Once in a Blue Moon (8 page)

He threw his leg across hers, pressing her intimately against that hard length. Isabelle sank her hands into his hair. His hand caressed her side; his thumb brushed against the swell of her breast. Michael tore his lips from hers and kissed her face and neck, his breath rasping in his throat. His mouth moved downward, pausing to lave the delicate hollow of her throat, then drifting ever lower toward the swell of her breast.

Isabelle’s breasts rose, aching to feel his touch; her nipples tightened into hard buds, pushing eagerly against her shirt. She wanted to feel him against her naked skin, to have his fingers on her breasts, to open her legs and take him into her.

It took three calls before the director’s voice finally cut through the haze of their passion. Dazedly, Michael lifted his head and looked up.

“Sorry,” Lyle said. “You know we can’t have your body on hers from the waist down, Michael.”

Michael glanced down and realized that he was indeed stretched out full-length on top of Isabelle. Hastily he moved to the side, mumbling, “I’m sorry.”

Isabelle, coming to her senses, realized what a scene they must have presented to everyone present, and she blushed fiery red.

“We’ll have to shoot it over,” Lyle went on.

“What?” Michael’s voice came out as a croak. He stared at the director. His face was stamped with passion, his eyes heavy-lidded and fogged with desire, his mouth full and wide, his skin flushed. He sat up, letting out an expletive, and shoved a hand through his hair.

The director’s lips quivered, and he hastily covered his mouth with his hand. Someone snickered and quickly muffled it. Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he looked around at the crew. One of the men turned away, and another bit his lip, widening his eyes innocently.

“Wait a minute!” Michael exclaimed. “This is a joke, isn’t it? You got it on the first take. Last time, too!”

One of the cameramen burst out laughing, and everyone joined in. Lyle guffawed, holding on to his sides. Michael groaned and fell back onto the ground. He began to curse fluently.

“A joke?” Isabelle sat up, fury flooding through her. “You mean this is one of your stupid practical jokes? Making us do all those takes?”

It didn’t surprise her. The crew and actors often engaged in practical jokes, a practice born, no doubt, of the long hours of tedium between takes, as well as the familiarity of constantly working together. Isabelle had more than once helped to further one or another of the jokes, and she herself had been caught twice. The other times she had laughed along with the others, but at the moment she was having trouble seeing the humor in the situation. Her entire body was thrumming with unsatisfied desire. Worse than that, the hunger Michael could create in her had been so obvious to everyone that they had built a practical joke on it.

Without thinking, she jumped to her feet and lithely clambered up from the rocks and across the path to where Lyle stood, watching her somewhat apprehensively. Beside him was a picnic table, on which the crew had piled various pieces of equipment. The cooler, from which they had been pulling soft drinks all day to quench their thirst, was also there. Isabelle veered slightly to her left, picked up the cooler, now empty except for a little ice and the water that had melted in it all day, and turned to the director. Lyle’s eyes widened, and he started to move, but he wasn’t fast enough. Isabelle hurled the cold water upon him, tossed the cooler aside and stalked off. Behind her, she could hear Michael’s roar of laughter.

* * *

Isabelle’s satisfaction was short-lived. She jumped in one of the ubiquitous taxis waiting outside the lagoon’s entrance, having no desire to return with all the others in the vans. On the long ride home, her anger cooled, and she regretted her display of temper. It hadn’t helped; the others still were aware of her passionate response to Michael, perhaps even more so since she’d gotten so angry over the joke. She was still just as embarrassed, and now she would have to apologize to Lyle, as well.

Feeling thoroughly disgruntled, she went immediately to her room to shower away the dirt, grit and sunblock. Then, wrapped in her terry-cloth bathrobe, she ordered dinner from room service and sat on the balcony to eat it, watching the darkness gather on the ocean. She set the tray on the small table to the side of the chair and just sat, watching the stars and the lights on the water and wishing that she could relax.

Despite the shower and rest, she was keyed up. It was ten o’clock, and they had an early shoot tomorrow; she ought to get to bed. But Isabelle knew that any attempt to sleep right now would be useless. The heat had died down in her body, but there was still an unsatisfied, achy feeling low in her abdomen, and her nerves were as taut and twanging as violin strings. She could not stop thinking about Michael, could not keep from remembering the way he had kissed her this afternoon.

With a low growl of frustration, she stood up from her chair and stalked to the railing. She stood there, looking out at the ocean, her hands curled around the metal railing. There was the sound of a sliding glass door opening on the balcony next to her, and she whirled around, startled.

Michael stepped out of his door and softly pulled it closed. “Hello, Isabelle.”

Isabelle grimaced.
This was the last thing she needed—to have to talk to Michael.
“Hello.”

Her voice was notably lacking in enthusiasm, but Michael didn’t seem to notice. He came to the waist-high metal railing between their balconies and rested his hands on the top of it. Neither of them had turned on the lights on their balconies, and curtains shaded the light from inside their rooms, but there was enough moonlight to enable Isabelle to see him. The cool light washed over his face, highlighting the strong cheekbones and turning the blue eyes dark. He was wearing shorts and a tank top, and the bare expanse of his skin gleamed. Just seeing him made her nerves begin to hum.

