Wild Honey (14 page)

“Marc—”

Her voice brought him back. He was holding her. His hands were locked on her arms, and her skin was whitened, bloodless under the grip of his fingers. He released her abruptly and backed away, crouching to pick up the towel.

“Marc? What is it?”

The ocean pounded in his ears, its noise deafening. A moment later he was in the alcove, closing the swinging French doors, and her unexpected touch on his shoulder made him flinch and jerk around.

She veered back, frightened. “What’s wrong?”

He knew it must be the wildness in his eyes. She couldn’t hear the horror, the echoes in his head, and there was nothing he could tell her, nothing she would ever understand—or be able to forgive. “You don’t want to fall in love with me, Sasha.” His throat constricted, producing a huskiness in his voice. “You don’t want to make that mistake.”

“Is that what this is all about?” she whispered. “Because I said I was afraid of falling in love?”

He cut her off quickly, slicing through her confusion, through his own emotion, with words that were cold and heartless, words that gave away nothing. “This was a mistake, Sasha, a monumental miscalculation. You and I, here, in this house? I must have been crazy to let this happen.”

“Why? Why was it a mistake?”

“Because I’ve got a picture to salvage. Because my credibility’s at stake. I’m in deep enough trouble without adding a fling with the star’s replacement to the list.”

She was bewildered, distraught. He was hurting her with his lies. He was hurting himself, but he had no choice. Blocking her stricken expression from his mind, he brushed past her and walked to the door. He was good at this, shutting things out of his life, people out of his life. Yes, he was good at cutting out the offending spot. Only this time, he was that spot. “I’ll be staying at the studio from now on,” he added without turning back.

As the door closed behind him, Sasha released the startled moan in her throat. The room was damp and deeply chilled, a briny musk permeating the air. Covered in goose flesh, she wrapped the huge towel around her and sat on the bed. Her body trembled with shock and disbelief. Her emotional world was in pieces, debris scattered to the winds. And she was cold, so cold she might never be warm again.

It seemed like hours later that finally, in the lengthening shadow of her silence, a protective numbness began to seep through her limbs, into her thoughts. The lethargy soothed her, dulled her senses, but it couldn’t block out one ringing certainty. She knew it as surely as she knew the beat of her own heart. Marc Renaud’s conflict, the brilliant white-hot rage at the core of his being, had nothing to do with his movie.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY THE
weather broke and the location shooting began in an isolated inlet south of Newport Beach. Under a crayon-blue sky, the crew prepared for that day’s sequence of action shots, hauling lights and sound equipment onto the loamy sand while the mobile generator units hummed in the background. Sasha milled around in her bathing suit and coverup, drinking decaffeinated tea and waiting for someone to signal her that they were ready to go. She seemed to be the only one with nothing to do.

Marc was huddled with his cinematographer, discussing possible shots, and Carlos, her costar, stood down at the water’s edge, staring out in deep concentration. Finding his center, Sasha supposed. She would like to have gone down and talked with Carlos—she would like to have talked with
anyone
at the moment to ease her sense of isolation, even the caterer dispensing coffee and danish—but she knew better than to impede the frantic pace of the activity around her.

They were scheduled for pickup shots that day, of Lisa swimming and body-surfing. The script called for an energetic, high-spirited Lisa, the woman she was
before
Jesse intervened in her life and fouled up the works. Not unlike my situation, Sasha thought, wistful as she considered Marc.

She watched her director walk toward the water’s edge and hesitate, scoping out shots with his cinematographer in tow. He scanned the horizon, contemplated an outcropping of jagged black rocks down the beach, and turned to consider the cliffs behind them. He might have been a Native American in his Navajo serape and jeans—until you got a look at those powder-blue eyes. In truth, he was all she could think about, all she had thought about since the previous night. Like Lisa’s, her life seemed to have been altered, too, by the unexpected intercession of a complex man.

A tiny, perfect seashell was nestled in the sand near Sasha’s feet. She turned it over with her bare toe, saw the crack in its delicately ridged surface—and a thought ricocheted through her consciousness.
Lisa’s life, her untroubled existence, had been destroyed because of Jesse.

