Kiss or Kill Under the Northern Lights Page 3

  The door suddenly opened, and Bodie stood blocking the entrance, his gaze chill. “You’re a helluva long way from LA, Camille.”

  Unfazed, Camille smiled. “I’ve been so worried about you, darling,” she said in breathy, soulful sympathy, concern knitting her porcelain brow. “I came to help in any way I can.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need help.” Bodie’s voice was taut with restraint, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

  She exhaled a poignant, little sigh, dramatic enough for the Hallmark Channel. “Poor darling—how noble of you to face this alone, when everyone knows how ghastly it’s been, how you’ve struggled since coming home.”

  “Everyone’s wrong, okay?” He sounded tired. “I’m fine, I’m busy working. In fact, you interrupted my writing, so be a good girl”—his gaze lifted to Eva standing at the end of the hall, unguarded warmth in his eyes—“and let Eva show you out. I appreciate you coming but”—he shrugged—“I’ve got this covered.”

  “Are you covering Little Miss Nobody, too?” Camille flicked a manicured finger over her shoulder. “Not your usual style,” she sneered. “But I expect choices are limited in the boonies.”

  “Jesus, Camille,” Bodie said with a flash of annoyance. “Just go, will you? Get out of here.”

  “You wish,” she snapped. “If you think I flew out to this wilderness to be summarily dismissed, you’re sadly mistaken.” She gave a dramatic toss of her golden mane, looked him square in the eye. “We have business to discuss.”

  “No, Camille, we don’t.” Keep it together. You’ve never hit a woman, don’t start now.

  “Same old Bodie Rourke, calling all the shots,” Camille spat, a dangerous glitter in her narrowed eyes. “They said you were broken—like hell you are. But in case you’ve forgotten,” she added, in a low, defiant hiss, “I have a little thing called a contract. I want what’s due me.”

  He almost smiled, thinking how idiotic and pretentious the phrase, especially when her contract signified nothing other than she’d been his girlfriend at the time. “Your contract was contingent on the film being finished,” he said, down-shifting his anger, his heart rate slowing. “It wasn’t finished. It won’t be. You were well-paid to date. Listen to your agent.”

  “Damn you, Bodie!” Her scream exploded, scorching the air, her eyes throwing off sparks. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Some little ingénue at her first production meeting! I wasn’t stupid even then, you prick! So listen up!” she sputtered, her breath coming fast. “You promised me Executive Producer credit and compensation, and that’s what you’re going to give me!”

  “Come on, Camille,” Bodie murmured, his eyes briefly shutting. “Do you know how unimportant this is to me? How little this means now?”

  “Is it my fault you went where you shouldn’t have gone?” she shot back, peevishly. “Don’t blame me for that fuck up.”

  Every nerve tensed. “Fuck up?” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Is that what that was?” Gathering himself with effort, he rearranged his head, let out a little sigh. “Why don’t I give you another million and tell Ari to find you another project.” He gave her a weary smile. “Will that get you out of my house?”

  “Of course, darling,” she cooed, all her bitterness back in its cage, a tiny triumphant smile on her face. “If you’d answered your phone or emails and told me that, I never would have come to this godforsaken place.”

  “Another blunder on my part,” he drawled, “now thankfully rectified. Eva—” he smiled for the first time since he’d opened the door—“Camille’s leaving.” Taking a step back, he shut the door, the lock falling into place with a soft click.

  Camille shot an amused glance at Eva as she strolled back down the hall. “Bodie’s always been a generous man,” she said, as if the last few minutes had been no more than a healthy airing of differences. “You must know that though if you’re sleeping with him.”

  “Sorry, I just work here.”

  “Puh-lease, I saw that look he gave you.”

  Eva was tempted to say, Maybe that’s because I didn’t want a million from him. “He’s kind to the hired help, that’s all,” she said.

  Her comment garnered a speculative look, then a shrug. “You’re right. You’re not his type.”

