Stripped (6 page)

“Will Fiona be there?” The words had snuck out before he’d realized he was asking her father, and what that father might infer from the question.
 

Unsurprisingly, that smile had lost some of its friendliness, and the back of Declan’s neck prickled.
 

At that moment, Ryan, the sound engineer Sadie had been stalking earlier, had walked by, equipment propped over his shoulder. “Fi never misses the cantina, man,” he’d said with a waggle of eyebrows before shooting Rick a chummy grin as he wandered off.

The look on Rick’s face had been indecipherable when Declan glanced his way again. “Yes, my daughter will be there. She loves to dance.”
 

A familiar face on the television screen in front of him snatched Declan from his thoughts of the day and had him yanking out his earbuds. The push of a button slowed his treadmill to a steady walk.

“…TMZ reports that Christopher Lunsford, Hollywood bad boy and star of the blockbuster
Raine
trilogy, has checked into rehab for drug addiction. An official statement released by the actor’s management states that Lunsford is ‘very sorry’ to have disappointed his fans, and that he will ‘be back in the game sooner than you think.’ This is Bianca James, reporting….”

Declan watched an unsteady camera shot of Christopher Lunsford as he pushed through a crowd of paparazzi with the help of a bodyguard, tanned face wan under the blinding flash of photographers’ bulbs. The actor didn’t look sick or strung out so much as exhausted—exhausted, and angry.

Lifting the hem of his shirt to mop the sweat from his forehead, Declan pulled his gaze from the TV screen, neither needing nor wanting to see any more of his predecessor’s fall from grace. He surveyed the gym as he stepped off the treadmill, noting it was nearly empty of patrons, and considered his options.

He could do as he had been for the past nine nights in a row: finish his routine with an hour on the weights before showering and crashing for the evening. Or he could skip straight to the showering part, throw on some fresh clothes, and hit the cantina.
 

Where Fiona would be.

Screw the weight circuit. Declan had some dancing to do.

FOUR

Less than an hour later, Declan paused in Lucero’s doorway, gaze searching out a braided, bespectacled makeup artist…
 

…And finding, instead, a leggy goddess in a flirty little skirt the color of fresh clover spinning fluidly across the dance floor into the arms of a Latin man wearing a shit-eating grin.
 

Fiona O’Brien, leggy goddess. Who would’ve guessed?

Also, Latin Dude looked far too pleased to be holding her.
 

No glasses to hide her eyes, no huge shirts to shield her shape, and Declan drank in the sight of her. Slender, defined upper arms, lovely legs silky and tan and long, so long, Fiona had legs that gave a man ideas, and if Declan were honest, he’d been having ideas for days.

She smiled at her partner, cheeks flushed, as her limbs seemingly draped around the man and a shaft of painful longing ripped through Declan’s gut, twisting with excruciating slowness when the man’s hands swept over her curves. Curves Declan could now see, for the first time. Curves he wanted to spend the next couple of hours exploring with his own hands, and mouth, and—

No. They were coworkers. More than that, there was what they
weren’t
, and what they
weren’t
was together, because almost-kisses didn’t count. What he ought to have done before now was ask her out for a drink, or coffee, something casual and nonthreatening that people who worked together might conceivably do after hours. Seeing Fiona smile like this, however, put his desires in harsh perspective.
 

He wanted her. He wanted her like crazy, with her stern face and her caramel candies and her whatever-it-was with Wes and the
craving
. The craving in her eyes, as if she longed for what that almost-kiss might have led to, had they not been interrupted.
 

Had they not been interrupted, Declan had a feeling his whole world could have burned to ash. As it stood, every moment after that had simply added another layer, heat over heat, want on top of want. He knew what her breath felt like, puffing against his ear, just as he knew the softness of her fingers, lightly stroking beneath his chin. He knew the feel of her hands clenched in his hair, her thumb dragging along his bottom lip…but he didn’t know the taste of her mouth.

The intimacy building between them staggered him, and yet there was no end or relief in sight. Except…

You’re loud to me.

