One Night With You (20 page)

Desi's face flamed scarlet. "Yes."

"Well, that's nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Quite the reverse, in fact." She gave Desi's chin an affectionate squeeze and stood up. "No wonder he's been strutting around here like a peacock," she said, half to herself. "As proud of himself as if he'd just won another Oscar. I knew something had happened. I just knew it. And if you don't mind my saying so, dear girl, it's about time, too."

"It really doesn't change anything, Dorothea. Or prove anything either," she warned.

"Nonsense. It proves he still wants you, doesn't it?" She grinned. "And wants you enough to tell little white lies in order to get to you, too. That's what he did, isn't it? Told you that I had invited him over so you'd let him in?"

"Uh-huh, but I let him in before he told me that," Desi confessed, laughing in spite of herself.

"Well, of course you did. You're a sensible girl." She slanted a teasing glance at Desi. "Most of the time," she said, and then her tone became serious. "I take it that you haven't told him about Stephanie yet?"

Desi shook her head.

"Well, my dear, I wouldn't put that off for too much longer," she advised solemnly. "It's the kind of news that gets harder to tell the longer you wait to tell it."

"I still haven't decided whether I'm going to tell him." There was a stubborn light in her blue eyes. "Just because we made love doesn't change anything. Oh, he said that he was wrong about Eldin but—"

"Well, there, you see. He is changing his opinion."

"But he
still
thinks of me as just a casual bedmate." Her fingers curled around the edge of the tray. "Just someone he shares an 'intense sexual energy' with."

"Well, I think you're wrong, my dear. Dead wrong. But what I think isn't important. It's what you think that counts. And the only person who can change your mind is Jake—if you give him a chance to change it." She leaned over, patting Desi's hand where it gripped the tray. "Eat your dinner, dear girl, before it gets cold. I've got other guests to see to." She straightened and crossed the room, pausing to look over her should as she pulled the door open. "You really should give him a chance," she said, closing the bedroom door behind her.

Desi released her death grip on the tray and slowly picked up her fork. She took a bite of her omelet, washing it down with a sip of hot black coffee. Thank you, Gerta, she thought, distracted for a minute by the delicious combination of fresh eggs made spicy with onion, tomato and bell pepper.

What had brought about this startling change in Jake, she wondered again when she had finished the last bite of her omelet and the last piece of toasted sourdough bread. Could Dorothea be right? Could it be just because he had made love to her again? She remembered, all too well, how angry he had been when he'd left her apartment Friday night. Or so she had thought. But he
had
kissed her goodbye like...like what?

She shook her head in bewilderment. Was he just trying to get back into her bed, she wondered. Maybe he had decided that this new, friendlier, more tender self would be the right track to that end.

Oh, no, please don't let it be that!

She heard water running in the bathroom and realized that Audrey must be getting ready to turn in. Leaning over the side of the bed, she put the tray on the floor bed and switched out the lamp on the nightstand. Snuggling down into the crisp sheets, she pulled the covers up over her shoulders and tried to go to sleep.

She woke the next morning very late, coaxed gently awake by the unaccustomed sound of the birds bickering outside the bedroom window and the sun shining on her face. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table and sat up with a gasp. Nine-thirty! Jake would have her hide!

She rose quickly, stepping over the tray on the floor, and knocked quietly on the bathroom door. No answer. Either Audrey was not up yet or, more likely, she was already up and gone. Desi pushed the door open and went in.

Pinning up her hair, she took a quick, refreshing shower and then slipped back into her nightshirt. Her robe and clean clothes were still in the suitcases in her car.

She wondered if she should wait for someone to bring them up or get back into the grubby clothes of last night to go down and get them herself. The thought of yesterday's jeans and T-shirt was distasteful, but she didn't have time to wait around for someone to remember she was there, waiting for her luggage.

She went back into the bedroom and was already slipping out of her nightshirt before she saw him sitting there in the Queen Anne chair by the window. Her eyes opened wide for a shocked second, taking in his tall form as he lounged, completely at ease, in the delicate chair.

