Lovers and Liars (54 page)

“V
ince, I know it’s late and you’ve finished for the day, but would you mind putting up a picture for me?”

His crew was already in their cars, heading out. Vince paused by the side of his truck, drowning in Shanna Jacobsen’s gray eyes—eyes the color of a winter sea, and just as fathomless. She smiled and he smiled back, nodding.

He followed her back to the house. She was wearing short shorts and he could see the bottoms of her perfect buttocks. His pants grew tight. She was not wearing a bra under the thin cotton tank top—that he had noticed several hours before, when she had appeared to watch them work for a few minutes. She had small, young, pointy breasts. Her nipples had been hard, and he had tried not to look, unsuccessfully. Now he watched her swinging ass and wondered how he was going to manage not to blush when she noticed he had an interested erection.

Of course, there was always the possibility that she wanted to seduce him.

But he didn’t think so. He had met Mr. Jacobsen several times. He was forty or so and very attractive—tanned,
fit, polished, handsome. Shanna wasn’t like the other Hollywood wives who had wanted his ass, what with their fat or bald or bizarre husbands. But he grew very hopeful when she started up a huge curving staircase and threw a casual glance over her shoulder, gray eyes seeming soft and amused.

Her bottom swung inches from his face once he got two steps behind her.

He wasn’t sure he had ever seen such tight shorts. They were riding high into the crack between her cheeks.

They walked down a hall plastered with modern art—prints, paintings, and sculptures—and then she swung open a door and they stepped into what was clearly the master suite.

He’d seen “California kings” before, but this bed had to be a king and a half.

“The picture goes on that wall,” she said, her voice soft and lilting, with a touch of humor. He quickly looked away from the bed. The painting was somewhat abstract, but there was no mistaking the subject—two nude women, done in bold lines, reclining in each other’s arms, and a nude man, very erect. A tangle of linear but living bodies.

“Uh, sure,” he managed, sweating.

He noticed her crotch. The shorts looked uncomfortable. He could see how her cunt lips strained against the white fabric, clearly and suggestively outlined. “I need to get some picture hooks,” he said.

“Good idea,” Shanna said, moving forward—to him. She stopped a foot away, smiled into his eyes. Carelessly and, yes, with amusement, she reached out one long, manicured finger. The nail was long and coral, and with it she traced his prick from the tip to its root. Vince emitted a half groan.

She looked up. “But I have a better idea.”

106

“I
want to talk to you,” Nancy said.

At her mother’s tone Belinda paused. They were in the kitchen; Belinda had been making coffee. “Want a cup, Nancy?”

“No.”

Belinda turned to face her mother squarely. She didn’t have to be a mind reader to know exactly what was on her mind. “Fire away.”

“This isn’t funny, Belinda.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.”

“He was here the other night.”

“I’m a big girl, Mom.”

“He spent the night.”

“It’s not your business.”

“Belinda! I’m trying to protect you! Just how involved are you with him? It wasn’t the first time—was it?”

“No,” she said, her jaw tensed. She was angry. “It wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. He’s too good to pass up, Mom. Oh, but I forgot—you know that already!”

Nancy paled, then flushed angrily. “Do you know what your father would do if he knew the two of you were seeing each other?”

Belinda was very attentive now. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

Nancy laughed. A short and nervous laugh. “Well, he’d certainly do something!”

“Probably shoot Ford,” Belinda murmured, something inside her twisting cruelly with dread. “Are you going to go running to Abe, Mom?”

“I’m only doing what I think is best for you.”

“Are you going to tell Abe?”

Nancy hesitated. “No. Belinda, you can end this now, before it goes too far.”

She almost said, It’s already gone too far. But she bit off the words. “Nancy, I don’t appreciate you intruding into my private life.”

“I’m only trying to protect you,” Nancy said. “I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I made. Don’t be a fool, Belinda.”

“I think you’ve said enough.” Belinda was furious. “If you’re my guest, you should respect my privacy.”

“Your guest? I only came to take care of you! But you seem to be well on the road to recovery, so I think I’ll go back to L.A.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Nancy turned angrily, but at the door she paused. “I really have only your best interests at heart.”

Belinda watched Nancy leave. She knew her mother was telling the truth—she believed Jack would use her and hurt her. But how many times did she have to hear this tune?

She sat down.

She couldn’t tell Jack about their child, and even if she could and did, she had no idea how he’d feel. She guessed he wouldn’t care much. She was certain he wouldn’t believe it was his.

