Once in a Blue Moon (7 page)

At first she rejected that idea.
How could anyone think that hurting someone he loved would be the best thing for her?
But Isabelle was honest enough to go past the wall of remembered pain and despair. She knew that if doctors had told her that Jenny had to attend a special school somewhere away from Isabelle, if they had said that that was the best way for her to learn and grow, then she would have agreed to send Jenny. She would have made Jenny go, even though it would have broken her heart to be separated from her...and even though it would have made Jenny sad at the time.

It was easy enough to see how someone would suppose that an eighteen-year-old was too young to make life decisions like giving up college and following the man she loved. Looking back, she could understand that someone else might think an eighteen-year-old girl’s love was a passing, shallow fancy, that she really didn’t know what love was. Michael would have assumed that her pampered life had left her ill prepared for living the hand-to-mouth existence of a penniless actor in New York; he would think she would be miserable, and he would be ashamed that he could not give her more. He had always been uneasy about the differences in their past: his childhood in a big, indifferent city, shuttled from foster home to foster home after his parents had died, and hers spent as the sheltered, beloved only child of well-to-do parents. She had ached for him then, when he talked about it, but she had thought that her love would heal all his wounds, would wear down the chip on his shoulder. But his preconceptions had taken him away from her before she had the chance to convince him.

With a groan, Isabelle buried her face in her hands. Long-buried hurt rose up in her, almost physically painful. She wanted to cry, but could not. Her emotions were a jumble of pain and regret and frustration. What a stupid, tangled mess it had been!
If she had only known how Michael had really felt, if he had only talked to her instead of leaving that damn note!

She could have reasoned with him, convinced him that he was wrong. Then they would have been together when she found out she was pregnant with Jenny. He would have been with her when Jenny was born and would have supported her through all that worry and suffering.

With a sigh, Isabelle’s hands fell away from her face and she leaned back in her chair. No, she realized, perhaps it would not have been better that way. If they had been together, if they had married and then Jenny had been born with all those problems, it would have made their lives very different. They wouldn’t have had the money for the tremendous hospital and doctor bills. Michael would have been humiliated at taking money from her parents; he would have had to give up his acting career and get a regular, paying job. That would have been a hellish decision for him. His career had been all-important to him. After all, whatever his feelings for her had been, when his career had beckoned, he had not hesitated; he had gone. That was usually the way it was with actors. Acting was not just a profession to most, it was something that took over their lives, that was the very center of their beings. Nor would it have meant the end of only his dream. Isabelle doubted that she would have gone to California to pursue her career, either.
How could she have, if Michael had given up his career for her and the baby?

And wouldn’t the love they had shared have turned sour after a time? Wouldn’t bitterness and recriminations have crept in?
It was easy to say that life would have been better if they’d stayed together, but there was nothing to prove that would have been true; it might even have become worse.

Isabelle’s thoughts left her feeling empty, as if an important part of her had been pulled out of herself. She supposed it had: she had lost the vision of her past that she always had before. It left her unsure of what she thought or felt.

She was still in a state of confusion the next morning when they began shooting. She felt awkward with Michael, and she avoided looking at him except when they were actually filming.

They shot the scenes of pursuit by the guerrilla fighters, using stunt doubles to film their crash into a ditch. After that, with Michael artistically decorated with a cut on his forehead and “blood” streaming down his face from the cut, they fled on foot. At a thatched-roof house, they found a bucket of water, and Jessica cleaned and bandaged Curtis’s “wound.” Curtis was confused and bewildered, and finally he asked her who she was. Gradually it dawned on Jessica that Curtis had lost his memory, at least temporarily.

Michael looked at her uncertainly and asked what they were to each other. Isabelle looked away, letting a crafty expression steal into her eyes, then turned back to him, smiling, and said, “Why, we’re friends, Curtis. Very good friends.”

There was the long, locked gaze so often used to end a scene in soaps, and then the scene was over.

“Great,” Lyle said, pleased. “That’s a wrap. Hey, kids, I’m happy to say that we are actually ahead of schedule. We have time to do the love scene this afternoon.”

