* * *
“NO, NO, A THOUSAND times no!” Holly paced the length of the conference room, now empty except for her and Ethan.
He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, hands steepled under his chin. “You heard Ted and Judith. No Nick, no show. They’ve got a group of private investors lined up, but before they cough up any dough they want to see Nick signed on the dotted line.”
“Why Nick?” Holly whined, still pacing. “Can’t we just get another star?”
Ethan lifted a shoulder. “Guess my sales pitch was a little too convincing.”
“Then why me?” She couldn’t do what they were asking. It was too risky. “Why can’t you persuade him? You brought him here. Or Ted? Or Judith?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Because Nick wasn’t looking at me or Ted or Judith like he wanted to throw us onto the conference table and go all caveman.”
That stopped Holly in her tracks. “You are majorly delusional. He barely glanced my way.”
She, on the other hand, hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him from the moment she’d walked in the door. His presence had seemed to take up the whole room. She’d seen one or two of his movies. Okay, she’d seen them all multiple times, and owned the DVDs. But that hadn’t even remotely prepared her for Nick Damone, live, in person and sexy as sin.
He had those mocha eyes, as dark and smoky as she remembered but even more intense, more penetrating. When she was able to break free from their strange, hypnotic spell, her addled brain registered a scraggly beard and moustache, probably grown for his last picture. Sprinkled with silver, they highlighted his strong jaw, making him appear, if possible, even more masculine. One lock of hair had flopped temptingly across his brow, and she’d longed to reach up—way up, given the difference in their heights—and brush it back.
And that was just his face. As for his body...
Yowza.
He’d always been tall, but the lean, athletic boy she remembered had filled out and become a hard, muscular, mouthwateringly beautiful man. His dress shirt clung to his biceps and broad chest, falling loosely over what she knew must be washboard abs. Well-worn jeans rode low on his hips and molded to his powerful thighs and taut, trim butt. She’d tried—but failed—not to notice how they cupped certain other areas as well.
Ethan pushed his chair back from the table and walked over to her. “You’re wrong, Holls. The sexual tension in the room was off the charts from the second you laid eyes on each other. And it definitely wasn’t a one-way street.”
“So what are you saying? You want me to seduce him into taking the part?”
“No. Of course not.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “We want you to talk to him. Just talk. It’s obvious you two have some sort of connection. He’ll listen to you.”
She shook his hand off. “I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this. After the way you sandbagged me! I should be mad at you, you know. Strike that. I am mad at you.”
“You know if I had told you it was Nick, you would have flipped out.”
“I would not have.”
“Then why are you flipping out now? So you had a crush on him as a kid. Big deal. It’s ancient history.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me...”
“No.” She resisted the urge to check her nose to see if it was growing after that whopper. “I just don’t know what I can say that will convince him to take this part.”
“Tell him what you told me when I came on as director. That you wrote The Lesser Vessel because you want to help other women in the same situation find the courage to get the hell out.”
Courage. Hah. What did she know about courage?
“Please, Holls,” Ethan begged, blessedly interrupting the dark turn of her thoughts. “It’s our best chance of getting this show off the ground.”
“You want me to admit he’d be playing my ex-husband? Blurt out my whole sordid life story?”
“Okay, skip that part. But let him know how important the message of this show is. Not just to you but to the whole production team. We believe in you and your play, Holly. He will, too, if you give him the chance.”
“Well, when you put it that way...” She took a deep breath, then blew it out loudly through pursed lips. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“And if the subject of your past relationship comes up...”
“I told you. There’s nothing to discuss. There is—was—no relationship.” Holly made her way to the door. “I’m beginning to regret this already. Remind me again why you can’t join me on this little errand?”
“It’s Jean-Michel’s birthday. He’ll kill me if I’m late for the celebratory dinner I supposedly planned for him that was really all his doing. Besides,” he teased, his eyes sparkling and one corner of his mouth turned up mischievously, “you know what they say.”
“What?”
“Three’s a crowd.”
She rolled her eyes and turned to leave.
“Holly, wait. I know I might sound flip, but this is serious.” His words—and his tone—made her pause with one hand on the doorknob. “Clark’s a first-class jack hole who deserves to be put in front of a firing squad. But he’s your past. It’s time to start thinking about your future.”
He crossed to her and squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve been alone long enough. And you might never get a chance like this again. Don’t you owe it to yourself to figure out what this crazy chemistry between you and People’s Sexiest Man Alive is about?”
She turned to him, tears threatening to spill over. “Damn you, Ethan. How am I supposed to stay mad at you when you say stuff like that?”
“You’re not.” He smiled, flashing a solitary dimple on his left cheek. “Just don’t let it get around. I’ve got a reputation as a tough guy to uphold.”
“If you say so.” With a final squeeze, she stepped out of his embrace and wiped her eyes.
“He’s staying at the Marquis.” He handed her a business card with the hotel’s address scrawled on the back. “Room 1008.”
HOLLY CHECKED THE card in her hand once more before knocking on the door: 1008. Good. She was in the right place.
Or the wrong place.
She exhaled loudly, shaking off her doubts, and knocked. She was there to talk. Just talk. She was a grown woman, for goodness’ sake, not a hormonal teenager. She wasn’t going to be distracted by...
The door swung open and any thoughts of talking—not to mention her ability to talk at all—deserted her. Nick stood framed in the doorway, a skimpy hotel towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He was still damp from the shower, those washboard abs she’d speculated about earlier on full display.
So much for not being distracted.
He leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re not Garrett.”
“I-I’m sorry for barging in like this,” she stammered, finding her voice and trying not to ogle the firm, wet flesh of his bare chest and arms. She swallowed. Hard. “Guess I should have called first.”
“No, it’s...it’s