Read Online Once in a Blue Moon by Kristin James - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristin James
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get you for this! Whatever it takes, I’ll get you!”
* * *
Isabelle curled up in the chair in her dressing room, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. She laid her cheek against one knee and closed her eyes. She wished she could close her mind, as well, but that kept playing over the earlier scene with Michael. Her cheeks flushed again, just thinking of it. He had known—he had to have known—how quickly and deeply she had responded to his kiss. She had had no perspective, no distance, at all. She had reacted as if Michael were kissing her, not Curtis kissing Jessica. He could not have mistaken the rush of heat throughout her body or the eager way her mouth had pressed back against his. He knew that she had wanted him, as she had years before. No doubt he thought that she would be just as easy pickings for him as she had been then—provided he wanted to take her.
She wondered if the director and crew had recognized the reality of the desire, too. She prayed they weren’t all snickering behind her back at the way she had practically melted when Michael kissed her. She could only hope that they would simply assume that it was one of Jessica’s typical overheated scenes. The character had, after all, been married three times—twice to the same man—and had several affairs. Sex was Jessica’s usual weapon. If she was lucky, they wouldn’t notice the difference between the fake kisses, choreographed by her and the other actor, that were normal for Jessica’s love scenes, and the spontaneous combustion that had ignited today. She hated to think of the jokes that she would be subjected to if they had picked up on the difference.
There was a knock on the door, and Isabelle called listlessly, “Come in.”
The door opened, and Isabelle, her head down on her knees and her face turned from the door, gestured vaguely toward the opposite wall. “It’s hanging up over there.”
“I’m not Wardrobe,” a man’s voice answered.
Isabelle’s head snapped up and she stared in horror. “Michael!” She glanced down instinctively at herself. She was wearing only an old front-closing robe she often wore between changes or in Makeup. Three of the buttons were missing, and it was short enough that much of her legs were exposed—especially sitting as she was. Quickly she put her legs down and tugged the robe into place around them.
“What are you doing here?” she asked exasperatedly.
“Thank you. Nice to see you, too,” he replied sarcastically.
“Well? It isn’t exactly as if we’re friends.”
“What are we, then, exactly? I have to tell you, I got a little confused today on the set.”
Isabelle’s cheeks flooded with red and she looked away.
“The day I first came to the show, and I tried to talk to you, you acted like I had crawled out from under a rock,” he went on. “I figured, okay, if that’s the way you wanted it, that’s the way I’d play it. I mean, I know you have a right to resent me....”
“Resent you!” Isabelle cast him a scornful glance. “Despise is more like it.”
He looked at her evenly for a moment, then said, “All right. Despise me, then. No doubt I deserve that. Anyway, I stayed away from you, didn’t even talk to you off the set because I thought it was what you wanted. Then, today...”
“Today what?” Isabelle faced him, brazening it out.
“You know what. When I kissed you, it was like it was before with us. It was all I could do to stop and say my lines. All I wanted to do was keep kissing you.”
Isabelle turned away, and Michael reached out and grasped her shoulder, turning her back. He loomed above her, his eyes boring into hers.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it, too,” he went on in a low voice.
“Don’t be absurd,” Isabelle replied breathlessly. “I was acting! We were supposed to kiss, so I kissed you the way my character would. That’s all.”
“You expect me to believe that? You mean to tell me you kiss
* * *
Isabelle curled up in the chair in her dressing room, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. She laid her cheek against one knee and closed her eyes. She wished she could close her mind, as well, but that kept playing over the earlier scene with Michael. Her cheeks flushed again, just thinking of it. He had known—he had to have known—how quickly and deeply she had responded to his kiss. She had had no perspective, no distance, at all. She had reacted as if Michael were kissing her, not Curtis kissing Jessica. He could not have mistaken the rush of heat throughout her body or the eager way her mouth had pressed back against his. He knew that she had wanted him, as she had years before. No doubt he thought that she would be just as easy pickings for him as she had been then—provided he wanted to take her.
She wondered if the director and crew had recognized the reality of the desire, too. She prayed they weren’t all snickering behind her back at the way she had practically melted when Michael kissed her. She could only hope that they would simply assume that it was one of Jessica’s typical overheated scenes. The character had, after all, been married three times—twice to the same man—and had several affairs. Sex was Jessica’s usual weapon. If she was lucky, they wouldn’t notice the difference between the fake kisses, choreographed by her and the other actor, that were normal for Jessica’s love scenes, and the spontaneous combustion that had ignited today. She hated to think of the jokes that she would be subjected to if they had picked up on the difference.
There was a knock on the door, and Isabelle called listlessly, “Come in.”
The door opened, and Isabelle, her head down on her knees and her face turned from the door, gestured vaguely toward the opposite wall. “It’s hanging up over there.”
“I’m not Wardrobe,” a man’s voice answered.
Isabelle’s head snapped up and she stared in horror. “Michael!” She glanced down instinctively at herself. She was wearing only an old front-closing robe she often wore between changes or in Makeup. Three of the buttons were missing, and it was short enough that much of her legs were exposed—especially sitting as she was. Quickly she put her legs down and tugged the robe into place around them.
“What are you doing here?” she asked exasperatedly.
“Thank you. Nice to see you, too,” he replied sarcastically.
“Well? It isn’t exactly as if we’re friends.”
“What are we, then, exactly? I have to tell you, I got a little confused today on the set.”
Isabelle’s cheeks flooded with red and she looked away.
“The day I first came to the show, and I tried to talk to you, you acted like I had crawled out from under a rock,” he went on. “I figured, okay, if that’s the way you wanted it, that’s the way I’d play it. I mean, I know you have a right to resent me....”
“Resent you!” Isabelle cast him a scornful glance. “Despise is more like it.”
He looked at her evenly for a moment, then said, “All right. Despise me, then. No doubt I deserve that. Anyway, I stayed away from you, didn’t even talk to you off the set because I thought it was what you wanted. Then, today...”
“Today what?” Isabelle faced him, brazening it out.
“You know what. When I kissed you, it was like it was before with us. It was all I could do to stop and say my lines. All I wanted to do was keep kissing you.”
Isabelle turned away, and Michael reached out and grasped her shoulder, turning her back. He loomed above her, his eyes boring into hers.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it, too,” he went on in a low voice.
“Don’t be absurd,” Isabelle replied breathlessly. “I was acting! We were supposed to kiss, so I kissed you the way my character would. That’s all.”
“You expect me to believe that? You mean to tell me you kiss
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