I make a really mean omelette.”
“Good. You can show off your skill tomorrow morning.”
“What makes you think I intend to cook tomorrow?”
“Because, if I’m making dinner tonight, it’s the least you can do to show your appreciation.”
“I think I’ll wait until I’ve tasted your cooking. I may not be so grateful.”
“Coward. You’re going to eat those words.”
“Thanks. But I’d rather eat steak. I’d like mine medium, with a few mushrooms and onions on the side.”
“What you’d like and what you’ll get may be two different things.” He stopped tinkering with the generator long enough to devour the rest of his toast. Then he downed his hot chocolate in several long gulps. “Thanks. I guess this will hold me until dinnertime.”
“I should hope so.” Ciara picked up the tray and headed for the sink. “Because that’s all you’re getting, unless you make it yourself.”
Minutes later, Jace looked up to see her heading toward the bedroom. When the door closed he turned his attention to the generator. He really needed to get this thing in good working order as quickly as possible. He was desperate to restore enough power to use his laptop computer. He’d promised to check in with his wire service as soon as he arrived in the United States. By now they’d be wondering where he was, and why he wasn’t bothering to contact them. He didn’t want his crew thinking he’d completely deserted them.
But the truth was, he suddenly couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for world news. It never seemed to change. When peace came to one area of the world, war inevitably broke out in another. He supposed the world would always be divided between men of goodwill, and men of ill will with a lust for power and domination.
He sat back to study the rusted wires in his hands. But his thoughts kept drifting to the woman in the other room. He’d told her more about himself than he’d intended. Maybe it was because she was so easy to talk to. She had a way of listening. Really listening—not just faking it. And she had a way of asking questions without being intrusive.
He grinned as he started scraping away rust before splicing several frayed wires. Next he’d be trying to convince himself that Ciara Wilde was just like any girl next door. Still, despite the movie star face and fabulous body, there was a freshness about her that was disarming.
Usually he could tell, after just a few minutes with someone, whether or not he wanted to know them better. In Ciara’s case, he sensed there was a whole lot more inside than the woman she showed to her public. Maybe, just maybe, he’d reserve judgment. It could be that his first impression had been colored by fatigue.
Or it might turn out that she was “Hollywood,” after all. In which case, he’d be only too happy to send her packing as soon as the weather allowed.
Four
In her bedroom, Ciara opened the notebook and removed a sheaf of dog-eared papers. Since she had the luxury of several hours before dinner, she’d decided to use the time constructively. She pulled a chair close to the window for light, then set several candles on the nightstand. Tucking her knees under her, she began to scan the first page, making corrections as she read.
She’d been working on this screenplay for the better part of a year. At first it had seemed an impossible dream. With her demanding schedule, how could she ever hope to find the time to craft a script that was both bright and interesting, with characters who had depth and soul? But little by little it had begun to take shape. She wrote everywhere. Between scenes on the sound stage. During long evenings on location, while the rest of the cast and crew partied. She even wrote on weekends, whenever Brendan was engaged in his own movie projects.
Now that she’d completed several drafts, she had become even more critical. She’d read enough scripts in her time to know that her characters were coming along nicely. The dialogue flowed smoothly. The setting was exactly the way she wanted it. But some of the action scenes still seemed contrived.
She paused, pen between her teeth. Action. That was it. That was what was all wrong. She’d been influenced by the sort of action Brendan faced in his movies. Sound effects and computer-generated explosions. Now she found herself thinking about the things Jace had lived through. She’d never before met anyone like Jace Lockhart, who had seen real terrorists, and had defused a live bomb. The mere thought of it had her heart pounding, her palms sweating.
How could anyone live their lives on the edge of danger each day, never knowing what they would have to face next? What would a man like Jace have inside him that would give him the courage, the nerve, to keep going?
She’d seen the televised news segments of the bloody scenes of carnage, when terrorists’ bombs had exploded in public places. The sight of the chaos, with dazed victims staggering out of harm’s way, was horrible to watch. How much worse must it be for Jace to have lived through it, when the victims weren’t strangers, but people he’d known and cared about? How could he keep everything in his life on an even keel, with such images burned indelibly into his mind?
Immersed in the feeling, she bent to the page and began to write, using Jace as her model. Only when the candles had burned too low, and the light outside the window grew too dark to make out the words on the page, did she look up to realize she’d been writing for hours. She carefully placed the pages in the notebook and set it on the night table.
She had often lost herself in her writing. But there were always so many interruptions. These few hours had been like a special gift. No pressure. No schedule. No jarring telephone or fax to mar the silence. No signal from the director to prepare for another scene, or makeup and wardrobe people milling about.
Though it had been difficult at first, she had finally adjusted to having people around her constantly, dressing her, fussing over her hair and face. Adapt or die, Jace had said. She nodded. It was true. As alien as it had seemed to her, she had managed to adapt to a life lived constantly in the public eye. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.
She stood by the window a moment, staring into the gathering shadows. What would it be like to live like this all the time? To have no distractions? No reporters pushing and shoving to be first with the latest tidbits of scandal. No one knocking on her door, telling her it was time for her voice coach, her dance instructor, her personal trainer.
As Brendan often reminded her, she couldn’t have it both ways. If she wanted the success and the glamour and the life-style, she had to accept the publicity, the hordes of reporters and the loss of privacy. But was it worth the price? Whenever she thought about leaving it all behind, she was reminded of the life she’d left. Would that be her fate? She shivered. No. She would never go back.
Money was important to her. Not just because of the things it bought: the place in Malibu, and the pretty little house in Kentucky that she’d bought for her mother. More important, because it meant security and independence—something Ciara treasured above all else. She’d watched her mother struggle with the burden of six children and a husband who found all his dreams in a bottle. They’d moved from one shabby apartment to another, often leaving in the night when her mother couldn’t scrape up enough money to pay the rent. When her father had finally left them, her mother was forced to work two jobs just to keep her family together.
Ciara clutched her hand into a fist, until she forcibly relaxed each finger. She was never going back. If
