Three Marie Ferrarella Romances Box Set One (3 page)

“Mr. Rutledge,” she said, lowering her voice as her eyes swept over the various people who stood well within earshot. “I am a professional, and I am here strictly for the purpose of doing an interview.” There, that sounded firm. She congratulated herself.

But his eyes teased her, as if throwing her words back at her. “That remains to be seen. And my friends call me Nick.” With that, he winked, and excused himself for a moment. Shane was left alone with a sea of curious eyes examining her. Then, slowly, the crew members began to amble away and resume their work.

“Didn’t I tell you he was great?” Scottie asked.

Shane had forgotten about him. She seemed to have forgotten a lot of things in Nick’s presence, like how to maintain her poise. She didn’t like men who unnerved her. Until this larger-than-life character, the only other man who had accomplished that feat was Alan Sherman, and she had married him, much to her everlasting chagrin. Six months later, clutching her divorce papers in her hands, she had formed a hard opinion of overwhelmingly good looking men.

Shane let Scottie ramble on amiably as she tried to regain her outward calm, although nothing at the moment could cool the embers inside. Their heat came from the Rutledge mystique.

Nick returned in five minutes. “Gypsy’s getting a schedule together for you right now,” he said.

“Gypsy?” she asked.

“My secretary.”

He would have a secretary named Gypsy
, Shane thought.
Somehow it fit
.

“In the meantime, have you had dinner?” he asked.

“I had a sandwich on the plane,” she told him.

“Sandwiches don’t count,” he assured her, taking her hand. She left it there for a moment, absorbing the warmth that seeped into her. Every movement of his was so ... so personal, she thought. He acted almost as if they were old friends instead of virtual strangers.

“Wait a minute,” she protested before she was whisked away. “Aren’t you in the middle of shooting? How can you leave?”

“I can leave because we’re not shooting. The Lord High Protector is supposed to be standing on the deck with the wind in his hair and the sun smiling down upon his sails,” he explained humorously. “Nowhere in the script does it read that he’s supposed to be drowning in the process. The weatherman says there’s no relief in sight, so we stop shooting. Satisfied?” She nodded. “Good. Give me a minute to change—unless”—he paused, a smile curling the corners of his mouth—“you’d like to describe the way I get out of my costume— strictly for your article, of course.”

She didn’t like his laughing at her. Her face did not move a muscle as she replied icily, “The interview is not supposed to be that intimate.”

The broad shoulders shrugged. “Too bad. Scottie, show Shane around the set and bring her back here to meet me in ten minutes.”

“C’mon,” Scottie urged. “You’ll like everybody,” he told her. Shane cast one disparaging glance in Nick’s direction and followed Scottie. He introduced her to a host of cameramen, propmen, stunt men and women, and supporting actors. She tried hard to remember which face went with which name, because she fully intended to interview as many of them as she could in order to add weight and depth to a theory she was developing about Nick.

Shane had just met the wardrobe mistress when the sound of a female’s loud voice pierced the air with a chalk-scraping screech.

“Liar!” the woman, dressed in a very revealing costume of the era, spat at Nick’s retreating back. She kicked one of the light stands, sending it sprawling, then wheeled and stormed away.

“That,” Nick said, taking hold of Shane’s elbow, “is our temperamental leading lady, Adrienne Avery. She is your proverbial hellcat.”

“What’s she so angry about?” Shane asked. In the background she heard a series of crashes, diminishing in loudness. Adrienne was obviously kicking and destroying everything in her path.

Nick thanked Scottie, then hustled Shane across the set. He opened an umbrella and held it over her head as he guided her toward his car. “I promised Adrienne dinner,” he mumbled.

“She must have been really hungry,” Shane said wryly. “Look, I don’t want to cause any problems,” she protested. He was still holding her elbow, as well as the umbrella. In addition, somehow, he was managing to rub his forearm against her breast. His expression was innocent as a babe’s, but Shane would have placed a bet that he knew exactly what he was doing. She was having trouble maintaining any semblance of coolness, inside or out.

He opened the car door. There was nothing to do but get in, which she did. “You don’t have to take me out to dinner,” she insisted.