And Nancy? Her mother would be horrified.

She thought about Abe. She was finally giving him his grandchild and heir. She knew that Abe had known about Nancy and Jack’s affair—she had found that out from her mother the night of Ted Majoriis’s party. Nancy had said he’d never forgiven her, and that sounded like Abe … Belinda bit her lip. She had not contemplated it before, but suddenly she knew her father wouldn’t be thrilled that his grandchild and heir was the son or daughter of the man who had cuckolded him. But just how adverse would Abe’s reaction be?

I’ll just keep it a secret, she thought grimly. Oh, God, how had this entire tangled web happened? She realized her hand was protectively splayed on her abdomen, and she had
to smile. Another first. She was about to become a single mother, something no one would have ever predicted regarding her. And she wanted this baby. Fiercely.

Belinda’s doorbell rang.

Annoyed, she strode to the hallway and opened the door.

“Hi,” Jack said.

Every fiber of her being went tense. Even her heart for one moment; then it pounded madly. “Hello, Jack,” she said as evenly as she could.

“Can I come in?”

She hesitated, then stepped aside and let him walk past her. She followed his gaze to her pile of luggage. His face was without expression as he walked farther into her house. He paused, staring out at the surf and sails, then turned to face her. His gaze swept briefly over her tight denim jeans, the skintight black turtleneck. Belinda folded her arms. She wanted an apology but didn’t expect one. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry I flew off the handle.”

Their gazes met and held. She felt a shiver of anticipation and pleasure. Every time she saw him she marveled anew at how attracted she was to this man. And not just physically. If, she supposed, he stayed away for a few years, she would probably be able to escape his dangerous pull. “Apology accepted,” she said, letting her arms drop to her sides. “We had such a wonderful night,” she heard herself saying, unable to stop. “It was a shame it had to end the way it did.”

“You’re the one who jumped into my bed while planning on sharing Gordon’s.”

“Don’t you dare go judging me—you, Mr. Pussyman of the century! And I didn’t jump into your bed—you seduced me!”

His fists clenched, but he controlled himself—admirably, she thought. He looked at her luggage, then exploded into three hard, swift strides that carried him to her, his hands like vises on her shoulders.
“Don’t go,”
he said urgently.

She looked at him, feeling like a liar, which she was, if silence could be a lie.

“Don’t go,” he said, his tone becoming less urgent, more seductive. His face came closer; his breath was warm and sweet. She looked into leaf-green eyes and felt incapable of denying him anything. When his mouth came closer she closed her eyes, and the touch of his lips was soft, a baby’s breath. He plied his mouth a little harder, and she clung to him.

He pulled away to cup her face in large, calloused hands. “You’re not going,” he said huskily.

“No,” she breathed.

“You’re going to take your stuff and put it in my car,” he said.

“Okay.”

“You and me—we’re spending the whole damn weekend together.”

“All right.”

He suddenly smiled, and so did she. He pulled her closer and she came willingly, burying her face in his shoulder. So warm, so hard, so male, so … Jack.

She wondered if she should tell him she had canceled her plans with Adam that morning.

She wondered if she dared to tell him everything.

107

T
he weekend passed too quickly.

They walked on the beach holding hands and made love. They swam in the sea and chased each other like porpoises and made love. They ate smoked salmon and bagels and cream cheese and stayed up to watch
The Late Show
and made love. They ran at sunrise along the surf; they flew
a kite until they dropped; they grilled Pacific king salmon on the deck overlooking the ocean. They made love on the dunes, on the bed, in the shower, in the sand, in the Jacuzzi, and on the kitchen table, among peanut butter and banana sandwiches and frozen yogurt shakes.

It was Monday morning, but still black as pitch outside. Jack lay next to Belinda, unable to sleep, listening to the rhythm of the surf. Mingled with the sound of the waves thundering against the shore was Belinda’s steady breathing. He restlessly fixed the pillow beneath his head, tossed uncomfortably, punched the pillow once, then threw it on the floor.

Shit.

He’d been awakened by that fucking dream—the dream about his mother.

Except, once again, instead of it being his mother on the porch of his house, disappearing, it had been Belinda. It was stupid, his unconscious. He didn’t know what the hell it meant. He didn’t
care
what it meant.

It was growing lighter out. He turned to look at Belinda, beautiful even in sleep. Today the weekend, which had been just perfect, was over. Today was Monday.