Regina Kyle - Triple Threat

“I don’t have a husband. Not anymore. I’m divorced.”

* * *

HOT DAMN!

Nick knew his reaction was wrong. No matter the circumstances, divorce wasn’t something to celebrate. But his head couldn’t reason with his heart, which was doing a little happy dance.

She. Wasn’t. Married.

Lusting after her from afar would have been torture. But now she was free. Fair game. They could work and play together.

Warning bells went off in the back of his head. She’s a forever kind of girl, Damone. And you don’t do forever. In fact, you don’t do relationships. Period.

But his happy-dancing heart—or maybe the dancing was coming from somewhere a bit farther south—drowned it out. There was no way he was passing up the second chance given to him by God, or fate, or whatever cosmic force had brought them together again.

Plus, if anyone could help him get past his learning disability and claim this role, it was her. Hell, she’d written the damn thing. She’d know the characters inside out. Plus, she was the smartest person he’d ever met. With her help, he’d wow Spielberg and everyone else in Hollywood who doubted his acting chops.

Nick smoothed down the front of his shirt and stretched one arm along the back of the couch. This could turn out to be his lucky break. In more ways than one.

“I’m sorry,” he said, surprised to find that a part of him really was. Not that she was available, but that she’d had to endure the pain that always came with divorce.

She shrugged, the hint of a smile playing around her lips. “I’m not.”

“Any kids?”

As suddenly as it appeared, the trace of a smile vanished and her eyes took on a distant look. “No.”

“That’s good.”

“Is it?” She sounded wistful.

“Divorce is hard on kids.” Although he was pretty sure his childhood would have been a damn sight better—or at least more peaceful—if his parents had split up.

“I suppose.” She shook her head as if to clear it, and a little of the spark crept back into her eyes. “Now that we’ve exhausted the subject of my failed marriage...” She started for the door.

He sank back into the sofa, crossing an ankle over one knee. “You honestly didn’t come here to get me to audition?”

She froze. “Are you always this suspicious?”

He shrugged. “Occupational hazard. You haven’t answered my question.”

“I do want you to audition. But it’s your decision, not mine.”

“That’s very Dr. Phil of you,” he said, sounding cynical even to his own ears. “But somehow I don’t think Ted and Judith share your concern for my feelings. If I were a betting man, and I am, I’d say they’re trying to cash in on our friendship.”

“I’m not privy to their innermost thoughts.” Holly drew herself up and pursed her lips. Man, she was hot when she went all schoolteacher. “And one conversation at a high school cast party hardly constitutes a friendship.”

Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, giving her the full force of his patented movie-star smile. “If memory serves, we did a little more than talk that night.”

“Did we?”

“Need a reminder?” He braced himself to stand.

“No!” She lost her grip on the ridiculously tiny sparkly thing she seemed to think was a purse, sending it clattering to the floor. “It’s been lovely catching up, but I’ve got another appointment.” She bent to pick it up so quickly she almost fell on her sweet little backside.

Oh, yeah. She remembered that kiss. And she’d been as turned on by it as much as he had.

Unfortunately, she was also on the run, halfway to the door.

He resisted the urge to jump up and grab her, not wanting to scare her any more than he already had. He needed to tone down the he-man antics if he had any hope of convincing her to stay. “Please stop.”

She didn’t.

“I was an ass.”

She hesitated, only inches from the door and freedom. “Now or then?”

“Both.”

She turned slowly, and met his gaze head-on. “Thank you.”

“Don’t go.” He slid over on the sofa, making room for her. “I’d like a chance to explain why I turned you down.” And that he’d since changed his mind.

“Now?” she asked with a smirk. “Or then?”

He winced. “Now.” He definitely wanted to focus on the present. Their present.

“I have another engagement.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t. Hear me out, Holly.”

She nodded stiffly, her already rosy cheeks deepening to a bright scarlet, and sat on the other couch, as far away from him as possible.

“Can I get you a drink? Or I can call room service if you’re hungry.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” She took out her cell phone and glanced at the screen. “I can give you five minutes.”

Five minutes. Okay. He had this. He took a deep breath. “I walked out this afternoon because...” Because what? The air thinned when she was around? He couldn’t stop picturing her under him, panting? He wanted to pummel her ex-husband without even knowing the guy?

He stared at the place where her neck met her shoulder and tried like hell to think of something safe. Sunshine. Cotton candy. The box-office numbers from the last Savage picture.

“Is it the script?” she blurted. “I knew it. You don’t like the script.”

“That’s not it at all.” He got up and joined her on the other couch, breathing a sigh of relief when she didn’t shift away from him. “The script is brilliant. Moving and smart without being sappy. Not at all what I expected from a play dealing with domestic violence.”

She bristled and he knew he’d put his foot in his mouth. Again. “What did you expect? Some hackneyed, stereotypically pedantic melodrama?”

“To be honest, sweetheart, I don’t even know what half those words mean,” he joked, falling back on the dumb-jock routine he’d used in school to mask his learning disability. But he grew serious when he looked into her eyes, wide and stricken, filled with uncertainty.

He reached for her hand and was reminded of that night on the dock when their roles were reversed and he was the one unsure of his future, needing her encouragement. “But I do know a good script when I read one. And yours is good. Better than good.”

“If the script’s not the problem, then what is?” Damn, he could get lost in those deep green eyes.

“You’ve heard the expression ‘actions speak louder than words,’ right?”

“Of course, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“Good.” And in a move of either sheer genius or monumental stupidity, he leaned in and kissed her, long and hard.

* * *

IT WAS HAPPENING AGAIN. Nick Damone was kissing her. And just like before, she couldn’t resist it. Couldn’t resist him. His touch, like a magnet, drawing her blood to the surface of her skin. His taste, like caramel, with a hint of Scotch.

Resist? Hell. Who was she kidding? She was responding to him like a sex-starved nympho. And while she’d admit to being sex-starved, she wasn’t a nymphomaniac. Yet. But if Nick kept kissing her like that...and that...and, oh, yes, that...

Everything else vanished into the vortex of Nick’s warm, hungry mouth. There was no play. No Ethan waiting for her to report on her mission. No Noelle or the rest of her family waiting to pick her up after yet another failure.

Only Nick.

Or, more specifically, Nick’s mouth, hot and insistent.

She hissed and arched into him as he skimmed a hand up her rib cage to her breast, cupping it through her blouse and brushing the soft silk across her nipple with his thumb. His other hand wound its way through her hair, keeping her head at the perfect angle for his heated kiss. He licked and nibbled and sucked at her lips from corner to corner until she thought she’d pass out from pure pleasure.