Michael smiled. “I liked the way you handled Lyle today.”

“Oh.” Isabelle shook her head. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll have to apologize to him.”

“Nonsense. He deserved it. They all did. They shouldn’t have involved you in the joke. It was me Lyle was trying to get—retaliation for that one I pulled on him two weeks ago. I should have guessed. They should have told you, but...” He shrugged. “I think it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. They saw how kissing you affected me. It was too good a joke to pass up.”

Isabelle, too, moved up to the railing. She shouldn’t stand this close to him, she knew, but she could not seem to control her limbs any more than she had been able to control herself this afternoon. She stood there, not quite daring to look Michael in the eyes, but instead concentrating her gaze on the railing, where her fingernails idly picked at a flake of peeling paint.

Michael’s hands came down to grip the railing on either side of her hand. Heat rose in Isabelle, and her breath was suddenly shorter.

“I guess I’m lucky it didn’t turn out any worse,” he said huskily. “There were a few moments this afternoon when I hardly knew where I was, I was so crazy for you.”

He moved forward until he was pressed against the railing, his body only inches from hers. His breath ruffled Isabelle’s hair, and she could smell the faintly soapy scent of his body. He put his hands on her shoulders, and a shiver ran down through her. She told herself that she should move away, but she could not.

Slowly he smoothed his hands down her arms, and even though the thick terry-cloth material lay between their skins, Isabelle still trembled at his touch. Unconsciously, she swayed toward him, leaning against the railing.

“I wanted to touch you,” he told her thickly, nuzzling her hair. “I wanted to peel off your clothes and look at you. Caress you. Kiss you.”

His hands moved to her hips and crept back up her body, lingering over the full mounds of her breasts. Isabelle’s breath turned ragged, and she leaned her head against his chest, too weak to move, too hungry for his touch. It was what she, too, had yearned for this afternoon. Her breasts swelled and ached, remembering the glory of his fingers on them. Her nipples were hard and thrusting.

“I can’t get my mind off you,” Michael went on in that low, mesmerizing voice. “I’ve been hard as a rock all evening, just thinking about you.”

Isabelle drew in a shaky breath and looked up at him. Just his words were enough to melt her loins. Gazing into his face—the hot, hungry eyes, the taut expression of desire—she was flooded with such heat that she thought her legs might buckle beneath her.

Michael’s hands moved up to the bare triangle of skin that showed above her robe. “Do you have anything on beneath that robe?”

She shook her head mutely, very aware of the fact that only the tied belt at the waist kept her robe closed. Michael spread his fingers across her chest, his fingers sliding beneath the edges of the material. Slowly he moved downward, shoving the heavy cloth aside. His hands slid over her breasts, opening the top of her robe. He stood for a moment, gazing at her bared breasts.

His face was heavy and dark with passion as his eyes moved hungrily over her breasts. “You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” he told her hoarsely. “Maybe even more so. Oh, Isabelle...”

He yanked the sides of the robe apart, and the loosely tied belt came undone, revealing all of her naked body to his sight.

M
ichael sucked in his breath. His gaze moved slowly down over her body. Isabelle closed her eyes and gripped the railing tightly. Hot moisture pooled between her legs, and her knees felt as if they might give way if she didn’t cling to some support. She loved feeling Michael’s searing gaze on her; with every fiber of her being, she ached for him to touch her.

He reached out and lightly trailed his hands over her breasts, sending hundreds of shivers tingling through her. His thumbs circled the points of her nipples, making them tighten. He traced the larger aureoles around the hardened buds and gently cupped her breasts in his palms.

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “So soft.”

His hands slid down from her breasts onto her narrow waist, then brushed across the thrusting pelvic bones and delved beneath her robe, roaming back over her hips and caressing the curve of her buttocks. His fingertips dug into the soft flesh, and a shudder shook him.

He bent and pressed his lips to the soft curve of her breast, trailing down over the trembling globe until he found the small fleshy mound of her nipple. His lips teased the bud, brushing it, kissing it, nibbling at it with teeth sheathed by his lips, and all the while his hands moved over her hips and buttocks, stretching down to caress her thighs.

Isabelle whimpered and pressed closer to him, the metal railing digging into the soft flesh of her stomach. Michael made a noise deep in his throat and hungrily took her nipple into his mouth. He suckled, caressing the hard button with his tongue, and his hand curved around her buttock and between her legs from behind. He groaned at the moisture he found there, evidence of Isabelle’s pulsing desire, and his fingers explored the wet, satiny flesh. Isabelle gasped, and her hands went to his shoulders, caressing him frantically. His hands and mouth were driving her wild, vaulting her long-suppressed desire to a fever pitch.

“Michael,” she murmured, trailing kisses over his arm and shoulders, shoving aside the material of his tank top to reach more of his skin. “Oh, Michael, Michael, please...”

