Triple Threat (6 page)

Jesus.
The guy was like her freaking shadow. Nick wouldn’t be surprised to find out they went to the damn bathroom together. At first he thought maybe they were a couple, with their constant chatter, light touches and little laughs. That illusion had been blessedly blown to bits when Ethan’s boyfriend had shown up to meet him after rehearsal.

Still, Ethan needed to get accidentally locked in the prop room for a good half a day.

Overnight would be even better.

Nick turned back to his impressionable costar and flashed her a grin that he hoped was reassuring. “Of course.” He patted the chair next to him, and Marisa sat down. “But I keep telling you, call me Nick. After all, we are married, in a manner of speaking.”

She blushed and ducked her head, her mane of long dark curls covering her face. “Okay, Mr.... I mean, Nick.”

“Now that we’ve got that settled, what can I do for you?”

“I’m just curious.” She peered at him through her bangs. “You’ve done stage productions before, right?”

“It’s been a while, but yeah.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Not really,” he lied. “It’s like riding a bike. And nothing beats performing in front of a live audience. The instant response. The connection.”
The chance that any minute you could forget your lines or your blocking. No one to bail you out by yelling, “Cut.”

“No, I mean because of the—” she stopped and looked around as if to make sure no one else was listening. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper “—curse.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “The what?”

“The crew says we’re cursed. Because of all the weird stuff going on. You know. The bomb threat. The food poisoning. The blackout.”

Nick nodded, finally understanding. Of course Marisa would be worried. It was her plane that had been grounded by a bomb threat in Toronto, where she’d been wrapping a film, making her miss the first read-through. Then half the crew had gotten food poisoning from some bad sushi. And yesterday the power had gone out at Pearl, costing them half a day’s practice.

But all shows hit rough waters, and Nick wasn’t about to let Marisa drown in them. These were hiccups, not the
Titanic.

“Nah,” he assured her. “Theater people are suspicious by nature.”

“Really?”

“Sure. That’s why we say ‘break a leg’ instead of ‘good luck.’ And leave a ghost light on onstage. And, most importantly, never, ever say or quote from
Macbeth
in a theater.”

Marisa tilted her head, looking confused. “What do you call it, then?”

“You don’t.” Nick chuckled. “Or, if you must, it’s the
Scottish play.”

“That’s silly.”

“Yep. Like believing we’re cursed is silly.”

“I guess so. Thanks, Mr.... Nick. Sorry.” She stood and stretched, showing a wide expanse of her flat stomach that, in another lifetime, one before Holly had reappeared, would have had him itching to see more. Now he wasn’t interested. He ran a hand across his face, trying to erase the unfamiliar feeling.

“I think I’ll get a Diet Coke from the vending machine in the hall.” Marisa flipped her thick, dark curls over her shoulder. “Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks.” He picked up a stainless-steel water bottle with the UCONN Huskies logo on it from the floor next to his chair. “Tap water’s good enough for me.”

“Score one for you,” she said, her eyes flicking to Malcolm before she bounded off.

Nick leaned back in his chair, a trace of an amused smile playing around his lips. Smart girl. Perceptive, too. She was going to do just fine in this business.

He took a long, cool drink from the Huskies bottle and checked his watch. Ethan’s ten minutes were almost up, and Wes and the Evian were still conspicuously absent. But instead of ranting and raving like the first-rate prima donna everyone knew he was, Malcolm was perched on the edge of the table next to Holly, with Ethan nowhere in sight.

Shit.
The bastard had swooped in before Nick could react to the fact that she’d finally lost her guard dog. He’d been fawning all over her at every possible opportunity from the first day of rehearsal. Bringing her coffee in the morning. Complimenting her word choices in the script. Touching her whenever—wherever—he could.

Like now. Malcolm pulled a strand of her hair from his mouth and gave a low laugh.

Nick’s fists clenched. If the guy got any closer his tongue would be in her eardrum. And at the rate it was drifting downward, the hand lazily caressing her back would be on her ass before long.

If Ethan was getting locked in a closet, Malcolm was going into a Dumpster with a thick chain and padlock. And maybe a couple of hungry rats.

