Once in a Blue Moon (9 page)

However, Isabelle was determined not to give in. She was
not
opening herself up again to the dangers of falling in love with Michael Traynor. Her heart was still whole and hers, and she was determined not to let him into it. She maintained her cool, remote attitude toward him on the set, staying in her dressing room as much as possible and leaving immediately after work so that she would have to be around him as little as possible.

But after only a week, she was beginning to wonder how long she was going to be able to keep this up. It was getting harder and harder to stay away from Michael. Sometimes when she happened to glance over at him on the set, she caught a glimpse of something in his eyes that made her feel weak all over. She had the awful feeling that if he ever decided to actively pursue her, she was all too likely to topple from her pedestal of self-control.

* * *

Michael stared moodily into his almost-empty coffee cup. He didn’t know how much longer he could take this. Every day since they had returned from Mexico had been a hell of unremitting tension. The nights had been even worse. He wanted Isabelle, wanted to take her into his bed and make love to her for long, slow hours. He didn’t think anything else would stop the ache inside him, but he was also beginning to think that that would never happen.

He had to see Isabelle every day on the set, had to hear her voice, had to watch as she talked and laughed with other people in a free-and-easy manner that she never displayed to him. Though they had shot no love scenes since they returned from Cancún, many of his scenes with Isabelle were building up to the climactic moment when they would make love. There was a gradual building of sexual tension both in their dialogue and in their actions. They accidentally touched; they looked at each other with longing; they moved close, then pulled away in the intricate mating ritual of a soap opera love affair.

The stiffness between Michael and Isabelle, the underlying tension, charged their scenes with electricity. They could not speak or move without betraying a taut awareness of each other, lending an air of such realism to their scenes that the tapes fairly crackled.

It was not hard for Michael to play the scenes; the far more difficult acting was to pretend after the scene was over that he and Isabelle were nothing but two professionals doing a job, that he was as indifferent to her as she appeared to be to him.

On the set and off, it seemed as if he could think of nothing but Isabelle. He remembered the way it had felt to touch her skin, to feel her mouth yield under his. He thought about the way her breasts had fit into his palms, deliciously heavy and soft, the nipples prickling under his thumbs. Whenever he looked at her at the studio, he found himself mentally stripping her, his body turning hot and hard with desire. Yet it was no better when he was alone in his apartment at night, for then he thought of that night on her balcony and how beautiful she had been when he parted the sides of her robe and looked at her naked body. Sometimes it was hours before he could manage to go to sleep, and then he would awaken the next morning bleary-eyed and still taut with unspent passion.

Worst of all, they were working up to the big scene in the cave, where Curtis and Jessica would make love. That was something Michael wasn’t sure he could endure. The love scenes before had been bad enough, but these would be longer and more intense—and he was already so wired up that Michael thought he might explode if he so much as kissed her.

He didn’t know how he was going to get through it. Yet there was no way that he could get out of it. The entire filming for the past two weeks had been moving toward this point. The sweeps had already started, and next week, the first of the Cancún episodes would air.

Michael sighed and drained the dregs of his coffee, then crumpled up the cup and tossed it into the trash can. He opened the door of his dressing room and started out into the hall. He stopped short when he saw Isabelle standing at the other end of the hall, talking to Carol Nieman. For a moment he stood, watching Isabelle undetected. Isabelle’s hair was down, the sophisticated hairdo she wore on the set brushed out. Her face had been scrubbed clean of makeup, and she wore sandals, a cropped T-shirt and cutoffs. She looked as different from her character on the show as she could be—and she looked even sexier to Michael.

His hands itched to glide over the soft skin of her cheeks. He wanted to shove his fingers into her thick dark hair, to lay his head against hers and breathe in her unique scent, to slide his hands over her firm, lithe body.

Carol turned and caught sight of him and smiled hugely. “Michael!” She held out one hand to him. “You’re still here, too. I’m so glad. I was afraid everyone had left.”

“Isabelle and I had the last scene today,” Michael said, going down the hall to join them.

Isabelle turned to look at him, but without Carol’s joyous smile. It was the same indifferent, almost blank, look with which she always regarded him these days, a look that infuriated Michael even as it cut him, a look that made him long to grab her arms and shake her—or kiss her until she melted against him as she had last week in Cancún.

“I was just telling Isabelle how well the new story line is doing. We’re getting lots of mail. Everyone can sense that you two are going to be an item, and we haven’t even shown the first of the Cancún shows yet! Danny is so pleased. He’s seen some of the advances from Cancún, and he thinks they look marvelous.”

