Hot Set, page 11
At the end of the hallway, two crossed swords hang over a doorway. Close up, I see they are wood carvings covered in metallic paint.
“This must be the place.” I swing open the door to face racks of swords, shields, maces, and knives. If we’re ever under attack, I know where to come. The room is lit by the scant glow of a single overhead light.
“Hello?”
I don’t know a specific Donal Cam sword from a food processor. On one rolling rack, character names are written on strips of tape above the weapons.
“Bowstring. Rory. O’Connor Clansman.” No Donal Cam.
Off to the side, there’s a deserted, glassed-in office lit only by the glow of a bouncing glass of Guinness screen saver on a single computer. I’ll have to scan the racks until I find a Donal Cam sword. From my research, I got the gist of what it looks like. Hopefully, any gnarly weapon capable of lopping off a head will do tonight for Collin and Danna.
Moving down the center aisle, I catch sight of a rack of swords that look as tall as I am. Those Celtic chieftains didn’t mess around. Warding off other clans or Viking invaders wasn’t a friendly game of badminton.
I find a sword most like the ones I put in the collage for the writers and close my fingers around the hilt. When I try to lift it, I nearly lose my balance the blasted thing is so heavy. It drops back into its berth with a clank.
“There’s never a burly Celt around when you need one.”
When the clang dies away, a muffled sound of metal on metal replaces it. My first thought is epic ghost battle, two dead warriors using props to settle ancient feuds. Not so. The clanks are of this world and seem to be coming from behind a line of racks along the back wall of the armory.
“Grand,” I say, embracing Irish verbiage and heading toward the sound. Hopefully, someone is here to point me toward a Donal Cam steel special.
As I near a door in the far corner of the armory, the sounds of battle increase. Grunts and curses join the heavy metal harmony. I open the door a crack to peek and not disturb.
The room is a massive gym with mats covering most of the floor. There are treadmills and fitness machines along one wall next to a collection of free weights and kettlebells. The space looks like an Olympic training center. An epic battle does rage in the center of the room. Based on the intensity of the interplay and the combatants, I could be watching Hercules and Zeus duking it out with swords for domination of the universe. Except I know Hercules. The warrior with hair of spun gold dancing wildly above broad shoulders strong enough to lift a mastodon is Jack. The layer of sweat coating his bare upper body catches the overhead lights, setting him aglow. Muscles in his forearms flex like cords of thick vines as he flows through his moves.
“Stop locking your elbow,” barks the other collection of muscle in the room. The scene is almost comical. The top of Jack’s costume is draped over his belt, leaving him bare-chested. It flaps and billows as he pivots and lunges. His opponent wears ordinary gray sweats.
Jack repeats the same series of movements. He pants and gasps for breath but doesn’t let up.
“Better, better,” says the guy I assume is either Jack’s trainer or the fight coordinator.
Jack downs a bottle of water. “Let’s go again. Ten times in a row and then I’ll own it.”
My chest clenches as Jack speaks the same words I said to him that first day we met when I de-glitched his backswing and again last night at the driving range.
The trainer points his sword at Jack. “Once more will do for tonight. I’ll not have you straining muscles. You’ve got a taxing week coming with the clan battle scene.”
“Twice.”
The trainer shakes his head. “Everything’s a bargain with you.”
So, I’m not the only one to be on the receiving end of pressure from Jack O’Leary.
Jack grins and takes his opening position. The choreography is beautiful. These two magnificent specimens of the human form spin and collide only to counter one another like reflections in a mirror. After a final series of brutal blows that creates a deafening shriek of steel, they fade into stillness.
Jack faces away from me. The muscles of his back ripple as he stretches his arms and rolls his shoulders. I want to run across the room and draw my fingers over every one of them. Touch them as steel softens back into human flesh.
“We’ve company.” The fight coordinator winks at me. “I don’t suppose I’m lucky enough to assume you’d be looking for me.”
Jack glances over his shoulder, eyes widening when he sees who’s come a callin’.