  Eva didn’t know whether to be irritated or grateful that she wasn’t Bodie’s type. Since she wasn’t in the market for a job where her paycheck was contingent on sleeping with the boss, however, she opted for gratitude.

  A few moments later, she closed the door on the only Hollywood babe she’d ever met, leaned back and softly exhaled.

  “Camille’s a piece of work.”

  She looked up. Bodie was lounging in the kitchen doorway, one shoulder resting against the jamb.

  “Just an observation,” he murmured. “No disrespect. Camille’s done well for a girl from a small town in Arkansas. I need a fucking drink, or two or three. Don’t look alarmed—I just need to decompress. Care to join me?”

  “I was making soup.”

  “I’ll help you.” He smiled. “Now that I know how to mince.”

  He poured her a couple inches of some fifty-year-old Irish whiskey she’d never heard of, poured himself a full glass, then helped with the cutting, including the apples for the pie. The kitchen was warm and redolent with the scent of vegetable soup, apple pie and expensive whiskey. Bodie was relaxed, talking about his struggles for the first time, revealing bits and pieces of the paranoia that threatened to engulf him. Eva, in turn, gave a brief version of the traumatic event that had afflicted her life, explaining how the most innocuous incident often triggered her flashbacks. At her mention of recurring nightmares, Bodie held up his glass and said, drily, “Cheers to a fellow traveler in the dead of night.”

  “Or at daybreak.”

  “Middle of the day once after a night of no sleep.”

  She grimaced. “This could go on, right?”

  “Fuck, yeah.” The room was quiet for a moment, then he breathed out through his nose. “So tell me, how do you like the whiskey?”

  His easy, sexy-as-sin smile was her cue to lighten up. A concept she was entirely on board with. “It’s sweet and smooth, high praise from someone who doesn’t drink whiskey.”

  His forehead furrowed. “I have other stuff. Tell me what you want.”

  Casual no strings sex probably meant the whiskey was going to her head. So keep it simple, avoid the complicated abyss. “The whiskey’s fine. I’m done anyway. One’s my limit.”

  “You sure?” He leaned back in his chair, opened his arms wide. “Alcohol I have, name your poison.”

  “Nah, I’m, good. You talk, I’ll finish cooking.”

  Whether it was the whiskey, or an indefinable sense of well-being after Camille’s explosive visit, that afternoon of companionable conversation offered them an opportunity to compare raw memories. It wasn’t as though their issues were resolved, but some simple truths stood out: it’s all right if you stumble or retreat, it’s not forever; fear is survivable; and joy, even atrophied through disuse, can spring to life and bring rare moments of happiness.

  It was a red letter day for hope.

  He even walked her to the front door when she left.

  “Turn off the soup at six.”

  He saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And when the pie cools, put the rest of it in the fridge.”

  “Got it.”

  He watched her from the front door as she walked to her car, frowned slightly when the car failed to start until the third attempt, and made a mental note of the make and model. When he returned to the kitchen, he picked up the phone. “Hi, Jonesy. Want to fix the starter on an old Camry for me? No, not mine, but the car will be parked outside tomorrow.”

  6

  The next morning, over coffee, Eva argued briefly with Bodie about paying for the starter until she realized it was useless.

  “The weather’s getting colder. You don’t want to get stuck on the road somew
here and Jonesy practically works for nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay, fine, thanks,” she said. She’d leave money when her gig ended. Bodie was paying her well. She could afford a starter.

  “I invited Jonesy in for pie afterward. We went to school together. You’re from around here too Jesse said. Why don’t I know you?”

  “Different high school and I’m a little younger.”

  He grinned. “Can I guess?”

  “No.”

  “I could Google you.”

  “Go for it.”

  He pulled out his phone.

  “Jeez, stop. I’m twenty-eight.”

  “Ever been married?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He shook his head. “You’re just fun to tease.”