Carol hugged Michael enthusiastically, then turned in her usual quick way. “Well, I have to run now. I’m doing a meeting upstairs with the writers in two minutes. I just wanted to tell you how pleased we are with both of you.”

“Remember that at contract time,” Michael joked, and Carol shook an admonishing finger at him.

Then she was off down the hall to the stairs, her heels clacking busily on the tiled floor. Michael turned toward Isabelle. The long, wide hall was empty except for them. He suspected that all the rooms were empty, too. The crew had no doubt left immediately after the filming; only he and Isabelle had stayed to remove their costumes and makeup.

“You leaving?” he asked casually, trying to match her air of calm unconcern.

“Yes.” Isabelle started toward the exit at the opposite end of the hall, and Michael fell in beside her.

“I’ll walk you out, then,” he said.

They strode along for a moment in silence. Michael desperately wracked his brain for something—anything!—to say. He could smell the trace of Isabelle’s perfume, mingled with the scent of the cream she used to remove her makeup, and it sent tendrils of desire curling through his abdomen. He remembered when he had first known her ten years ago and he would wait for her after rehearsal or a performance and walk her back to the Victorian rooming house where she lived with other students.

“Remember the porch at your rooming house?” he asked suddenly.

Isabelle glanced at him, eyes widening with surprise. Emotions quivered through her. She had been careful to keep all her defenses up around Michael since that night on the balcony, but now, somehow, with this reminder of the past, he had managed to sneak in around her walls. She remembered the wide covered porch with its narrow columns and gingerbread trim. They had sat in wooden Adirondack deck chairs, holding hands—or sometimes cuddled together in one of the wider chairs, her head on his shoulder—and talked. Isabelle could feel the heavy humid air of the hot summer nights, could even smell the heady scent of the roses climbing up the trellis at one end of the porch.

“Yes,” she replied in a low voice. “I remember.”

“And the hamburgers at Bobby’s?”

Isabelle chuckled, her throat clogging inexplicably with tears. “Yes, and the hot cherry pies at the City Café.”

“Oh, God, yes.” Michael stopped, taking her hands in his and turning her to face him. “Most of all, I remember you. Isabelle, please...don’t shut me out. Give me a chance. Give us a chance.”

Isabelle stood, gazing at him, her heart pounding faster. He had taken her by surprise. When he started to reminisce, she had let down her guard and joined in. Now she was having a hard time pulling her defenses back together. It was too difficult to think with Michael this close to her.

Sensing that she was wavering, Michael brought her hands up to his lips and kissed each one, slowly and gently, his mouth lingering, his breath teasing her flesh.

“I haven’t been able to think of anything but you for a week. Longer than that. I’ve wanted you from the day I walked into the studio and saw you again. Maybe even before that.” He closed his eyes, sensuously rubbing one of her palms across his cheek.

Isabelle’s legs turned to putty. She knew she could not walk away; she was afraid she might sink to the floor right there. The fire she had done her best all week to tamp down suddenly sprang into life again in her abdomen.

“Every day I watch you,” Michael went on huskily. “And I wonder how I’m ever going to do that scene Monday without losing control.”

His words sent electric shivers through her. Isabelle unconsciously swayed toward him. He gave a little tug, just enough to pull her the rest of the way to his chest. His arms went around her. Michael leaned back against the wall, holding Isabelle pressed against his body all the way up and down. His hands slid up to her shoulders and down over her back, sliding underneath the waistband of her loose-fitting shorts and over her buttocks. His fingers dug in, lifting her up and more firmly into him, rubbing her pelvis against his.

“I like you like this,” he murmured. “All scrubbed and clean.”

“Plain, you mean.” Isabelle struggled to keep the breathlessness she felt out of her voice. She could not bring herself to move away, to leave the excitement of his body. She felt as if she were lost, swirling ever downward in a spiral of desire. She couldn’t help herself; she wasn’t even sure she wanted to.

“Plainly beautiful.” He nuzzled into her hair, breathing in her seductive scent. “If all women looked the way you do now, all the cosmetics firms would go bankrupt. Isabelle...say you still want me.”

“You must know I do,” she replied shakily. It was wonderful to stand this way, her body flush against his, to feel his fingers upon her skin and his body quickening with passion beneath hers.

“You can hide it more easily than I,” he retorted.

Isabelle’s husky laugh sent shivers down his spine. His hand swept up between them and cupped one of her breasts, squeezing gently.

Isabelle drew in a sharp breath and whispered, “Not easily enough.” She knew she should tell him to stop, to let her go, but she could not say the words.

“Make love with me,” he murmured.

“And what will happen after that?”

