felt her breath catch somewhere in her throat. She felt, almost, as if he was asking her a question.
Ask me
, her mind urged him silently.
Ask me. Whatever it is, I'll say yes.

"Is there anything else?" she said instead.

"No, nothing." He looked at his hand, suspended there halfway between them, as though he had no idea of how it had moved. It dropped to his side. "Just get out of my way," he said with no particular inflection or tone.

When she turned to go, though, he reached out again and touched her arm. "Look," he said haltingly, his long fingers pressing into the sleeve of her down jacket, "forget what I just said, okay? I've been a little touchy lately." He turned and strode briskly away from her.

"I wish I could hate him," she whispered to herself. "It would be easier if I could just hate him."

But she didn't. She loved him. Loved him more each day, it seemed, no matter what he said, or didn't say, or how he made her feel.

I must be a masochist
, she thought,
to continue to want a man who doesn't want me
.

God, I don't think I can stand this until the picture is over. It gets harder and harder to look at him every day
. Wanting him, loving him—and getting only indifference and the cold politeness of a stranger. Nothing, not even her first movie credit was worth it.

But in another month and a half or so it wouldn't matter anyway, she reminded herself. They would be finished shooting in San Francisco today, and then the whole company would be moved up to Dorothea's house in Sonoma to film the final scenes of
Devil's Lady
. Two months, at most, and it would be over. She would have done her job—gotten that all-important film credit—and if she was very, very lucky she would never have to work for or with Jake Lancing again. She tried to smile at that, ignoring the fact that the thought gave her no pleasure. None at all.

She shrugged and turned away from the action going on in front of the cameras. This was the last scene for today, and when it was finished the technicians would start packing up for the move to Sonoma. She might as well start putting away her own equipment now. It wouldn't be needed until Monday morning—early—at the new location. As soon as she heard the word "cut" she would be ready to leave. She was looking forward to the weekend. Just herself and Stephanie, since Dorothea was packed and ready to leave for Sonoma after the day's shoot.

"I want to get a head start," she had told Desi, "see that the beds have been made up and the rooms aired properly and, of course, get enough of Richard's best champagne on ice. You, dear girl, will stay at the main house with me. No, no, don't argue. You are most definitely
not
going to a hotel," she insisted. "I simply won't hear of it! Not after I've imposed upon your generous hospitality for nearly a month."

In the normal course of events Desi would have been eagerly looking forward to spending time in a turn-of-the-century mansion—and mansion she knew it must be. Despite Dorothea's casual references to a "drafty old house," she had also mentioned a cook and an upstairs maid and had said that not only would Desi be her houseguest but several others of the cast and crew as well.

"Bring some of your pretty clothes, dear girl," she instructed Desi. "We dress for dinner." Her black eyes twinkled wickedly. "Jake will look magnificent in evening clothes, don't you think?"

There was the rub, of course. Jake. He would be staying at Dorothea's house, too. Could she take twenty-four hours a day of Jake, Desi wondered fearfully. Working, eating, relaxing—or trying to relax—with him always there, sleeping under the same roof, with their shared memories and that hungry look that he sometimes got in his eyes? The same look that Dorothea said was in hers. Could she endure that without
something
happening?

Well, she could, she decided, because she had to. There was no other choice. After all, Dorothea would be there, and Eldin, and several other members of the cast and crew. Jake wasn't likely to break down her door—no matter how hungrily he sometimes looked at her—not with a house full of people surrounding them.

But what about you?
a little voice inside her whispered traitorously.
What's to keep you from creeping to his door in the middle of some long sleepless night?

Even now, when he had just been so strange and abrupt with her, the thought of him sleeping under the same roof was unnervingly exciting. After the way he had been treating her, it shouldn't be. But, to her everlasting shame, it was.

"Cut!" The assistant director's voice carried through the open door of the trailer, where Desi was packing her equipment into a big, hard-sided, compartmentalized case. She snapped the metal clasps shut and hauled it off the makeup table, slinging her satchel over her other shoulder.