  “Because?”

  “Dunno. Maybe it’s cause you bite back.”

  “Too many yes men in your life?”

  “A couple.”

  “More than a couple women according to the gossip sites.”

  “That’s all nonsense,” he drawled. “Those places make money from scandal.”

  “So it’s not true?”

  He rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  “Is Camille some of the nonsense?” She was nosey, so sue her.

  He grimaced.

  “Surely bondage was a highlight.”

  “Personally, I find it time-consuming. Not my thing, but whatever.”

  “You can be accommodating.”

  “Up to a point.”

  “So you actually have limits?”

  “You think I don’t?”

  She’d never seen that boyish smile before. “Didn’t look that way on those kinky websites.”

  “Photo Shop, babe. I’m just a small-town boy.”

  She snorted. “If we’re talking fantasy, then I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

  A quick up and down look. “Country version.”

  “I happen to like corduroy pants and flannel shirts.”

  “I happen to like them too,” he said, his smile dazzling. “Along with raggedy auburn curls, big blue eyes, a perfect smile, and”—his gaze slid over her lush torso and rather than say something seriously out of line like Thanks for not wearing a bra, he focused his attention downward—“flip flops.”

  “My footwear changes if it snows over four inches. You should talk, you’re barefoot most of the time.”

  “More often now that the floors are clean. But I could have a cleaning crew come in if you like. There’s no need for you to work so hard. Seriously, your cooking is more than enough. Thanks to you, I actually wrote a dozen pages of my new screenplay yesterday.”

  She held up her hand.

  He gave her a high five. “I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m thinking miracle. Since I’m in that miracle zone today, I’m off to do some writing. Knock on my door if Jonesy takes up my apple pie offer or before you leave if I’m still holed up. We’ll see if your car starts.”

  When she knocked on his door at four thirty, she heard him shout, “Come in. I’ll get my jacket.”

  She felt as though she was walking into some mysterious, inner sanctum. But as she stood on the threshold, she found instead a cozy sitting room filled with books on shelves, stacked on tables, neatly piled here and there on the floor. The plush hand-loomed carpet was a deep rich red and gold, the upholstered furniture a colorful mélange of styles picked for comfort. A large architect’s table set under a bank of windows with a view of the lake served as his desk. A tidy stack of typewritten pages must be his screenplay.

  “What do you think?” he said, coming into the room, sliding his arms into a worn Barbour jacket, untied suede boots on his feet.

  “I’m thinking someone vacuums.”

  He grinned. “That would be me.”

  “Your brother didn’t know you cleaned.”

  “He didn’t ask.”

  “And you didn’t feel the need to tell him?”

  “I’ve never been good at explanations. I’m worse now.” He smiled. “And keep in mind, he’s my younger brother. Sibling rank is set in stone.”

  “And you’re bull headed.”

  “Nah, just coping. Ready to see how the new starter works?”

  Clearly, he wasn’t going to elaborate, a position she understood. Avoidance and detachment were basic rules. “You don’t have to come out in the cold.”

  “I know.” He waved her forward. “After you.”

  A few minutes later, he opened the driver’s door for her.

  After she got in and started the car, she turned and smiled. “Smooth as silk, thanks.”

  “No problem.” He leaned in. “Drive carefully now.”

  She grinned. “Yes, boss.”

  For a stark moment, their lips were only inches apart.

  She sucked in a breath and shut her eyes against the powerful rush of desire.

  He absorbed the first quiver of lust with complacency; she was beautiful and tantalizing. Why wouldn’t he react? But his sudden, surging need stunned him. For months he’d been an ascetic, lost to pleasure. For a flashing moment, he almost kissed her before common sense prevailed. Quickly pulling away, he stood. “See you tomorrow,” he said, and shut the car door.

  Walking back toward the house, he was fully conscious she’d not yet driven away. It took enormous willpower not to retrace his steps, lift her from the car, and carry her to his bed. But too long in his own personal hell, he didn’t trust himself to act with either conscience or reason.