“Whatever you want.”

Isabelle shook her head in a last feeble attempt to stop what was happening. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“It can. It will.” He tilted up her chin and bent down to kiss her.

His lips were firm and warm, working magic upon her. Isabelle went up on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck, giving herself up to his kiss. For this moment, it was easy to believe in love. To believe in forever. Isabelle could not remember all the reasons why she should not give in to Michael’s kisses. Rationality and sanity fled before the storm of desire rising up in her.

Michael tore his lips from hers and kissed his way down her throat, murmuring, “Come home with me. Now.”

His hands were on her breasts, caressing her through her shirt, his thumbs stroking her nipples to hardness. Isabelle ached to feel his hands on her skin; heat began to throb between her legs.
It had been so long.
All the passion, suppressed so many years, rose in her now; she was flooded with sensations, dazed by the desire pouring through her. Isabelle could do no more than whisper his name, her fingers moving frantically across his shoulders and tangling in his hair.

Michael could feel her trembling beneath his hands. He straightened and gazed down into her flushed, bemused face. The sight of her obvious arousal stirred him almost past bearing. “I’d like to sweep you up and carry you off,” he told her huskily, “the way we always do in the show.”

Isabelle opened her eyes and looked hazily at him, her eyes lambent with passion. “Then why don’t you?”

M
ichael’s breath came out in a shudder, and he bent and picked Isabelle up. Cradling her in his arms, he strode down the hall and around the corner. Isabelle wondered vaguely where he was taking her, but she didn’t ask, only looped her arms around his neck and snuggled into him, planting soft feathery kisses on the side of his neck and face. Michael let out a soft groan, but he did not stop. He passed two soundstages and finally came to a halt before a door at the end of the corridor. Reaching down, he opened the door with a flick of his wrist and stepped inside, turning on a light switch as he did so.

A row of lights to the rear of the room came on, revealing a cavernous area filled with boxes and shelves containing all sorts of things, as well as pieces of furniture stacked and shoved into every part of the room. To one side was a large white cast-iron bed, draped with a gauzy material.

Michael set Isabelle down and reached behind him to lock the door. Isabelle looked over at the bed. She recognized it as the one in the stage set of Jessica’s apartment when Isabelle first came on the show. She strolled over to the bed, smiling faintly.

“How did you know about this? I’ve never even been in the prop room before.”

Michael followed her, wrapping his arms around her from behind and pulling her close. “Ah, that’s the advantage of being friends with the crew.”

He nuzzled her neck, then swept her up into his arms again and laid her on the bed. It was hard beneath her, for there was no mattress, only a covered mattress-size box, but Isabelle hardly even noticed. She was far too intent on Michael, who lay down beside her and kissed her. He took his time, letting his hands explore her body as his mouth possessed hers. Isabelle’s hands roamed Michael’s back and shoulders, caressing the smooth musculature beneath the cloth. She reveled in the feel of him, breathing in his scent.

But soon, as he kissed her, it was no longer enough to touch him through the shirt. Isabelle had to feel his flesh with her fingers. She pulled his shirt up, sliding her hands beneath it. Michael shivered and let out a soft noise of pleasure at her touch. Her fingers slid over his back, relearning each knob of bone, each dent and curve. She had thought she remembered the exact feel of his skin, but she realized now how much she had forgotten. His smooth flesh was more exciting than anything she could recall. Her fingers trembled, and she dug them into him, delighting when he drew his breath in with a hiss.

“Isabelle...” he murmured, burying his lips in her neck and moving slowly downward. “I have to see you...touch you.”

He pulled her T-shirt up and off over her head, tossing it down on the bed. Her bra quickly followed it. He lay for a long moment, staring down at her bared breasts.

“You are so beautiful,” he said thickly, and his forefinger traced the pinkish brown aureole of her nipple, watching the center tighten.

He curved his hand beneath her breast, holding it gently. He bent and kissed the pillowy soft top of the globe, then the crown, smiling as he felt it harden beneath his lips. His tongue came out and traced her nipple, coaxing the center bud to grow harder and longer.

Her tender flesh was alive to his every touch. As his mouth teased and caressed her, a fiery ache grew between her legs. Isabelle squeezed her legs together, seeking to satisfy the yearning, but could not. Only Michael could do that.

He took the hard button of her nipple into his mouth, sucking it, and Isabelle’s whole body tightened in response. Michael moved his hand down her flat stomach, slipping beneath the loose waistband of her denim shorts and delving down into the hot, moist center of her desire. Isabelle instinctively pressed her pelvis up against his hand, moving rhythmically.