The sun glinted off of his dark hair, making it shine, and he was dressed more casually than Desi had ever seen him. He wore snug-fitting jeans that neatly encased his lean hips and legs and a ratty blue sweat shirt with a stretched-out neckline and faded gold lettering that proclaimed him to be the property of the UCLA track team. Battered sneakers worn without socks completed his outfit. He looked more rested and at ease than she had seen him in weeks.

"Looks delicious," he said, grinning at her.

"Jake!" Desi whirled away from him, pulling the nightshirt back up over her shoulders, hurriedly buttoning it. "What are you doing in here?"

"I heard you moving around, so I brought in your suitcases." He motioned toward the two canvas bags standing at the foot of the bed.

"What were you doing?" she asked suspiciously, turning to face him. "Lurking in the hall?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," he said, surprising her.

Desi's eyes opened even wider. "Why?"

"I wanted to talk to you—privately," he replied, rising lazily from the chair to move toward her.

Desi backed away a step or two, still clutching the front of her nightshirt. "You could do that anytime. You didn't have to invade my bedroom."

"This house is full of people," he informed her easily.

"And you think they don't know you're in here?" she scoffed, taking false courage from his mild demeanor.

He smiled again and took another step toward her. Desi hastily backed away. "Not unless you tell them," he said. "Everyone's at breakfast. Outside on the sun porch. It's a beautiful day, in case you hadn't noticed yet."

"Isn't it a little late for breakfast?" she said. "Shooting was supposed to start hours ago..." Her voice trailed off. Dumb, she thought, to call his attention to her own lateness.

"No filming today," he said, surprising her again.

Jake was suddenly full of surprises. She was beginning to think he had taken some mood-or mind-altering drug. He had never before been so lighthearted about a delay—if it was a delay—in the shooting schedule. Time is money, he was often heard to yell, my money.

"Why?" she said.

"Why what?" he asked vaguely, his dark eyes beginning to wander over her face and her pinned-up hair in a way that left her breathless.

"Why no shooting?" she managed to stammer.

"One of the vans broke down about halfway between San Francisco and here last night. Couldn't get anybody to work on it until this morning," he said as if it didn't bother him in the least. "So today we're all playing hooky."

"Oh," she said. "How nice."

"Yes, isn't it?" His hand reached out then and touched her neck, just at the place where it began to curve into her shoulder, too close to the telltale pulse that had begun to beat wildly. "Very nice."

Desi clutched her nightshirt tighter and stepped back again, instinctively seeking to protect herself from his maddening touch. She always melted when he touched her. She couldn't melt again. Not now. Not here, in Dorothea's house.

The backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed, halting her, and she was forced to sit down abruptly. Jake's body followed her, pushing her back into the rumpled sheets.

"Jake, please," she began, struggling to sit up, trying to pull down the hem of her nightshirt at the same time.

"Please what?" he teased her.

He held himself propped up on one elbow, holding her down by the simple expedient of placing his other hand on her shoulder. She couldn't kick or struggle, she realized. She was naked under the brief shirt.

"Jake, stop it," she said as sharply as she could manage. It came out in a mere whisper.

"I haven't done anything yet," he said reasonably, and she dared to look up into his face. He was smiling down at her, a strange, almost tender, look in his eyes. "But I will if you keep looking at me like that," he said, low.

"Like what?" Her soft voice, her eyes, invited him.

"Like my Desiree," he said, and then he leaned down, the hand on her shoulder slipping around her back to gather her close. "Sweet Desiree," he murmured, and kissed her.

It was like very first kiss her had given her. A sweet kiss. A kiss that that explored and cajoled and coaxed rather than demanded. His tongue sought entrance to her mouth, outlining her lips with sweetness and patience until she opened to him like a blossoming flower.

She felt him sigh into her mouth—a soft shuddering sigh—and she turned to him, molding her mouth more closely to his, twining her arms helplessly around the strong column of his neck, her fingers feasting greedily in his thick hair.