I
sabelle was tired, and she had no desire to do a love scene now. Why, she could barely manage to look at Michael without feeling all jumbled-up inside. But it was “golden time,” that wonderful late-afternoon time when the sun cast a special glow over everything, making it perfect for filming. She could hardly protest taking advantage of it, especially for a love scene.

They changed into their set of ragged, dirty clothes, and makeup artistically smudged their faces. First the cameras filmed the two of them coming upon the lovely lagoon and smiling with pure pleasure. Curtis jumped into the lagoon and urged Jessica in after him, finally reaching up and pulling her in. She spluttered and laughed, and they swam, teasing each other and laughing. Then they climbed out and stretched out on rocks beside the lagoon, letting the sun dry their clothing.

Next came the love scene. They rehearsed it first. Isabelle sat with her legs curled under her, on the edge of the flat rock, gazing down into the water. Michael, his shirt discarded, lay on his elbow on a flat rock a little behind and above her, watching her. Even though Isabelle’s back was to him, she could feel his gaze moving over her body, and she swallowed, casting a glance back toward him.

His eyes went to the tear in her blouse that revealed the creamy skin of her shoulder, then down to where her blouse was tied beneath her breasts, showing her slim waist. His features softened sensually, and his eyes were lit with an inner fire.

“Tell me,” he said huskily. “Before, when I can’t remember, were we...just friends?”

Isabelle wet her lips nervously, letting her mouth open a bit, and her chest rise and fall more rapidly. It wasn’t difficult to imitate the signs of passion; she was already growing warm just from his gaze.
Damn it, why did the man have to have such an effect upon her!

What was harder was to put the hint of calculation in her eyes as she replied, “No...we were...more than friends.”

He moved swiftly across the brief space that separated them. “How much more?” he asked, leaning forward until their faces were almost touching. His eyes burned into hers.

Isabelle wrenched her gaze away from him, half turning away. She choked out, “Close—we were close friends.”

Michael knelt behind her and bent his head to kiss the patch of bare flesh exposed by the tear in her shirt. Isabelle’s eyes fluttered closed and she let out a long sigh of pleasure. Michael’s hands curled around her arms, holding her as his lips moved to her neck.

“This close?” he murmured huskily, kissing his way slowly up her throat.

“Yes,” Isabelle moaned, her head lolling back against his shoulder. “Oh, yes.”

“Jessica...” He pulled her around to face him, and his mouth came down on hers. Usually in rehearsals, kisses were not full kisses, but a mere indication of where and when they would kiss. This kiss, however, was full and deep, Michael’s lips sinking relentlessly into hers. His breath came out in a rush against her cheek, his fingers bit into her arms, his mouth moved hungrily on hers.

Finally they pulled apart. Isabelle’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with passion. All around them the set was utterly still. They might have been alone together there. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a moment, then slowly Isabelle lay down on her back, holding her arms up to Michael. He followed her, his mouth coming down to seize hers.

“Perfect.” Lyle’s voice cut through the silence, startling Michael and Isabelle. They came back to reality with a thud. Michael sat up abruptly. Color tinged the high ridge of his cheekbones, and his mouth was soft and sensually full.

Isabelle, too, sat up, realizing with chagrin how lost she had been to the world around them. She glanced over toward Lyle and the crew, then turned away, hunching her shoulders protectively. Michael reached down a hand to help her up, but she shook her head and rose without his assistance.

Isabelle left the rock and sat down on a bench, her arms wrapped around herself, while the crew scurried to check and recheck the cameras and light readings. She felt like a fool. She wondered if all the crew had been aware of how involved she had been in those kisses. They must have been, she knew, and she wondered how she would ever be able to look any of them in the eye again.

Then it was time for the shoot. Debbie and Callie retouched her hair and makeup, and Isabelle returned to her position, her stomach fluttering. Her lips could still feel the imprint of Michael’s kisses. She sat down on the rock and closed her eyes, drawing in a calming breath and exhaling it slowly.

