desperate. But she didn’t push any more, instead crossing to her purse to pull out a paperback. Without another word, she settled at one end of the sofa. Realizing he’d boxed himself into a corner, Ryan retrieved his own book and took the opposite place.
Even the dramatic events of the seven kingdoms couldn’t keep his eyes off that basket of DVDs. He should have buried them somewhere when he’d first spotted them. Not that he regretted that part of his life. He’d been a child of Hollywood—well, Malibu, really—with his father a well-known and well-respected stunt director, his mother a successful makeup artist. He and Linus and their pals had started making movies at an early age and during a dinner party his folks threw, a casting agent had seen their latest and wondered aloud if Ryan wanted to try for the part in an upcoming show.
It had seemed like a great way to get out of school, which was damn boring in seventh grade.
A teen star had been born.
He’d gotten a kick out of it, to tell the truth. He’d enjoyed pretending he was someone else and it had taken a while for fame to catch up with him...years before it smacked him hard in the face. But by the time he was twenty-one, twenty-two, he didn’t like the long hours wearing heavy makeup, the bullshit from the suits, the celebrity press that wrote ridiculous stories probably planted by studio publicists. The women who came for his face and stayed for his fame.
And he’d garnered enough money to stop making films in order to actually make films. And cable series and TV movies.
Maybe people would have forgotten him and he could have gone on to live a nonnotorious life. But then came that March. Fucking March.
“You could scare small children with that expression you’re wearing,” Poppy suddenly said.
He never wanted to be around small children again. So he grunted, and turned a page he hadn’t read.
But her comment returned Poppy smack-dab to the center of his consciousness. He cast a sidelong look at her, watching the firelight play over her innocent angel face, noting her curly lashes and the tail of hair she idly played with as she pretended to enjoy her book.
Because she wasn’t turning any pages.
Time passed.
More time passed.
The hail changed to a torrential rain that was a dull roar against the roof. The walls seemed to close in, creating an intimacy that was unwelcome. Risky. Still, Ryan adjusted his position on the cushions, pushing his back deeper into the sofa’s angle so he could pretend to read and watch her at the same time. She continued to stare straight ahead, thinking...what?
Then she turned her head quickly, too quickly for him to redirect his gaze. She’d caught him. Their eyes caught, too.
The walls drew closer.
He tightened his hold on his book, though he wanted to throw it aside, then grab her to him and escape March and all its terrible cruelties in her fragrant female body. He knew what lust was, knew its power, and it was gathering in his loins, in his chest, and he wanted to give in to it. The landlady wasn’t afraid of him or immune to him, he could see that by the flush on her face, the quick flutter of the pulse in her neck.
Why the hell couldn’t they indulge?
Because after the deed was done he would still be himself, he knew. It would still be this particular month, and if he wasn’t able to get away from her in the morning—unlikely, as it appeared she’d remain stuck in his cabin—then he chanced dragging her down into hell with him.
Nothing good ever came of March.
Her gaze still not leaving his, she wet her lips with her tongue.
Ryan’s body tightened all over. He was more than half-hard, and he forced himself to look away so that he wouldn’t go full-ready. But shit, that mouth— Don’t think about her mouth.
Clearing his throat, Ryan shot up from his seat. “You want a drink? Coffee? Beer? Wine?”
“Caffeine keeps me up,” she said.
Since he was already uncomfortably up himself, he took that as a sign to go for beer or wine. God knew he needed something to take off the edge. In the kitchen, he found the opener and a bottle of red. Since she had stocked the cabinets, he didn’t suppose she’d object to drinking out of the large glass tumblers.
He placed one in her hand, careful not to touch her, not to look at her. Careful not to think about her mouth. Kissing her mouth.
Knowing he couldn’t go back to pretend-reading, and because thoughts of bed just made him jumpy, he looked about for an activity to occupy them. A box of jigsaw puzzle pieces sat on a nearby shelf. He grabbed it up.
“You like to do this sort of thing?” he asked, dumping the pieces onto the coffee table in front of the sofa.
Poppy set her book aside. “What’s it a picture of? It’s something else I found at a garage sale, but I didn’t look at it too closely.”
He sat beside her and sifted through the cardboard snippets, turning some faceup. They all seemed pinkish in color. “This isn’t the original box. Maybe it’s one of those really difficult ones that are just the puzzle, no helpful photo.”
“Those take a lot of time,” she said, starting to move pieces around, as she sipped at her wine.
“And concentration,” he added. We won’t be able to think of anything perilous.
“Look for the corners first,” Poppy advised, apparently getting into the spirit of the thing. With a triumphant sound, she held one up.
“Good for you.” Ryan found a couple of pieces already joined and set them in the center.
They both continued to work, each of them seeming to find a part of the whole that they claimed as their own. The fire crackled. The very generous pour of wine in each glass was consumed. After some minutes went by, Poppy murmured, “Oh, there is a picture. I think it’s a woman. I have some of her face.”
He glanced over, noting she’d constructed a nose, and part of one eye. “I’m still getting nothing but pink,” he said, trying to work a little faster. As diversions went, the activity was a success, and he congratulated himself on his brilliant idea.
Until...
It stopped being brilliant.
He stared down at the section of the puzzle he’d completed. “Uh...”
“Hmm?” His companion-in-puzzles fit one piece to another, tossed back the last swallow in her glass, then set it aside.
“Maybe we should quit,” Ryan suggested.
“What? No.” With a frown, she turned her head, then jerked it back when she saw what he’d wrought.
Naked tits. Overinflated, pearly pink and topped with tight, upstanding nipples.
A squeak of horror escaped Poppy’s lips, followed by a moment of stunned silence. Then she started to laugh. As she laughed harder, she put one palm over her belly, and the other over her mouth.
Need—rash,