Nick sprang from his chair, slamming it into the wall behind him with a loud clang.
Fuck this.
He was done standing by while freaking Malcolm Justice made time with the woman who, barely more than a week ago, was melting into his kiss, panting at his touch, moaning his name.

Something had scared her off that day in his hotel room. One minute she’d been all over him, meeting his tongue thrust for thrust and grinding against him so hard he’d almost shot his load then and there. The next she was running for the door. He’d waited long enough to find out what had spooked her. Today he was getting some answers.

* * *

O
H, CRAP.

Holly’s stomach sank as she saw Nick stalking toward her, his forehead creased, the lips that had kissed her so wantonly pressed together.

“Excuse me, Malcolm,” she said, interrupting another of his self-absorbed stories. This one, as far as she could tell, was building up to how he’d outsmarted Scorsese. “I’d better see if Ethan and the others have any questions.”

“Justice.” Nick cut in before she could break away. “You won’t mind if I steal our illustrious author for a few minutes.”

Malcolm reached for Holly’s wrist but she shook him off. “As a matter of fact, I would.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Damone.”

“I’m making it my business.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Stop, both of you!” Holly’s head ached from pinging back and forth between them. “You’re acting like a couple of overgrown frat boys, arguing over me as if I weren’t standing right in front of you.”

They continued to glare at each other over her head for a moment, making her feel a little like a choice sirloin in the middle of two hungry dogs. Was it possible to be flattered and disgusted at the same time?

Nick was the one to finally concede the staring contest. “Holly.” He put a hand on her elbow, his touch not demanding but imploring, those beautiful brown eyes sucking her in closer. Heat spread from his fingers to her traitorous girlie bits. “I just need a few minutes of your time. To...discuss my role.”

“Don’t you mean ‘show you my etchings’?” Malcolm leered.

Nick’s attention didn’t waver from Holly. “Please.”

If he had begged, pleaded, ranted, raved—anything but that one simple, quiet word—she could have fought him.

Two more weeks. That’s all she needed. Then they’d be in the Deville, the theater they’d call home for the foreseeable future. She’d be able to keep her distance from him in that cavern, her in the house with the rest of the creative team and him up onstage or in the wings.

But no. He’d managed to corner her today in the cramped rehearsal room, all intense and brooding and yeah, mouthwateringly hot in a Mr. Darcy kind of way, with those puppy-dog eyes and his hair flopping over his brows, a tad long and just this side of presentable.

“You don’t have to go with him, Holly.” Malcolm went for her wrist again but she managed to sidestep him. Ugh. He was a good actor, she’d give him that. Good-looking, too, although he didn’t make her stammer like a fool or bump into the furniture. That was apparently reserved for Nick.

But as talented and handsome as he was, Malcolm couldn’t take a hint to save his life. She’d told him flat-out that she wasn’t interested in him. But he still insisted on hounding her, at her side practically every time she turned around. The only plus was it had kept Nick at bay. Until now.

“It’s okay.” As if she really had a choice. Better to get it over with, painful but quick. “We won’t be long.”

“You’re going to let this guy—”

“I’m not going to ‘let’ him do anything.” She gave a meaningful look to both men. After Clark—and a fair amount of therapy—she’d made up her mind not to let any man have that kind of power over her ever again. And these two were no exception. She was the one calling the shots now. “But I am going to talk to him.”

Nick’s hand on her elbow gently navigated her to the door as he called over his shoulder to Malcolm, “Tell Ethan we’ll be down the hall, in studio G. If we’re not back in time, start without us.”

“I’m not your errand boy, Damone.”

“Then have Sean or Seth do it. It’s a step above the crap you usually palm off on them.” Nick continued down the hall, pulling Holly along with him. He didn’t speak again until they were inside the room with the door closed.

“Start talking.”

She arched a brow at him. “What?”

“You told Justice you were going to talk to me. So talk.”

“About your role?”

“You know damn well that’s not why I brought you here.”