Loud, and he’d told her he wanted to kiss her. Hell, he wanted to do far more than kiss her, but they could start there and begin stripping away those layers of heat and want. No more hiding behind the mask she helped him don each morning in order to avoid the swift deathblow a direct rejection would deliver his unwise crush.
 

Several other couples spun and swayed on the dance floor, bathed in the glow of the red and yellow lights framing the stage, on which sat a nine-piece salsa band complete with horns, guitars, and a drum set that made his fingers twitch for want of a set of sticks. Off to the left of the stage was a darkened hallway, presumably leading to the restrooms, and swinging doors from which bled the fluorescent kitchen lighting every time a server pushed through. To the right of the main entrance, where Declan still stood, was a well-stocked bar manned by two tee-shirted staff. Every other square foot was covered with four-top tables, some pushed together to accommodate larger parties.

It was at one of those sets of tables, situated relatively close to the dance floor and band, that Declan spotted the familiar faces he was looking for: Rick, Wes, Ryan, Marta, Joanne, and five or six other crew members. Nodding politely to the hostess, he ambled through the sea of tables until he reached his destination, noting several clear plastic pitchers filled with pale green liquid.
 

“Did you see Jones go down last night in the seventh?” Rick asked the group at large as Declan dropped into the empty seat across from the costume designer.

“Yeah.” Wes fiddled with the black metal case of his electronic cigarettes. A brooding expression was fixed firmly in place as his director’s gaze darted around the room, halting momentarily on a wall-mounted television in the corner before coming back around to the table. “Looked like he was hurting.”
 

“Read in the
Times
today that the first baseman said he heard a snap.”

Sadie’s Ryan winced sympathetically as he tapped out a quick text message on his phone before setting it on the table in front of him. “Jeez. But he didn’t go into surgery, right?”

It was Rick who answered. “Nah. Sounds like the docs are assessing damage, but he’s definitely out for a while.”

Wes sighed. “And that game was shaping up to be a no-hitter.”

“Jones was having a good season out in Chicago,” Rick dipped a tortilla chip into the earthenware bowl filled with salsa as he shook his head, “but man, I wish he were still here. Don’t know what the club was thinking, letting his contract run out.” Raising his eyebrow, he used his salsa-laden chip to gesture at Declan. “Know anything about baseball?”

Declan helped himself to a chip. “Not a damn thing.”

“What a shame.” The gray-haired man lifted one of the half-full pitchers of green stuff. “Margarita?” When Declan nodded, Rick grabbed one of the short, salt-rimmed tumblers from a serving tray at the center of the tables, filling it nearly to the brim. “Drink up.”

“Thanks.” For several minutes, Declan sat in silence, listening to the chatter around him—his coworkers in English, several of the nearby tables in Spanish. His attention drifted to the dance floor, where Fiona was doing the merengue with a new partner. She was easy to watch—necessary, even. Every step she made spoke of confidence, every turn and twirl controlled both by her and by the man who guided her through the moves.
 

Eventually, he glanced around the pushed-together tables, noting the faces. “Am I the only cast here?”

Rick drained his margarita. “You are.”

“Because?”

“You like my daughter.” It wasn’t a question.

“I like your daughter,” Declan confirmed solemnly, lifting the pitcher to refill his glass.
 

“Guys always like Fi, but she doesn’t seem to like them back.” Rick moved his own empty glass toward Declan for a refill, choosing a chip from the basket between them. “Can’t say I mind her approach to dating.”
 

“And that approach is?”

“That she doesn’t date.”

“Ah.” He found Fiona on the dance floor again, spinning gracefully away from a man’s outstretched hand, her limbs loose, her turns liquid smooth. “What about Wes?” he murmured, dropping his voice so the man in question wouldn’t hear.

“What about him?”

“He and Fiona seem…close.”

There was a sharpness to Rick’s amusement as the older man studied Declan. “He’s been coming around to our place since Fi was a kid. Wes is family.”

Declan shifted in his chair, fighting against the desire to squirm. It was a gentle set-down, but a set-down nonetheless, and he was both embarrassed and relieved. Mostly relieved. He couldn’t help glancing in the direction of the dance floor, and Fiona. “She doesn’t lack for partners.”