Hastily, with shaking fingers, Michael removed her shorts and panties. Isabelle, her breath coming hard and fast in her throat, tugged off Michael’s shirt as he worked on her clothes, and she began to cover his chest with tiny hot kisses that made him moan. He slipped his hand between her legs, exploring the hot, slippery flesh. Isabelle dug her fingers into the bedspread beneath her as she raised her hips, urging him on. Desire was thrumming through her, building to an ever-higher peak, and when his clever fingers found the soft nub of flesh nestled secretly between the folds, she let out a choked cry. Softly he caressed the fleshy knot.

Isabelle moaned and whimpered, her head rolling back and forth on the pillow. She was almost mindless with hunger now. With each stroke of his fingers, he pushed her higher and higher. Then suddenly the passion burst inside her, surprising them both. Isabelle shuddered, letting out a choked cry, and her body went taut as the hunger exploded inside her, sending wave after wave of pleasure coursing through her body.

She went limp, dazed by the cataclysm. She looked up at Michael, her face soft and sated. He was looking down at her, his face taut and dark, his eyes fiery.

“Oh!” Isabelle blushed to her hairline as she realized what she had done. They had not even made love. All he had had to do was touch her, and she had leapt to her climax. “I’m sorry. You haven’t—I mean—oh, God, you must think I’m—”

Michael smiled a trifle wolfishly. “I didn’t mind. I enjoyed watching you.”

“Oh, don’t,” Isabelle groaned, throwing her arm across her eyes to block him out. “I’m not usually so...so
needy.
You must think I’m awful.”

“Not at all.” He bent and brushed his lips across her bare stomach. “I think you’re beautiful and excessively desirable, and I don’t mind at all knowing that you’ve been just as much on the knife edge as I have been.”

He stood up and skimmed out of the rest of his clothes, revealing his taut, hard body, his engorged manhood pulsing and stretching toward her.

“I have to be inside you,” he said in a low voice, moving between her legs.

Her legs parted to accept him eagerly. His manhood nudged at the gate of her femininity, then moved slowly into her, stretching and filling her until she sobbed aloud with passion, her fingers digging into his back. The peace she had attained earlier was gone now, and she was filled once again with a roiling, aching hunger, a searing need that demanded to be satisfied.

Michael thrust rhythmically, pulling almost out, then plunging deep again. He moved slowly at first, drawing out every bit of pleasure from the friction, but as the tension grew in both of them, his hips pumped faster and faster, stoking their passion almost to the breaking point. Isabelle moaned, circling her pelvis against him, and her fingers dug into his back, heedless with desire. Michael let out a cry and stiffened as he reached his peak. He took her mouth in a deep kiss as his seed poured into her. Isabelle wrapped her legs tightly around him and clung to him, her own passion exploding through her in waves.

For one long moment they were lost in their cataclysmic pleasure, melded and mindless, pressed so tightly together that they seemed almost to be a part of each other. Then, slowly, they came back down into reality, their taut muscles relaxing.

Limp with satisfaction, Isabelle simply lay there, drifting in the afterglow of pleasure. It had been so long, so unbelievably long since she had felt like this. She wanted to cry and laugh and babble all at the same time, but she was too enervated to do any of those. A small smile curved her lips as she snuggled closer to Michael. He rolled onto his back, his arms still around her, holding her close, and they fell asleep.

* * *

Isabelle opened her eyes, and reality returned in a rush.
What time was it?
She had no watch, so she reached over and picked up Michael’s wrist to look at his. It was almost seven-thirty!
She had forgotten about Jenny! Irma would have expected her back at least an hour ago, and if she was going to be working late, she always called to let her know.

She was flooded with guilt. Isabelle scrambled out of bed and began to pick up her clothes. She pulled them on hurriedly, blushing as she glanced around the room. She thought about the fact that anyone in the prop department might have returned and entered the room with a key.
How had she let herself get so carried away?

Isabelle knew that she had forgotten about her daughter in more ways than just getting home late tonight. Jenny was the thing that should be uppermost in her mind, but Isabelle had let her lust blind her to that fact. She had dropped all the hard-won decisions she had made in Mexico and simply fallen into Michael’s arms. She had ignored Jenny and the future and all the problems, so now she was in an even worse mess.

She cast a troubled, yearning look back at Michael.
It had been so wonderful, being in his arms again, joined again in passion.
Isabelle wanted to cry. She knew she had to be responsible, mature; she had to do what was best for her and her child. But at the moment, what she longed to do was crawl back in bed with Michael and kiss him awake. She could imagine his mouth curving up into a languid smile, his eyes crinkling up in that certain way.