“I’m not a mind reader.” She shook his hand off her elbow and stepped away from him, making her raging hormones scream in protest. Not to mention her conscience. Giving Nick the cold shoulder went against every rule of politeness and common decency she’d had drummed into her since childhood. But it was a matter of self-preservation, pure and simple. “If this isn’t about the show, we have nothing to discuss.”

“Like hell we don’t.” He crossed his arms, looking yummy with his long denim-clad legs braced apart, his biceps straining at his shirt sleeves.

“What do you want from me, Nick?”

“I want to know what kind of game you’re playing.”

“Game?”

“First me. Now Justice.” Nick’s eyes were narrowed, his lips tight.

Holly gaped at him. He was jealous! Nick Damone was actually jealous. Over her. She covered her mouth and let out a giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just wondering about the pigs.”

“Pigs?” The tension around his eyes relaxed and his mouth curved into the tiniest hint of a smile.

The ones that must be flying over the Manhattan skyline.
“Never mind.” She scraped her hands through her hair. He made her crazy. “Look, nothing’s going on between me and Malcolm. Or me and you, for that matter.”

“You sure about that?” His wicked chocolate eyes, almost black with need, lasciviously perused her from head to toe and back again.

“Yes,” she choked out through a heavy swallow, her heart racing.

“You can’t run forever, Holly.”

She sighed, knowing he was right. “I can sure as heck try.”

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder to shake me, sweetheart.” He pushed off the doorframe, chest muscles rippling under his tight T-shirt—darn it if her own chest didn’t rise to attention—and started toward her.

She took two steps back—straight into a table.

“See?” He inched one leg between hers and braced a hand on the tabletop. “No more running.”

“It certainly seems that way.” She took a deep breath meant to steady her. Instead it brought her closer to him, brushing her already aching nipples against his rock-hard pecs and making her shiver.

“So you’re ready to admit defeat?”

She raised herself up on tiptoe, her lips only inches from his. “I—”

The door flung open to reveal Wes, back from his errand, red-faced and wheezing.

“Nick, Holly! Come quick! You’re not gonna believe this!”

“What is it?” Holly silently thanked the powers that be for the interruption.

“The Deville’s on fire!”

6

H
OLLY STARED, GLASSY-EYED
and numb, at the TV screen above the bar, showing the smoldering Deville for the umpteenth time. How could she be dead-tired and wide-awake at the same time?

The fire was out but the damage was done. They’d never find another theater before losing their cast.

Two years of planning. Up in smoke.

She tapped her glass on the gleaming oak bar. “Can I get a refill, Devin?”

“You sure?” The bartender grabbed the remote from under the counter and switched the channel to one of the sports networks. Baseball. Much better, even if the Yankees were getting spanked by the Blue Jays. “It’s a lot stronger than your usual.”

“I’m sure.” After today, she needed something way more potent than a mudslide.

“Okay.” Devin grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind her and poured two fingers of rich amber liquid into Holly’s glass. “But after this I’m switching you to Kahlúa and milk.”

“Killjoy.” Holly took a sip and coughed. Why anyone drank Scotch was beyond her. But tonight she wanted—no, needed—to get drunk, so Scotch it was.

“Looks to me like there’s not much joy to kill.”

Holly sighed. Her friend was right. Tonight there was no joy in Mudville. Flighty Holly had struck out.

Watching the Deville burn on the news had been surreal. The cast and crew had all huddled around Ethan’s laptop, silent. A few of them had wanted to head over to the theater, but Ted and Judith—when they weren’t sniping at each other—convinced them they’d only get in the way. After about a dozen replays, they’d sent almost everyone home with the promise of an email by morning. Only Holly, Ethan and the company manager had stayed, frantically calling every theater in a twenty-block radius.

The Helen Hayes was too small. The Gershwin too big. The Lyceum was just right but unavailable. As were the Cort, the Booth and the Walter Kerr. Four hours of speed dialing and all they had to show for it were sore fingers and an air of desperation.

“Go home, Holly,” Ethan had ordered when she laid her head on the table and let gravity and fatigue keep it there. “We’ve got things covered here. I’ll call you if anything pans out.”

She pushed herself upright on leaden arms. There had to be something more she could do. Make a latte run. Recharge phones. Pay a visit to someone and beg.