They began the scene again, this time with the cameras rolling. The sexual tension was even higher now. Isabelle could not help but remember the way the scene had progressed before and anticipate the touch of Michael’s mouth again. When he moved over to her and gazed hotly into her eyes, the very air seemed to sizzle. He began to kiss her shoulder and neck, and fire seared down through Isabelle, melting her. She could hardly remember what she was supposed to do, but fortunately her part called for her to say nothing, only reveal her sensuous reaction to Michael’s kisses.

That was easy. With every brush of his lips against her skin, another shiver shook her, and by the time he kissed her, her entire body was taut and quivering. Michael’s mouth pressed into hers. His kiss was hotter, harder, deeper than before. His tongue came into her mouth, velvety, hungry, demanding. Isabelle responded, her tongue twining with his in a passionate dance. He groaned and clasped her even more tightly against him.

They forgot to pull apart and look at one another before Isabelle lay down, inviting him into her arms. Instead, they eased back onto the ground instinctively, arms still locked around one another.

“Cut! Okay, cut!” It took two calls for Lyle’s voice to register with them.

Michael’s mouth left hers reluctantly, and he sat up. Isabelle felt utterly boneless; she thought she might have to lie right there forever. She ran her tongue over her damp, kiss-softened lips, and Michael’s eyes darkened with passion. He cleared his throat and looked away, shoving his hands back into his hair.

“You forgot to break,” Lyle pointed out.

“What?” Michael turned to look at the director, his expression dazed.

“The break,” Lyle said, suppressing a smile. “Right at the end. You break the kiss and Isabelle lies down, reaches toward you.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

Isabelle couldn’t imagine why the scene wouldn’t be fine the way they had done it. It seemed a rather minor point, and God knows this take must be good enough to print. However, she merely nodded, unable to pull together her woolly thoughts enough to argue.

Michael moved back to his rock, and they played the scene again. His eyes were blazing with sensual heat as he spoke to her, and his voice was gravelly with desire. Tendrils of fire darted through Isabelle’s abdomen at the sound of it, and when he kissed her bare shoulder and throat, she shivered with passion, unaware of how her face softened sensually. She was eager for his kiss now; it was all she could do to hold back until his mouth came down on hers. When at last it did, a little groan escaped her throat.

The sound almost undid Michael. He shuddered, and his mouth ground into hers, his tongue filling her mouth with heat. His hands dug into her hair, as if holding her head still to the depredation of his lips. Isabelle felt as if she were consumed with flames. Her hands skimmed over his shoulders and back, caressing his bare skin.

Finally he broke their kiss and pulled back. He gazed at her, his chest heaving. Isabelle stared back at him, her lips soft and swollen from his ruthless kisses, her eyes lambent with desire. She did not hear the sucked-in breath of the cameraman as he zoomed in for a close-up of her face. She was too caught up in desire, her whole body thrumming for Michael’s touch.

Isabelle lay down on her back, her dark hair rippling over the rock and cascading off it. Her eyes never left Michael’s. Then she raised her arms, silently inviting him to come to her, and he came down to kiss her again.

The director called “Cut,” and there were audible sighs from all the crew. Michael drew back reluctantly.

“That was perfect. Loved the way your hair fell over the rock and off it, Isabelle. Remember to keep her right there, Cassie. Okay, let’s take a break. Then we’ll rehearse the next scene.”

Isabelle nodded, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Now that the scene was over, she was aware of how sensual it had been. She had heard the soft noises from the crew when the scene ended, the whispered comments. Anything that could stir a jaded television crew like that had to have been exceedingly stirring. It made her hot with embarrassment to think how she had revealed herself. There was no way any of them would think she was just acting.

She moved away from the lagoon, ignoring everyone. But she was very aware, nonetheless, of where Michael went. Cassie Shumway brought her a soft drink, and Isabelle sat down on the bench, pretending to study her script while she drank the cola. Looking down at her front, she could see the outline of her hardened nipples pushing against the formfitting cotton top. She blushed, fighting down an urge to cover her breasts, knowing that the gesture would only make her condition more obvious.

However, she could not keep from glancing up and over at the low rock wall, where Michael sat, one foot up on the wall and his arm braced on that leg. He was watching her; she saw his gaze drop to the front of her shirt. She blushed fiery red and dropped her eyes back to her script.