“And she never will.” Tipping back in his chair, the older man laced his fingers behind his head, gaze focused on the battered tabletop. “All she ever wanted to do was dance. We put her in classes starting at age three. By the time Fi graduated high school, I was driving her across the western United States for competitions almost every weekend. College came, and she still had her ballerina dreams. And then…” Rick shook his head, his expression momentarily distraught. Then furious. Then pensive once more. “Someone said something. Someone important to her, about how she looked and how she danced, like she was
wrong
. Next thing we hear, she’s in Vegas, and we don’t see her for two years.”

Wrong
? On the dance floor, Fiona threw her head back and laughed as her partner caught her, one of his hands at the small of her back, the other lightly gripping her fingers. Her ponytail bounced playfully, her smile wide and open, and a hot finger of need poked Declan in the sternum.
 

No, there was absolutely nothing wrong with that woman—not how she looked, not how she laughed, not how she tied his chest in knots. He absently rubbed the heel of one palm over the abused spot. “She wanted to dance as a career?”

“Ballet. She was good enough to make it, too.”

Good enough to dance professionally, and yet Fiona had given up on that dream because of something someone said, if Rick was to be believed. There had to be more to the story than that, though he’d rather hear that story from Fiona herself.

Convincing her to share that story with him was another matter entirely. Conversations between the two of them could become commonplace, in the makeup chair and outside of it, depending on how tonight turned out.

Declan knew how he wanted tonight to turn out, and it involved shouldering Latin Dude to the side. He watched her move, sleek and strong and sexier than he’d ever expected, given her tendency to blanch the vibrant colors he was seeing now—the vibrant colors he knew must be the real Fiona. “Are you worried about her gettin’ involved with me?” No use in tiptoeing around the understatement of a fact that Fiona’s father knew of Declan’s interest in her.

Rick appraised him with a keen eye, not unlike when Declan had first been measured for his costume. “I figure,” he murmured, “she’ll let me know when I should be worried. And if she doesn’t, you certainly will.”
 

“I will?”

“You will, because this is your first Hollywood film. I know you don’t want to be blacklisted right out of the gate.”

A chuckle burst out of Declan before he noted that nothing about Rick indicated he was joking. Sobering quickly, Declan leaned his elbows on the table, hands clasped loosely around his margarita tumbler. “And you’d do that?”

Rick’s smile was no less intimidating for all that it remained congenial. “You bet your Irish ass I would.” He clinked his glass against Declan’s before raising it to his lips. “You’re both adults, and you’ll do what you’ll do. But Fiona’s my kid. It’s my job to worry about her.”
 

Throat dry, Declan nodded. “I meant what I said, Rick. I like her.”

The older man ran a hand through his hair. “And I like you. So try not to screw this up, okay? My girl could use a little fun.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shut up.”
 

The tension dissipated as Declan laughed, and he wondered how he’d managed to get to nearly thirty years of age without having experienced this—being threatened in a friendly manner by a potential girlfriend’s father. That the father in question was Declan’s coworker, not to mention a man Declan respected, added an interesting twist to what could be a scene from any sitcom on air in the past decade.

Another song ended, and applause broke out across the cantina as Rick excused himself to the restroom. Declan watched as Fiona laid a hand on her partner’s shoulder to thank him for the dance, watched while she turned to make her way to their table. Watched, and waited for her to notice him.
 

He knew the moment she saw him. Not because her eyes met his, but because her spine straightened and her shoulders went back. Each footstep carrying her toward him held a whisper of the attitude she so often dealt his way, whether in the trailer or on the set. Attitude and bite—and that tantalizing hint of softness. Earlier today, she’d offered him a confession by admitting to the awareness he’d been unable to ignore since their first, jet-lagged morning together.
 

Then she was at the table, skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat from her exertions on the dance floor. The thin straps of her ivory top contrasted deeply against her bare, sun-warmed shoulders. Appropriating Declan’s margarita, she drained it, then set the glass back on the table in front of him with a decisive
clink
. Her tongue darted out, catching the salt that had collected at the corner of her mouth.