Foreboding prickled Sasha’s skin, chilling her. She rubbed her arms, her thoughts veering back to Marc and the way he’d surprised her when she’d arrived an hour earlier. She’d expected icy control, a frost-breathing dragon. Instead, he’d seemed subdued when he’d greeted her. His eyes were shadowed and red-rimmed, as though he’d slept badly or drunk too much. She couldn’t deny the coldness in him, but as always there was something else just below the surface that tugged at her emotions. The occasional glimpses she stole when he didn’t know she was looking revealed a man who was angry at life, a man psychologically bruised and bloodied by the mere fact of his existence. Yes, he was hurting, she was sure of that—and even more certain that he would never admit it. What kind of a miracle would it take to reach the man inside those self-imposed walls?

She broke away from her solitary reflections, dropped her empty paper teacup into a portable waste bin, and walked to the edge of the chaotic activity. The truth was, she was half afraid of what she might find if she penetrated Marc Renaud’s glacial barriers.

“Sasha—”

She started as a hand touched her arm, and Jimmy, the production assistant, appeared at her elbow with a warm, reassuring grin.

“We’re ready to go,” he said, shaking a thumb at the foaming ocean. “Hope the water’s not too cold. I suggested a heated pool and a wave machine, but our director’s a purist.”

Laughing, Sasha shrugged out of her coverup and handed it to him. A cool coastal breeze made her shiver as she looked up and saw Marc’s gaze on her. He was off to himself by a stand of reflectors, and for several seconds he fixed her with his unwavering scrutiny, taking in the high-slashed legs of her one-piece suit, the glossy red material, and the scooped neckline that crowded her generous breasts into rounds of sun-brushed gold.

Warmth crept up Sasha’s throat, washing her in a flood tide of self-awareness. For a man who considered her a distraction, he certainly was indulging himself. Every silent brush of his eyes on her person reminded her that he had touched her there, kissed her there, pressed his body against her there. A soft thrill rolled through her like the foamy waves lapping up onshore. Before she could stop it, a slide show of yesterday’s encounter flashed through her mind...her naked body, wet from the shower, his, still damp from the ocean...the steamy scent of straining flesh, the hot, sweet sighs and soul-deep need.

She brought an arm to her waist, hugging herself protectively. It was an unconscious gesture, and one she would never have made if she’d realized how vulnerable and desirable it made her appear.

In the pleasure centers of Marc Renaud’s brain, the gesture registered as though he himself were hugging her. His skin tingled, and his senses came alive to the imagined silkiness of her suit, made warm with her body heat. Breathing in, he filled the hollow space in his chest. “I’m ready if you are,” he said.

She studied the water. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Run like a kid who’s just been let out of school, splash through the waves, dive in. Be joyous, feel the freedom.”

A moment later the camera was rolling and Sasha was racing toward the surf. Marc watched her, struck by the smooth flow of her limbs, the willowy strength in her slender frame. He trusted his cameraman to catch the sun splashing off her white-gold hair and the halo effect of the horizon as it silhouetted her movements. Pressure built in his stomach as he thought about how her long, finely muscled body had felt under his hands. Just for a moment he allowed himself the luxury of imagining her beneath him, on top of him, rolling in a tangled, sensual heap as he moved deeply inside her body.

The stab of longing he felt was closer to pain than pleasure. She was infecting his thoughts, invading his senses like a rampant, self-perpetuating virus. All night he’d dreamed and thrashed and bolted out of his sleep with her name on his lips. It was hell, what his mind was doing to him, sweet, searing hell.

He’d planned to stop by the beach house that night and pick up some clothes. No way, he’d decided. If he went near the place, he would never be able to keep his hands off her. Watching her dive into the surf and bob up, sleek and wet as a golden seal, he reminded himself again that a career—
his
career—and a multimillion-dollar movie were at stake. It was reason enough to keep his distance from her.

His body responded with a mutinous flash of desire, and he made himself a promise. If they were ever together again, he vowed silently—someday, somewhere, after all this was over—he was going to make every damn one of his fantasies come true.