I’m so flustered at being caught I blurt, “I’m not looking for him.” My tone is harsh, bordering on offended that I could possibly be looking for Jack O’Leary. Even though I’m trying to convince myself I can’t be, I’m pissed at the absolute silence following his slumber party with Niks last night.
Instead of a smile, Jack looks pained.
“The writers sent me to get one of Donal Cam’s swords.” I walk across the mats, arm outstretched. “I’m Gillian, the new writer’s assistant.”
The man moves the sword to his left hand and wipes the right one on his sweats before taking mine. “I’m Jimmy. You’re very welcome here to my training center.” He gestures toward Jack. “Have you met this feller?”
Jack’s face is neutral.
I smile at Jack. “Several times. Nice to run into you again, Jack. How’s your golf swing coming?”
Neutral perks up. It occurs to me that my less-than-warm sign-off to our phone call last night may be the culprit of his inattention. He’s probably trying to read me as hard as I’m trying to read him.
Jimmy pops his sword into a weapons rack. “Jack’s the man you need to see about a Donal Cam sword. I’m off.” He wipes his face with a towel and shrugs into a Chieftain’s Son hoodie. I’ve got to get one of those.
“If I’m late to take the wife out tonight, I won’t hear the end of it.” The trainer winks and picks up his duffle bag. “Enjoy your weekend.” He points a finger at Jack. “And I don’t mean overdoing your workouts over the next two days. We’ve got a bastard of a schedule coming up.”
Jack salutes him. “Aye, aye, captain.”
Jimmy fans an arm across the room. “After the sword business, close down for me, will you?”
“Yep,” says Jack. We both watch Jimmy walk through the door.
Heat radiates off Jack’s body as he takes a step closer to me. “Hi.”
I raise my eyes to his. “Hello.”
He presses his lips together, causing their natural blush color to fade. “Gilly, I’m so sorry about last night.”
The apology slices into me, an echo of the way Treat would approach after he’d showered attention on this female or that for the sake of the company. This is my moment to back away. Jack and I have shared nothing more than a few kisses and one or two steps toward something more. Calling a halt to the possibility of us now will prevent any emotional bruising.
I gather up my nerve and a lungful of oxygen. “Maybe last night was a sign. I get that you and Niks are on a crazy ride together and probably need each other to stay sane. Shared experience and all.”
Saying the words aloud edges me closer to accepting their validity. As attracted as I am to Jack, we make much less sense than Niks and him do.
Without preamble, he lifts me off my feet and then sits me onto a stack of mats. He takes my hands in his. “I panicked. Meg’s do-this and don’t-do-that’s are still new to me. I got boggled.” He twirls fingers around his temples. “I figured dumping Niks on my couch instead of exposing her drunken stumble back to the hotel was the safest thing to do.”
His expression is pathetic. He really is boggled.
Jack takes my face in those hands that feel like a blanket warmed in front of a hearth fire. “She didn’t stay, Gilly. I finally got a hold of Marisa to pick her up.”
“Marisa?”
A flash of panic crosses Jack’s face. Over what? Does he think I don’t believe him?
His skin heats up even more. “Niks’s assistant. Lives at the hotel with her.”
I ease his fingers from my face but keep ahold of them. Despite the self-talk I’ve attempted, Jack’s touch begins to thaw my reservations about us. “Have you considered that Niks planned last night, Jack? Showing up at the golf course, dinner. You can’t tell me you miss the fact she barely takes her eyes off you when you’re in the same room.”
His fingers tighten on mine, sending a thrill through me. Why is it so blasted hard to resist this man?
“She never misses an opportunity to be physical with you.” A montage of Treat and the women he’s wooed to be part of Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear skips through my memory. I refused to admit that touches, arms around waists, and bodies pressed close for whispers were indicators of Treat being unfaithful. He convinced me that my jealousy was misplaced, but then came Lanie. Now, when I play back Treat’s interaction with all those women, I see how naïve I was. Lanie was far from the first.