“Oh, but I do,” he said. Then he hastily went around the car and in on his side. “You’ve shown me the error of my ways,” he told her, patting her leg. Actually, it was more like her thigh. Why did he have to keep touching her?

“I have?” she asked. Her throat felt dry.

“Yes, I should mingle more freely with the press,” he said, starting up the Ferrari.

“I had no idea I was so persuasive,” she muttered, trying to calm the dart of heat that was shooting through her from its point of origin on her thigh.

“Oh, but you are,” the low voice assured her. “What’s your pleasure?”

She wasn’t sure she was hearing correctly. “What?”

“Food.” Nick laughed as she squirmed uncomfortably.

If looks could kill, she thought, glaring at him, the man would be in the morgue in ten minutes. Eleven, tops.

“Do you like French, Chinese, seafood, what?” he asked.

“Seafood,” she answered, grasping at the first thing that sounded right.

“Terrific,” Nick acknowledged with a broad grin. “I know a fantastic restaurant with magnificent seafood and an even better atmosphere—it’s dim, bordering on dark.” His voice was almost seductive, she thought.

“Don’t you like seeing your food?” she asked.

“Sure, but I like eating in peace better,” he told her. “In a well-lit, well-trafficked place, I spend more time signing autographs than I do chewing. And no matter how good it is, cold is not my favorite temperature for clam chowder.”

That sounded fair enough, she thought, trying hard not to stare at him while he talked. But it was as if her eyes were hypnotically drawn to him throughout their ride. Etched in the fading light of dusk, Nick was almost unbearably handsome. She’d never thought she’d think that about any man, and certainly not in admiration. Handsome men used their faces to open doors for them, to deceive women.
 

Whoa, hold it, no personal interjections here
, she warned herself.
Be professional. The man is innocent until proved guilty
. She struggled to keep an open mind—and calm body.

The restaurant was charming, and the maitre d’ seemed genuinely delighted to see Nick. They were ushered to a very private corner table with a plush booth forming two sides of the dim nook. Rather than sit on the chair opposite her, as Shane had expected him to, Nick slipped into the booth alongside her. Her body stiffened slightly, alerted to the danger of having him so close, and when he asked her if she’d like a cocktail, she startled herself by ordering sherry.
 

Good grief! What was the matter with her? She hated sherry
. And of course it was served immediately, along with a glass of chilled chablis for Nick.

“You come here often?” she asked.
Captivating question
, she silently taunted herself.

Nick smiled, his smile penetrating her veins more swiftly than the sherry she’d just sipped. “Whenever I can. Don’t forget, I live in Hollywood when I’m not on location.”

She toyed with the stem of her goblet, avoiding the hypnotic effect of his eyes. It was bad enough that his cologne was assaulting her olfactory system—indeed, her nose was positively twitching. Never had a man’s cologne aroused her so. The sherry must be going straight to her head, totally bypassing the airline’s skimpy sandwich. “I understand you had complete control over casting and location. Why did you pick Colorado?”

The question seemed to please him. “There are certain locations here that look very romantic when the sun hits them just so. I think it adds a lot to the movie.’’

“Can’t the sun ‘hit just so’ in California?”

“Maybe,” he conceded, picking up a piece of bread and buttering it smoothly. Everything he did, he did smoothly, she thought, just the way he rolled his words off his tongue. “But I grew up in Colorado—“

“So you decided you’d throw the locals a little money?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he said. Then he put down his knife. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Shane, but I’m getting definite vibrations from you.”

Uh-oh, here comes the macho pitch, she thought.

“Why don’t you like me?” he asked softly.

Her eyes grew wide.
Was he as perceptive as all that? Was she as obvious as all that?
What struck her most was that Nick appeared to sound sincere, as if it mattered to him that one, lone woman wasn’t falling at his feet. Maybe it did matter, she thought. No conquest unturned ... “I don’t dislike you, Mr. Rutledge—“

“Nick,” he corrected.

“Nick,” she amended. “I’m just not quite sure how to take you.”

“In whole doses,” he said helpfully. His eyes danced over her features.