Almost as if her thoughts had been spoken out loud, Michael’s eyes opened, and he glanced around, looking for her. He smiled sleepily when he saw her, just as she had pictured, and Isabelle’s heart ached within her.

He linked his arms behind his head and asked, “What are you doing up?”

“I have to leave.”

“You got an appointment?”

“Well, yes, actually, I was supposed to be home an hour ago.” He quirked an eyebrow, and she added, “My daughter’s baby-sitter will be worried. She’ll want to leave.”

“Your daughter? I didn’t know you had any kids.” The beginnings of a frown formed between his eyes.

Isabelle shrugged. “Well, it’s—not anything we ever talked about. We haven’t really talked much, you know.”

“I know.” He sat up, his face serious. “You’re not married now, though, are you?”

“No. Look, this isn’t pertinent, and I don’t have time. I need to get home.”

“Wait. Let me get dressed, and I’ll come with you. I’ll follow you home and I can meet your daughter, and then we can all go out to eat. How does that sound?”

“No!” Isabelle shook her head vigorously. “I’m sorry. It’s just—well, I’m not sure this is a good idea. I don’t want to take it too fast.”

“Too fast?” His eyebrows lifted quizzically. “After ten years, you think we’re going too fast?”

“I’m not talking about the past ten years. I’m talking about the past couple of weeks. Today. I—I’m not sure we did the right thing. I need to think about it.”

He stared at her, stunned. “What’s to think about? Isabelle...I think I’m falling in love with you all over again. Or maybe it’s always been there, dormant. Sometimes I wonder if that wasn’t the real reason I took this job—because I knew I’d see you again.”

Isabelle shook her head again, sidling toward the door. “No. Michael, please...” She held out her hand, palm up. “Stop. I need to think about this. I didn’t think this afternoon.”

“No, you acted on instinct,” he retorted. “You did what you really wanted to.”

“I have to be sure! I have to consider more than just the temporary pleasure of making love with you! There’s my daughter, and...and this job and...I’m not sure I’m ready to risk getting hurt again.”

“This isn’t the same as ten years ago!” Michael snapped in exasperation. “I’m not going to leave you!”

“Can you guarantee that?” Isabelle retorted. “I don’t know if this is love or lust or just ending something that’s been open for ten years. How can you be certain that you won’t leave me when you aren’t even sure whether or not you love me? You don’t even know me anymore!”

“I would like to!” Michael swung out of bed and began pulling on his clothes with short, angry movements. “You won’t let me. Anytime we get close, anytime you soften toward me and it looks like we might have a chance, you pull away again!”

Isabelle marched toward the door. In a way he was right; she didn’t want him to know her because that meant knowing about Jenny, too.

“Dammit!” Michael exclaimed and went after her, clamping a hand around her arm and spinning Isabelle around to face him. He had had no time to put on anything more than his jeans, and even they were unbuttoned at the top.

Isabelle felt her eyes moving involuntarily down the smooth brown expanse of his chest, following the line of dark hair that curled down his chest to the well of his navel. She jerked her gaze away. But she found that she could not look into his blazing eyes, either.

“I’m not letting you run away!”

Isabelle straightened her spine, raising her chin, and stared resolutely back into his bright blue eyes. “I am not running away. I told you, I have to get home.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“No. Not tonight.”

“When? Ever? Or are you going to pretend none of this happened, like you did in Mexico?”

“I didn’t pretend none of it happened. I just didn’t want it to go any further. And I was right—it didn’t resolve anything. The same problems are still here.”

“What problems? Your daughter? Our past? What is there that we can’t talk about? That we can’t work on?”

“I—I have to think,” Isabelle repeated, disliking the little tremor she heard in her voice. “Give me a little time, Michael. I have to decide what’s best for my daughter and me. I can’t rush into things.”

“Do I not have any say in the matter?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

“I have to make the decision for me and for Jenny.”

“Jenny? Is that your daughter?”

Isabelle nodded, wishing she hadn’t given even that much away. She felt strangely vulnerable and scared. “Look, I’ll call you. Give me some time to think it through, all right?” She tugged her arm out of his grasp. “I have to go now.”

Quickly she unlocked the door and stepped through it into the hall. She almost ran down the corridor and out of the building.

* * *

Isabelle met Nancy the next day for lunch at a small exclusive café where they often ate. Isabelle had not seen her friend since before she went on location, so as soon as they had ordered, Isabelle began to relate everything that had happened in Cancún and since, ending with the final scene between her and Michael the night before. Nancy listened quietly, watching her, until at last Isabelle sat back and looked at her friend expectantly.