Jack stills and then draws a long, deep breath. “Being an actor is to be physical. It comes with the territory.”
I slide my hands free and scoot away to look him in the eye. “And that territory opens up multiple interpretations.”
Jack huffs out a breath. “You expect me to keep my hands tied behind my back? That’ll paint me as a standoffish prick.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He closes his eyes for a long moment. “If I worry I’ve upset you every time I toss an arm around Niks’s—or any other female in the cast’s—shoulder, I’ll go mad. You have to accept that a certain level of familiarity and touching is part of the world I live in.”
“I do, and there’s an easy fix to eliminate this issue. Friendship. You won’t have to check yourself or worry about upsetting me.”
His hands ball into fists. Veins stand out on his forearms. “I am fully capable of separating my private life from my professional one. You’re the one that seems to have trouble handling things that are part of the game.”
I spring to my feet. “Maybe I choose not to step into a situation where I’d have to constantly question that separation.”
His hands dart out, catching me and spinning me back toward him. “I don’t know how to say this more plainly. I have no romantic interest in Niks. Donal Cam will ache for Nieve, but Jack has nothing inside for that woman apart from whatever bond we need to play at to make the world believe we’re soulmates. It’s an illusion.”
Our eyes remain locked as he continues. “I have no reason not to tell you the truth and every reason to be honest with you.” He scratches his neck under his hair. “Since I’ve given you no cause not to trust me, how about taking a stab at it?”
I step out of his grip and wave my hands to encompass as much space as possible. My voice comes out breathy. “You’re asking more of me than a little bit of trust.”
“I know I am, but I have to. Accepting me is accepting the worlds I step into, the restrictions Meg and True Time slap on my business, and the circus that’ll be likely following me for years.” He crosses his arms and frowns. “I’m not going to apologize for where my life is going. I’ve worked for it, and I want it. If you must walk away, you must.”
“And you won’t try to stop me?”
One side of his mouth hitches up and his arms drop to his sides. “I didn’t agree to that.” A crease forms between his eyebrows. “I’m going to say something that may chase you away faster, but with you, my heart is beginning to override my head.” He takes one step closer to me, then another.
Jack lays his reality at my feet. No apologies about it. “This is who and what I am, Gillian.” He’s an actor crossing the line to star. There are professional obligations in his life that will twist my guts. This is his admission he won’t back down from the demands of his work or his image to spare my feelings.
Can I deal with that?
Self-preservation and rationality dig a finger into my shoulder and point to the exit door. Jack stands motionless, fixating on my face. When I don’t retreat, his hands graze my arms.
“If what I’m saying is too much a burden for you, I’ll stop. If I can. I’m a driven man, Gilly, and I see that in you as well. The first day I watched your beautiful golf swing, I wanted to fall to my knees. It was the blow of a sword, but a sword of silk, crackling and whipping in a windstorm. It was a poem, a song. The swing and you were one.” He drops his hands to my hips, pulling me closer. “I wanted so badly to connect with you. God, I nearly roared your name and ran to you right there on the tee.”
How can this man I’ve only known a handful of days make me feel more valued, more desired than Treat did in two years of intimacy? It’s a feeling I’m loathe to let go of. If I don’t take even a small chance to see where connecting with Jack leads, am I cheating myself out of a good thing I deserve?
For the love of God, why am I acting like this is a do-or-die decision? All those years of attempting to define the trajectory of my relationship with Treat have really screwed up my perspective on men. This gorgeous man wants to date me, and judging from the way he kisses, share some damn fine sex. Screw depravation. Taking a few steps further with Jack O’Leary doesn’t seal my fate. Right now, we’re nobody’s business but our own.
I slide my hands slowly over his shoulders, reveling in the contour of every muscle until my hands meet behind his neck. My objections to being with him fade more and more every minute we’re together.
My voice is quiet as I confess. “That night in the pub… It was so easy with you. So right. I couldn’t wrap my head around how attracted I was to you so fast, then you kissed me.”