His hand was on the outside curve of her thigh, sliding up her leg under the nightshirt. Gliding slowly, sensuously, up over her rounded hip and the surprisingly lush inward-sloping curve of her waist, to close tenderly, adoringly over her breast.

He seemed content for the moment just to hold her thus, making no effort to arouse her further, as yet. He kissed her as if that was his sole purpose, as if he had all the time in the entire world, drinking in her intoxicating sweetness, giving her back an intoxication of his own unique making.

Suddenly his hand stilled on her breast and he raised his head.

"What is it?" she began groggily.

"Shush," he said against her lips, listening, and Desi stilled, listening too.

There were noises coming from the adjoining bathroom. They could hear water being run into the porcelain sink, and the sound of the door of the medicine cabinet being opened and closed.

Audrey.

"Jake," Desi said, squirming under him. "Let me up."

"Why?" He began to tease her. "You ashamed to be seen with me? Oh, all right. All right. I came up here to talk anyway." His hand slid slowly from her breast, across the flatness of her stomach, to stop at the mole on her hip. He sat up and leaned over, placing his lips for a brief instant on the tiny mole. "To remind me where to start later," he said, smoothing her nightshirt down as far as it would go. He sat up on the edge of the bed, pulling her upright with him.

"There isn't going to be a later," she said, blushing.

"Oh, yes there is," he stated firmly. "Lots of laters." He reached out to touch her again, brushing back the loose, straggling hair from her face.

Desi jumped to her feet. "No, Jake," she warned him off. "No more. I don't know what got into me to allow you to—"

"What
almost
got into you," he corrected her, grinning comically.

"Jake!" she admonished, trying to convince him—and herself—that she was shocked by his teasing words, but showing them both only how excited he made her.

She turned away, hiding her red face from him. "You said you wanted to talk to me," she reminded him.

"Yes, so I did."

She heard the bed creak as he got up and then felt his hand on her arm, turning her to face him. "Look at me, Desiree," he commanded gently, his hands on her shoulders holding her still in front of him.

"Desi," she corrected him.

"You'll always be Desiree to me," he told her and then said once more, "Look at me."

She looked up into his face. There was that odd look again. Tender, friendly, a little uncertain, perhaps, with the desire still in his eyes.

"I've been doing some heavy thinking since Friday night," he said seriously. "Since before then, really. And I realize that I've been wrong about you. Eldin isn't your lover and he never has been."

"Yes, you told me that already," she pointed out.

"So I did." He ran one hand distractedly through his hair. "You're obviously very good at your job, too," he said. "A total professional."

"Well, thank you," she said archly, and he had the grace to look a little shamefaced. "But you told me that, too."

"Look, I don't pretend to know exactly
why
you went to bed with me that night," he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Why you stayed with me that weekend. But it's obviously not for the reasons I thought. Not at first and not later, either. You're not some sort of groupie. Even I can see that—now."

"Not at first?" What did he mean, not at first? "What do you mean—" she started to say, and then was stopped by his next words.

"Desiree, I misjudged you in the worst way possible," he said, intent on saying it all now that he had started. "And I know that I've been almost impossible to work with." He turned to the window, his fingers raking through his hair again.

Desi could hardly believe it. Could this be the great Jake Lancing? The man who had been such a bad-tempered bear on the set, apologizing? To her? A smile began to turn her mouth up at the corners.

"I'd go down on my knees to apologize if I thought it would do any good," he went on, his back to her. "If I thought it would help you to forgive me for being such a thickheaded..." He groped for a word.

"Ass," she supplied, unable to stifle the sudden glee that bubbled to the surface.

He whirled around, trying to read her expression. Was she angry? Hurt? Resentful? No, her eyes were laughing and she was having trouble suppressing a smile.

"All right," he agreed with a grin. "I was behaving like a thickheaded ass." He moved quickly across the width of carpet that separated them and gathered her close in his arms. "Do you think we can start over?" he said, serious again. She felt his lips brush her hair. "See if there's a real relationship here? Something beyond this." His hand caressed her buttocks briefly. "Not that this isn't extremely nice, of course, but I'd like more," he whispered into her ear.