Shane lowered hers. “I think I’ll have the shrimp salad,” she said, lifting the menu between them. She could hear Nick’s soft chuckle. It touched every nerve ending she had. She pushed the sherry farther away from her.

The waitress came and went, as did their dinner. Time slipped away, and Shane got nowhere with her interview. Every question she framed sounded stilted, amateurish. It was a bad evening for her. She’d sound better in the morning, she reassured herself. So she turned down his next offer.

“Would you like to go dancing?” he asked as he put a large bill on the table and helped Shane out of the booth.

“I’d like to go to my room,” she told him.

“That can be arranged.” He stood behind her, a good foot taller than she was, his hands resting gently on her shoulders. She could feel the heat of his fingers penetrating her jacket. Somehow she knew they didn’t have the same thing in mind.

“I meant alone.”

“I’d never let a stranger go back to her lonely hotel room alone. Besides,” he said, dangling the keys before her, “I have the car keys. Your coach awaits, milady,” he said grandly.

Shane took his arm and went out into the night. It had stopped raining. There were a few stars sprinkled in the dark sky and winking down on the Friday-night activity, which was just beginning.

“You’re sure you want to go back to the hotel?”

Nick asked again as the Ferrari was brought around for them.

“I’m sure,” she said firmly.

She wasn’t feeling all that firm when he stepped out of the car with her at the hotel and followed her across the lobby and into the elevator. She had expected him merely to let her out at the front entrance, not to follow her upstairs. But here she was at her room and here he was, right behind her. The tingling sensation was back.

“Well, this is my door,” she said, fishing for her key.
Why did keys always sink to the bottom of purses?

“Very nice door,” he commented impishly. “Is the other side as nice?”

“I imagine so. Probably the same color and everything,” she replied, amused despite herself.

“Really?” He sounded as intrigued as if she had just told him a deep, state secret. “I’d like to see it.”

She laughed as she opened it. “See?” She held it for his inspection.

“Yes, I do see,” Nick said, looking only at her as he closed the door behind him.

Shane fumbled for the light, missing the switch on her first swipe at the wall. The lamp on a nearby coffee table flicked on, and she almost sighed audibly.

Nick’s gray eyes watched her steadily as she moved quickly into the room. “I don’t leap at moving targets, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I’m not afraid,” she informed him coolly.

“Then, come here,” he said, his voice as inviting as a touch of velvet.

Shane found herself moving toward him, as if she had no control over her own legs. “We’re supposed to be maintaining a professional relationship here,” she heard herself protest, but the words came out with a lot less force than she had intended.

“Lady, you talk too much,” Nick said as he took her face in both hands. His lips touched hers, at first, very, very gently. So gently that she thought she was dreaming. But as the pressure increased with the passing of seconds, Shane knew that this was no dream. This was quite real. Suddenly, doors that had been firmly shut five years ago sprang open, letting loose emotions she had been careful to bury. Horrified, she caught herself and pushed him back.

“That is not the way to end a kiss, Shane. You kind of taper off. You don’t use a body block,” he said, highly amused. “We’re going to have to practice that.”

“We’re not ‘practicing’ anything,” she informed him, her voice shaky.

“Rehearsals can be fun,” he assured her, drawing closer.

Shane stepped back. “This show just had its final performance.”

“We’ll sponsor a revival,” he told her, his eyes sparkling down into hers.

She tried another approach. “Look, I’m very tired.” She marched to the door and opened it. Her message was clear.

“You didn’t kiss like a tired lady,” he said, grinning. He ran a finger along her jaw, resting it on her chin. “I think I’m going to like having an in-depth interview done.” His eyes caressed her once more. “Sweet dreams,” he murmured, then left.

Shane locked the door, leaning against it. A deep sigh escaped her lips. The fire of his kiss still burned.

Chapter Three

A brisk, staccato knock echoed its way into Shane’s consciousness.

She bolted upright in bed. Was she dreaming?

The knock came again, louder.

She groped for the clock, nearly falling between the bed and the nightstand. Six-oh-seven.
 

Six-oh-seven? There was someone up at six-oh-seven? In the morning? On a Saturday?
 

She tried to clear away the cobwebs from her mind and become lucid as the knock grew stronger. Maybe the hotel was on fire!