“I had to.” His breath is hot and moist against my neck. “Like I have to now, if you’re not walking through that door.”
“I don’t see a door.”
He threads fingers into my hair, tilting my head back so his mouth has a straight shot to mine. His lips claim me, beginning in a slow rhythm as we savor the feel of moving together. The kiss ignites a steady burn that travels down my throat to my heart, inciting it to beat faster and faster until it’s racing so quickly I’m sure Jack can feel it against his rock wall of a chest.
Jack’s tongue slides over mine, tasting, teasing. He takes my bottom lip in his teeth, tugging gently. I rake my fingertips through the tight auburn curls of hair on his chest until I hit a ridge that makes me pull away from him and stare. A long scar stretches diagonally from the hollow between his pecs nearly to his left hip. I trace the length of it.
“My God, Jack. Where did you get this?”
He pokes a fingernail under the rounded top of the scar and peels it away from his skin. “From Lou in makeup.” In one quick motion, he yanks off the long strip that looks like a skinny worm, hissing as it tugs his chest hair. He tosses the rubbery scar over his shoulder.
I tap along the slight pink line the fake scar leaves on his skin, taking a detour to circle his nipple. It hardens beneath my touch.
Jack moans and wraps his arms around my back, sealing my body to his until I can barely breathe.
He guides me to lie on the mat. His hand works its way across my knee and up my thigh while he stretches out on his side next to me. One finger slips under the elastic of my panties, and he explores the crease between my leg and body. A noise between a rumble and purr escapes my lips.
Jack shifts to hover above me. “I believe you mentioned the need of Donal Cam’s sword?” He’s pressed so close, even through layers of costume, I know exactly where that sword is.
Oh, Jeez. The sword!
I pet the soft, red-gold down covering his arm, a contrast to the bristles on his chest. When I reach his hand, I reluctantly move it out from under my skirt. “They’re waiting for me in the writer’s room.”
He drops his head against my collarbone, panting harder than when he sparred with Jimmy. “Now?”
“They need your sword.”
He lifts his head, flashing me a crazy hot, Wicked Jack smile. “Are they the only ones?”
I pull him down for a lingering kiss. “Give me your silver sword.”
He rolls onto his back. “Are you trying to make me burst?” His hand snakes between my back and the mat. “I’ll give it to you on one condition.”
“Which is?” I sit up and straighten my clothes.
He gently cups my ass. “Come home with me tonight.”
My heartbeat kicks up even higher. Things with Jack are going so fast, good judgement doesn’t stand a chance to catch up. “I don’t know how late I’m going to be here with the writers.” As the energy we stirred up with our kisses slowly dissipates, his body slumps deeper into the mat. He’s exhausted. Even though Jack’s clearly in enviable shape, a long day of shooting and then his workout with Jimmy takes its toll. “And you looked whipped.”
He sits up beside me, kissing a path from the hollow in my throat to the top button of my blouse. “Never too whipped for—”
I reclaim the button he attempts to undo with his teeth and nudge him away. “You need to go home and collapse.”
“Only if you promise to spend the day with me tomorrow. I’ll take you round the Ring of Kerry.”
“What if someone sees us?”
“We’ll steer clear of tour buses and popular spots. I want to share places dear to my heart, so you’ll know me better through them.” His eyes glaze over for a moment. I know he’s envisioning things I have yet to discover. “I can be careful, Gilly. So can you. As I said, we’ll figure this out.” He fans his finger between the two of us.
“This could be a colossal mistake.”
“Could it?”
“You know it could.” I brush long, honey-colored strands off his face.
He closes his eyes while I stroke. When I stop, his expression turns serious. “We’re two smart people who don’t back down from a challenge. Let’s give us a go.”
Jack speaks the language of “we”, of “us”—something Treat never did. This man is not asking me to deceive or pretend not to exist. In building too high a wall to protect my emotions, I may deprive myself of potential joy with Jack. He’s asking me to have a say in how we move forward. I won’t let being with Jack turn into a shadow world like my life with Treat.