No doubt he was enjoying her discomfiture, she thought furiously. She hated the way she had reacted to him. Even if he hadn’t been the villain she had always assumed he was, it seemed incredibly weak of her to just melt at his kiss like that. After all, it wasn’t as if she still loved him. No, it was simply animal desire, and Isabelle disliked letting her control slip, especially in front of all these people. She could just imagine the kind of comments she would have to endure from some of them for the next few days.

“All right, kids,” Lyle announced, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s get back to work. We have to move quickly to keep this light.”

Isabelle moved back to her spot reluctantly, fearing the passion that could come sweeping back up in her. Yet she could not deny that deep inside she was also eagerly awaiting Michael’s kiss, her hunger rising up. She wanted to feel his lips on hers again, wanted to be seared with his heat.

Debbie darted in, arranging Isabelle’s hair so that it rippled smoothly over the rocks again. Michael lay down beside her, and Isabelle’s breath quickened at his nearness. He leaned across her, planting one arm on the other side of her as it had been in the scene before. His face loomed over her, still marked with the slackness of desire. Heat blossomed between Isabelle’s legs at this evidence that he had been as moved by their previous scene as she had been.

They rehearsed the scene, talking their way through the kisses and caresses, making sure that they were as mechanical and brief as they normally were during rehearsal. It was impossible for Isabelle to be entirely indifferent to his fingers skimming down her arm and her side or his lips brushing against hers; she felt an inner quiver each time. But she was sure that it was nothing that was visible to anyone else, even Michael.

When it was time to film, Isabelle slid her arms around his neck, and Michael lowered his face to hers, his mouth covering hers. Isabelle heard Lyle calling for the cameras to roll, but it didn’t matter. Michael’s mouth was already moving against hers. She struggled mentally for a time, trying to retain her control over the scene, to kiss him in the same detached way she had enacted other love scenes. But heat was flooding through her body, and her mind was quickly losing all thought of anything except how hot and firm his lips were and how much she wanted to feel his tongue in her mouth again. Michael deepened his kiss, as if he knew what she wanted. Or perhaps it was simply that he wanted the same thing. His tongue explored her mouth, tasting again all its remembered sweetness. They kissed again and again, the barely cooled embers of their passion flaring into life. Heat pooled between Isabelle’s legs, and she ached to wrap them around Michael, to press that hot seat of her desire against him. His hands clenched in her hair, and he groaned.

Pulling his mouth from hers, he began to rain kisses down her throat, and his hand slid down her side and onto the naked flesh of her stomach, bared by the blouse knotted beneath her breasts. Isabelle quivered when he touched the sensitive skin, and she let out a choked moan. His mouth came back to hers, and they strained together, kissing passionately.

When the director called, “Cut,” it was a long moment before Michael pulled back. Isabelle gazed up at him. His face was flushed, and the skin seemed stretched too tightly across his facial bones. His breath was coming fast, and when he looked down at her, his eyes were so hot that she felt almost as if they seared her skin. Isabelle had the awful feeling that her face reflected her desire just as clearly; she dared not look over at the director and crew.

“Sorry, people,” Lyle was saying. “A bird flew past you during that scene, ruined the take. We’ll have to do another one.”

Isabelle saw the muscles jump in Michael’s jaw, and he closed his eyes for a moment before he let out his breath in a long sigh.

“Okay,” he said briefly and turned back to the position in which they had started.

The heat of his body enveloped her. Isabelle had the awful feeling that she might lose control during this scene and start moaning and whimpering or moving her hands over him in a manner unsuitable for television. Looking up into his glittering eyes, it occurred to Isabelle that they might simply explode into lovemaking in front of the whole crew. She let out a shaky breath.

“Please...” she whispered.

Michael groaned and sank his lips into hers. Isabelle went up in flames. She clung to Michael, working her mouth against his as they kissed again and again. His hands moved restlessly—in her hair, down her arm, along her hip. She could feel his hard desire against her leg, and a throbbing ache came between her legs.