She Thinks Her Ex Is Sexy.... Joanne Rock
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brown patch of grass.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
His nearness rattled her far more than the threat of a downpour. They were even closer than they’d been in his car. His knee grazed hers. The veins on his bicep bulged from his battle ripping out the carpet. The scent of clean male sweat mixed with the bay rum of his soap in some kind of alchemy wizardry that created an instant aphrodisiac. Or maybe that was just because thinking about sex was easier than picking through her reasons for saving the script over the monetarily valuable bridesmaid’s dress.
“It’s not my script to leave in the middle of the desert.” She dodged further argument, stuffing the treatment into her suitcase and packing the pink dress back into the larger of her suitcases, which would have to remain with the ruined automobile. “Much as I might like to line a few birdcages with some of the tripe I’ve read about my mom.”
Shannon watched his broad hands wrap around one water bottle after the next as he repacked her smaller bag, her body remembering the feel of those warm fingers stroking up her back in the night. He’d told her once that the length of his fingers made it easier to play guitar. Musician’s hands. But she’d been as impressed with the way he played her body, always able to coax a response from her no matter how tired or overwrought she felt from the daily grind of life on the set.
God, she’d almost forgotten how great those days had been. She’d spent so much time alone while he’d been on tour. Then, even after he’d come home, she had lost him to his music all over again while he’d worked on a new CD. Maybe she’d put too much emphasis on talking, since right now she could picture herself being damn content with not speaking at all and just…touching.
“You don’t like the film because it’s low budget.” Romero zipped the bag, his forearm brushing her knee. The contact made her eyes flutter and threaten to close. She loved that sensation.
“Among other things.” She forced herself to focus on what he was saying. The film script. “Even the pictures I made that went straight to DVD were at least produced through major studios. Distribution was assured.”
And she’d been assured her performance would at least be viewed by more than a few hundred people. She didn’t need huge financial rewards from her work, but she dreamed of her skills being appreciated. Her talents shared.
Another clap of thunder made her shove the large suitcase beneath the protective shelter of the overturned car. If there was any chance thieves didn’t steal her stuff, she’d rather not have it water damaged.
“In the music business, great work is usually produced by people who have more freedom to follow their vision. Maybe that script you’re afraid to read will surprise you.”
She rocked back to sit on her heels just as the first raindrop kissed her cheek.
“I’m not afraid to read it.” Liar. That’s why it had been shoved in the back of a drawer since she’d received it a few days after Romero walked out. She’d known the project was coming, and had discussed it with him briefly in the days before he left. She was surprised he even remembered, since he hadn’t commented much at the time.
He’d been in his quiet, brooding musician phase.
“Whatever.” He got to his feet and held a hand to her to help her up. “If you don’t want to take a risk on something more artistic, I understand.”
Shannon nearly fell right back on her butt. Then the heavens opened up and doused them, saving Romero from seeing the smoke pour from her ears at the insult he’d just sent her way with so little thought. He pointed east, apparently showing her the direction they’d be taking on this hike from hell to get back to civilization.
He understood if she didn’t want to make a more artistic movie? Like the rest of her pictures had been total dreck? Besides, this would be a skin flick, wouldn’t it?
Her feet moved alongside his, her toes already protesting the three-and-a-half-inch heels, which sank into the sand with every single step. He thought she didn’t have the creativity to collaborate with a screenwriter? Or did he think she didn’t have the acting chops to pull off the kinds of sexually aggressive scenes she would have to play as the notorious Baby Doll Bridget?
She was no damn prude. And she could act, by God, or she wouldn’t have been offered some theater opportunities in New York, even if they were a little removed from Broadway’s mainstream.
“You think I can’t do something artsy? Assuming I’d have the creative freedom to add some depth to this script?” She stopped in her tracks, unable to stew silently the way he could.
Rain ran in rivulets down his face as he turned to look back at her, the drops chasing each other along the stark angles of his chiseled cheekbones.
“It’s not that—”
“Then you think it’s too sexy for me.”
He was silent for a beat too long.
She could hardly believe it, after she’d fought for so many years to prove she wasn’t her mother, and no one in the industry had bought it. Apparently Romero bought it.
“You’ve always said you didn’t want to be remembered for your cup size.” He reached for her, smoothing aside a section of hair the rain had plastered to her forehead. “Those are your words, not mine.”
Yeah, and they were still totally true. So why was she up in arms about him thinking she couldn’t play the kind of role some would believe she’d been born to play? But then, she’d always been the feeler, reacting on instinct, while Romero was the thinker. Maybe he had a point. And she would have some input into a film about her mom? She hadn’t even considered that, yet it could be a chance to add some substance to the popular vision of her mother.
But that realization didn’t stop her from being just a smidge miffed that he thought she couldn’t carry off the role of a screen siren.
“Then maybe I need a little more practice being sexy.” A flash of indignation had her stepping out of his reach to peel off her satin blazer. The slick fabric was soaked anyhow. Or maybe she was just looking for a way to make Romero suffer the way she suffered around him.
Shannon let the jacket drop on the ground, where she stood and faced the rainstorm in her lavender-colored tank top. Let him feast his eyes on that for a little while and tell her she wasn’t sexy enough.
HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN able to look away if it hadn’t been for the rhinestone bra strap.
He’d been semiprepared for the unveiling of those incredible breasts that she’d inherited directly from her bombshell mother. Shannon had one of those bodies that made men go dumb with sex thoughts—it was just an immutable law of nature. She often wore jackets and blazers or the occasional sweater to deflect the inevitable head-turning stares her body brought her way, so Romero had forced himself not to look south of her chin when her little satin jacket came off.
But damned if the glitter of a cheeky bra strap didn’t catch his eye. It peeked out from under the cotton tank top now molded to her skin, the shimmering stones wrapping around her shoulder and disappearing under the top just above the start of a bra cup. And, yeah, he could see that, too, since her tank top had turned utterly transparent with the rain.
With an effort he raised his eyes, since he’d never been the type to ogle a woman. He’d been brought up better than that, for one thing. His family may have driven him crazy with the constant bickering, but at least they’d instilled good manners. Plus, he’d been solicited by enough beautiful women over the course of his lifetime that he considered himself fairly immune to something as fleeting as looks. But Shannon had always had a unique effect on him. He’d wanted her for reasons that included sex, yet went above and beyond.
When he met her gaze, her blue eyes flashed with a laser intensity he could only describe as insolent. She’d pushed him and pushed him to fight with her—for the past few hours, three months ago, all freaking year. And now she wanted to taunt him with something he craved