happened in that first picture—the steers turned and headed right for us."
"Michelle says you saved her life that day. You picked her up and carried her to safety."
Zack tipped his chin down and grinned. "I had to,"
he joked. "I was running like hell for the rocks, and the steers were right behind me. Michelle was in my path. I picked her up to get her out of my way."
"Don't be so modest. She said she was running for her life and screaming for someone to help her."
"So was I," he teased. Sobering, he added, "We were both kids back then. It seems like a hundred years ago."
She shifted onto her side and stretched out beside him, her finger tracing an enticing path from his shoulder to his navel, then stopping. "Where are you really from? And please do not give me all that studio bullshit about growing up on your own and riding in the rodeo circuit and hanging around with motorcycle gangs."
Zack's candid mood did not extend to discussing his past. He had never done so before, nor would he ever. When he was eighteen and the studio publicity department wanted to know about that, he'd coolly told them to invent one for him, which they had. His real past was dead, and the discussion of it was off limits. His evasive tone made that emphatically clear. "I'm not from anyplace special."
"But you're no vagabond kid who grew up without knowing which fork to use, that much I do know,"
28
she persisted. "Tommy Newton told me that even when you were eighteen, you already had a lot of class, a lot of 'social polish,' he called it. That's all he knows about you, and he's worked with you on several films. None of the women who've worked with you know anything either. Glenn Close and Goldie Hawn, Lauren Hutton and Meryl Streep—
they all say you're wonderful to work with, but you keep your private life to yourself. I know, because I've asked them."
Zack made no attempt to hide his displeasure. "If you think you're flattering me with all your curiosity, you're wrong."
"I can't help it," she laughed, pressing a kiss to his jaw, "You're every woman's fantasy lover, Mr.
Benedict, and you're also Hollywood's mystery man.
It's a well-known fact that none of the women who've preceded me in this bed of yours have gotten you to do any talking about anything really personal. Since I happen to be in this bed with you, and since you've talked to me tonight about a lot of things that are personal, I figure I'm either catching you at a weak moment, or that … just maybe … you like me better than the others. Either way, I have to try to discover something about you that no other woman has found out. It's my feminine pride that's at stake here, you understand."
Her jaunty bluntness reduced Zack's annoyance to exasperated amusement. "If you want me to keep liking you better than the others," he said half-seriously, "then stop prying and talk about something more
pleasant."
"Pleasant…" She draped herself across his chest and smiled teasingly into his eyes as she threaded her fingers through the mat of hair on his chest. Based on her body language, Zack expected her to say something suggestive, but the topic she chose startled a surprised chuckle from him: "Let's see … I know
you hate horses, but you like motorcycles and fast cars. Why?"
"Because," he teased, threading his fingers through hers, "they do not gather into herds with their friends when you leave them parked and then try to run you down when you turn your back. They go where you point them."
"Zack," she whispered, lowering her mouth to his,
"Motorcycles aren't the only things that go where you
point them. I do, too."
Zack knew exactly what she meant. He pointed. She moved lower and bent her head.
* * *
The next morning, she cooked him breakfast. "I'd like to make one more picture—a big one—to prove to the world I can really act," she said while she popped English muffins into the oven.
Sated and relaxed, Zack watched her moving around his kitchen in pleated
"Michelle says you saved her life that day. You picked her up and carried her to safety."
Zack tipped his chin down and grinned. "I had to,"
he joked. "I was running like hell for the rocks, and the steers were right behind me. Michelle was in my path. I picked her up to get her out of my way."
"Don't be so modest. She said she was running for her life and screaming for someone to help her."
"So was I," he teased. Sobering, he added, "We were both kids back then. It seems like a hundred years ago."
She shifted onto her side and stretched out beside him, her finger tracing an enticing path from his shoulder to his navel, then stopping. "Where are you really from? And please do not give me all that studio bullshit about growing up on your own and riding in the rodeo circuit and hanging around with motorcycle gangs."
Zack's candid mood did not extend to discussing his past. He had never done so before, nor would he ever. When he was eighteen and the studio publicity department wanted to know about that, he'd coolly told them to invent one for him, which they had. His real past was dead, and the discussion of it was off limits. His evasive tone made that emphatically clear. "I'm not from anyplace special."
"But you're no vagabond kid who grew up without knowing which fork to use, that much I do know,"
28
she persisted. "Tommy Newton told me that even when you were eighteen, you already had a lot of class, a lot of 'social polish,' he called it. That's all he knows about you, and he's worked with you on several films. None of the women who've worked with you know anything either. Glenn Close and Goldie Hawn, Lauren Hutton and Meryl Streep—
they all say you're wonderful to work with, but you keep your private life to yourself. I know, because I've asked them."
Zack made no attempt to hide his displeasure. "If you think you're flattering me with all your curiosity, you're wrong."
"I can't help it," she laughed, pressing a kiss to his jaw, "You're every woman's fantasy lover, Mr.
Benedict, and you're also Hollywood's mystery man.
It's a well-known fact that none of the women who've preceded me in this bed of yours have gotten you to do any talking about anything really personal. Since I happen to be in this bed with you, and since you've talked to me tonight about a lot of things that are personal, I figure I'm either catching you at a weak moment, or that … just maybe … you like me better than the others. Either way, I have to try to discover something about you that no other woman has found out. It's my feminine pride that's at stake here, you understand."
Her jaunty bluntness reduced Zack's annoyance to exasperated amusement. "If you want me to keep liking you better than the others," he said half-seriously, "then stop prying and talk about something more
pleasant."
"Pleasant…" She draped herself across his chest and smiled teasingly into his eyes as she threaded her fingers through the mat of hair on his chest. Based on her body language, Zack expected her to say something suggestive, but the topic she chose startled a surprised chuckle from him: "Let's see … I know
you hate horses, but you like motorcycles and fast cars. Why?"
"Because," he teased, threading his fingers through hers, "they do not gather into herds with their friends when you leave them parked and then try to run you down when you turn your back. They go where you point them."
"Zack," she whispered, lowering her mouth to his,
"Motorcycles aren't the only things that go where you
point them. I do, too."
Zack knew exactly what she meant. He pointed. She moved lower and bent her head.
* * *
The next morning, she cooked him breakfast. "I'd like to make one more picture—a big one—to prove to the world I can really act," she said while she popped English muffins into the oven.
Sated and relaxed, Zack watched her moving around his kitchen in pleated
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