  Neither may have mattered to Eva. Currently in the grip of a frenzied horniness, she held tightly to the wheel until the wild cravings diminished enough to recall that she was sitting in an idling car. Suddenly laser focused, she stepped on the accelerator; time to dust off her vibrator.

  Well back from the living room windows, Bodie watched her car until the tail lights disappeared from sight. Then, crossing the room, he slid back the glass door on his liquor cabinet and chose a bottle of tequila he’d been saving for a special occasion. Whether good special or bad special wasn’t entirely clear, but a drink was definitely required. Unfortunately, perfect clarity failed to materialize at any point, up to and including the bottom of the bottle. At which point, he muttered, “Fuck it,” in comprehensive dismissal of questions large and small, tossed the empty bottle and shut his eyes.

  7

  When she walked in the next morning, Eva found Bodie asleep on the sofa, still wearing his jacket and boots, an empty tequila bottle on the floor beside him. Quietly picking up the bottle, she turned to walk away when strong fingers curled around her wrist.

  “Hey,” Bodie whispered, and with a gentle tug toppled her off balance, caught her and with facile ease, lowered her until their bodies lightly touched and a heightened moment later, met; the sensations teasing, strangely delicious for two people who’d forgotten such innocent pleasures. “Morning, Strozzi,” he murmured, his smile close and beaucoup sexy. Taking the bottle from her hand, he dropped it on the floor. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “Meaning?”

  Her gaze was playful. “Never mind.”

  Her eyes shut as a fierce jolt of longing flared through every x-rated nerve in her body, lit up her brain, slid down her spine and settled warm and glowing deep inside.

  Sliding his hands downward, he rested his palms on the curve of her corduroy clad bottom, spread his fingers, and exerted enough pressure to move past their employer/employee relationship. Take it easy; don’t scare her. She suddenly slid her arms around his neck and lazily stretched. One foot slipped around his calf.

  He reached for the zipper on her slacks.

  What large hands he has, Eva irrationally thought, channeling Little Red Riding Hood. And how warm his touch, she added with a little breathy sigh as his fingers brushed over her stomach and slid smoothly under the waistband of her pants. Then she thought, Oh my God! What was she doing? “No, no, stop!” she cried, pushing his hand away, beginning to rise.


  “Relax,” he whispered, pulling her back.

  “Easy to say,” she murmured, half-breathless. “We shouldn’t be—”

  “Doing what we’re doing?”

  She debated lying before she met his amused gaze. “Probably not.”

  “C’mon, say it with conviction.”

  She gave him a pissy look. “You want me to be practical?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “One of us should be.”

  “Okay.” She started to get up.

  His arms tightened.

  “Let me up. I have to make breakfast.”

  “Later.”

  “All kidding aside, this really isn’t a good idea,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You’ll be sorry afterward.”

  “Not likely.”

  “In time you will.”

  “That so?” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You know from experience?”

  “Don’t growl at me. I met you six days ago.”

  A hard stare.

  She couldn’t help but smile. “You understand in terms of seduction you could do better than scowl at me.”

  “I haven’t had any for nine months,” he muttered. “I’m out of practice.”

  “I haven’t had any for over a year, and I still know how to be polite. Let’s be sensible. I’ll make breakfast, we’ll talk about the weather, you’ll go to work on your screenplay, and I’ll wash some of those piles of clothes in the laundry room.”

  “That’s so cute,” he said, softly.

  “And true.”

  “Not true. The flush rising up your throat and face is like a flashing neon sign. You’re not going to be sensible.” He smiled. “So the only question is how many times do you—” He paused with a big smile on his lips and sat up, readjusting her in his arms, then stood as if she were weightless. “And if you’re too tired afterward,” he added, soothingly, walking from the room, “we’ll order takeout for breakfast.”