The remainder of the week went quickly for Sasha, almost too quickly. With Marc away from the house, time slipped by like the proverbial sand sifting through curled fingers. The chance to be with him was getting more remote with each day that passed. Sasha didn’t give much thought to what she would do if she ever got that chance. Something powerful was driving her, some energy that was distinct from any other need she’d ever known. She didn’t know how, when, or even why, but a vague sense of desperation had taken hold of her.

She saw him every day on location, but the action sequences were going so smoothly, they rarely spoke beyond his stage directions. As the week drew on, she spent her days increasingly aware of his darkening moods—and her nights standing on her terrace foolishly wondering if she should try to make contact with him before it was all over. Despite his brooding posture, she’d seen the look in his eyes many times, even during filming.

The
look.
It was the concentrated, half-lidded stare of a man who had dark and passionate things on his mind. Any woman who messed with that look was asking for trouble. Sasha knew it as surely as she knew daffodils bloomed in the spring—and yet she couldn’t subdue the urge to see him again, to be alone with him.

A week later they wrapped up the location shooting, and Sasha returned to the beach house thoroughly depressed. She’d received rave reviews on her work from everyone, including Marc, which might have thrilled her except for the fact that her stint in the movie was now virtually over.

She spent the entire evening in a tug-of-war with herself, staring at the phone as she contemplated the prospect of calling him at the studio. She must have picked up the receiver and clanked it back down a dozen times. No, dammit, she told herself on the thirteenth clank,
he
walked out. If one of them was going to capitulate, it would have to be him.

Much later that night, sleepless and searching out a midnight snack in the kitchen, Sasha heard the service door to the garage area quietly open and close. “Bink?” she called out, tugging the lapels of her white satin nightshirt together as she peered down the dark hallway.

“Bink doesn’t seem to be around.”

Marc’s voice came from behind her. She whirled and saw him standing in the open terrace doors that led to the deck. His arm was propped on the doorjamb above his head, and he was leaning into it. Despite his casualness, he looked world-weary and vaguely predatory with a heavy five o’clock shadow along the planes of his jaw. Lord, those eyes of his were cold, she thought, her stomach dipping. They were snow crystals shimmering against a blue sky. “To what do I owe the honor?” she asked.

“This isn’t a social call.” His gaze brushed over her, absently noting the length of sleek thigh exposed by the side slash of her shirt. “Unless you call picking up some clean underwear a social call.”

“Depends on how hard up you are,” Sasha mumbled, not intending him to hear it.

He did, unfortunately. “Things have been worse” —his eyes drifted to the shimmer of her breasts under their satin covering—“but not much.”

Sasha waved a hand toward the refrigerator. “I was just going to have a snack,” she said.

“How about a fifth of something, preferably one hundred proof.” He swung open the refrigerator door, investigated its contents, and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “I guess this will have to do.” He worked out the cork, offered her the bottle. “Join me?”

Thoroughly disenchanted with his cavalier attitude, she wrinkled her nose. Dropping by to pick up some clean underwear, indeed. This was hardly the capitulation she had in mind. “I’ll leave you to your bottle then,” she said pointedly, “and your Jockey shorts.”

She took a step back, swung around, and started for the hallway, expecting him to say something, praying he’d say something. She took two steps, three, made a slight pause as she reached the threshold of the door.

“Sasha—”

Her breath locked in her chest. That wasn’t the voice of an indifferent man. Oh, no, that was the voice of a man about to go against his better judgment, a man succumbing to his own dark instincts. There was need, self-directed anger, and raw sexual energy in the way he said her name. She waited, her hand still clutching the lapel of her shirt, waited there in suspended animation. She didn’t know for how long....

“
Sasha,
” he whispered from behind. A moment later she felt his fingers at the nape of her neck, lifting her hair. Automatically she tilted her head to welcome the sweet, cool touch on her skin. His mouth, she realized, his soft, heartbreaking mouth.

His hands closed on her arms in a hard, possessive grip that thrilled her. Sasha’s senses sharpened painfully. She could hear his breathing, feel its warmth. The smooth hum of the refrigerator droned in the background, and somewhere beyond that waves crashed onto the beach. He swung her around, stared down at her with eyes that ripped right through her heart, eyes that said
I’m dying without you.