"See you on Monday," she called to Dorothea as she headed down the crowded street to the lot where her car was parked.

Chapter 9

"Night, angel," Desi whispered. She reached out to tenderly stroke the little red head of her sleeping baby.

Now she could have her own bath—or shower, rather—and then to bed. It had been a long day and tomorrow morning she and Stephanie were going to drive down to Santa Cruz to visit grandma and grandpa for the weekend before she headed up to Sonoma on Monday. It had been a month or so since they'd all seen each other.

She went into her bathroom, blue and white like the attached bedroom, and began preparations for bed; carefully creaming her skin of the day's grime, cleaning her teeth, shampooing her long hair under the piercing spray of the shower. She decided to give herself a hair-conditioning treatment—one of her little beauty rituals that had been inconvenient when Dorothea was sharing the bathroom with her. When that was finished she was no longer sleepy, so she decided to give herself a pedicure, too. There must be a good movie on cable tonight that she could watch while she pampered herself.

She blow-dried her hair, tying it back out of the way with a pink ribbon, and wrapped her creamed and powdered body in a pink-on-pink silk kimono she'd found at a flea market in China Town. Barefoot, she padded first to the kitchen for a glass of Dorothea's champagne and then into the living room. She switched on the television and settled back on the comfortable rose-colored sofa, her feet propped up on the coffee table in front of her. Threading a piece of tissue under and over her toes to keep the polish from smearing, she then carefully began to paint the nails with the newest Revlon color.

"French lilac," the bottle said. Well, it sounded pretty, she thought, but it looked like plain old pink to her. She shrugged. Maybe French lilacs
were
pink.

Between sips of champagne and pauses to watch Fred and Ginger execute a particularly tricky dance number she got the requisite three coats of polish applied. She was settled back on the sofa, her feet still propped up on the coffee table and carefully crossed at the ankles, and was thinking about getting up during the next commercial to pour herself another glass of champagne when the doorbell rang.

Now who could that be, she thought with annoyance as she got up and walked—on her heels and slightly duck-footed because of the tissue between her toes—toward the front door.

"Teddie?" she said, peering through the peephole.

Not Teddie.

"Jake," she said in a small voice as she automatically opened the door.

"Hello, Weston," he said casually.

"Hello, Jake." She repeated his name softly, somehow unable to say anything else at the moment. Or even
think
of anything else. His appearance was such a surprise and, yet, not a surprise. She had imagined him, so many times, knocking on her door. She had imagined what he would say, what she would say but, just now, she couldn't seem to remember any of it as he stood there looking so tall and vital and incredibly sexy.

He was dressed much as he had been that first night. Slim tailored slacks, pale gray tonight instead of tan, his white shirt casually unbuttoned to a modest V. He had on the same black leather jacket, too, and the same tantalizing cologne.

Oh God, he looked so good and smelled so good and, despite everything, she was very glad he was there.

"You plan on keeping me standing here all night?" His deep seductive voice prodded her and his eyes—his dark beautiful eyes—surveyed her slowly, as she had unconsciously been surveying him.

One slender hand came up to nervously finger the neckline of her robe, adjusting the flat lapels closer together. "Uh, no, of course not," she said, a little breathlessly. "Please come in."

He brushed past her before she could step back, and his upper arm skimmed lightly against her silk-covered breasts. She felt the brief fluttering contact like a tingling jolt of electricity through her body, and she took a hurried step backward, still balancing awkwardly on her heels.

Jake's expressive face indicated concern. "You okay, Weston?" he said, reaching out for her elbow to steady her.

She backed away again, avoiding his touch. "I'm fine," she said, pointing to her toes.

He glanced down at her bare feet, and his expression changed immediately to one of half-amused curiosity. "What are you doing? Surgery?" he asked.

"Just polished them," she informed him, unable to suppress a small answering smile of her own even though her insides were churning. What was he doing there? What did he want?

"Did you want me for something?" she said then.

"Not you," he denied, but his eyes gave lie to his words, caressing her with a look, touching her in a way that was almost physical. "I came to see Dorothea. Where is she?"