Michael groaned at the sound of her plea and straightened. His hands went to either side of her head, plunging deep into her hair, and his mouth found hers. He kissed her deeply, his tongue filling her mouth. Her breasts pressed into his chest, but it wasn’t enough for him. He ached to feel Isabelle against the length of him, to move between her legs and feel her legs wrap around him. The metal bars of the railing frustrated him, and he swung his leg over the railing, blindly climbing over without breaking off their kiss.

His foot struck the small table in the corner of Isabelle’s balcony, sending the room service tray with all its dishes crashing onto the cement floor. The clatter was horrendous. Michael froze, still astride the railing with one foot on Isabelle’s balcony floor. Belatedly he released her and looked down at the mess of broken crockery. Isabelle stepped back, bumping into her chair and knocking over the large vase behind it. It fell with a thump, breaking the lip, and rattled noisily across the balcony to the other side, where it banged against the opposite metal railing.

“What the hell is going on over there?” Three balconies away, someone stood up, turning toward them. It was the day player who had come with them to portray the leader of the guerrillas chasing them. He had obviously been sitting on his balcony, enjoying the evening and the drink in his hand until the noise of the crashing tray had disrupted the quiet night air.

Isabelle’s eyes widened in horror, and she hastily wrapped her robe around herself. At that moment, the sliding glass door on the other side of her room opened and Lyle stepped out, looking curiously over at them.

All up and down the row of rooms, heads were popping out of the balcony doors to see what had occasioned the crash. Most of them were members of their crew.

Isabelle blushed to the roots of her hair. It had to be obvious what she and Michael had been doing, especially with her clutching her robe together and him perched on the railing between their balconies, half on and half off.

She let out a groan of embarrassment and fled back into her room, slamming the patio door shut and locking it behind her, leaving Michael alone on the balcony, cursing inventively.

* * *

Isabelle had never been so embarrassed in her life. Everyone on the crew was bound to know what she had been doing on the balcony with Michael, especially after those sizzling scenes they’d filmed by the lagoon that afternoon. And, of course, none of them would keep their mouths shut about it, which meant that as soon as they returned to L.A., everyone connected with the show would know that she had melted like wax in Michael’s arms.

She lay on her bed for hours, grinding her teeth in anger and frustration. Her phone rang persistently for thirty minutes. She hadn’t answered it, sure that it was either Michael or one of the women on location with them, wanting to know all the details of what had happened. Finally, she took it off the hook and stuffed the receiver under a pillow.

Isabelle stared at the ceiling, wondering how she could get through the next day of shooting when she couldn’t bear to see any of the others. She also wondered how she was going to get through this night. There wasn’t any place on her body, she thought, that didn’t ache or throb or tingle with desire. She knew it would be long, tormented hours before her body cooled down enough to let her go to sleep.
And how in the world was she going to stay out of Michael’s bed?

The next morning when she went down to join the others in the lobby, she was red-eyed and leaden-lidded from lack of sleep. She ignored the sly smile Debbie cast in her direction, as well as the curious glances from the rest of the crew, and marched up to Lyle, shoulders squared, to apologize for dumping water over him the day before.

He smiled at her a little shamefacedly. “It’s all right. I deserved it. I shouldn’t have done that without warning you. Michael raked me over the coals yesterday for letting you get caught, too, when I was paying him back.” He shrugged. “I didn’t know that you two were...well, you know, that there was anything going on between you.”

“There’s not,” Isabelle retorted flatly. She made herself smile to take the sting from her abrupt words. She liked Lyle, and she didn’t want to be at odds with the director. “I don’t know how we ever get any work done, the way you guys are about jokes.”

“Livens up the day,” Lyle responded jovially, just as eager as she to get rid of the strain between him and one of the show’s stars.

Isabelle turned and caught sight of Michael, just entering the lobby. He looked as if he’d gotten as little sleep as she had. Quickly she turned and hurried outside to the waiting vans. She climbed into the front passenger seat, knowing that there, at least, Michael would be unable to sit beside her, and settled down to wait for the others.

When the rest of them came out, Michael got into the back of the van. Isabelle could feel him watching her, but she refused to even glance back at him. Once they arrived at the location, she went straight to Debbie and Callie for makeup and wardrobe. Then she moved away while Michael was getting his makeup done and sat down on a large rock, studying her script intently.

After he was finished in Makeup, Michael started toward her. Isabelle pretended to be immersed in her script, hoping that he would take the hint and go away. She thought desperately of dodging into the women’s bathroom, but she knew how foolish that would look to everyone else.
Why couldn’t the man just take the hint and leave her alone?

Michael stopped in front of her, only inches away. Isabelle continued to pretend to read. He waited, folding his arms and assuming an air of great patience.

“Oh, stop,” Isabelle snapped finally, looking up at him. “Why won’t you go away? I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I want to talk to you.”

Isabelle sighed. “We have nothing to say.”

“Really?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I would have thought we had a great deal to say. You obviously have some very strong feelings.”

“You’re right. I very strongly would like not to have to talk to you.”

“Why? Isabelle...look, I’m sorry I created a disturbance last night. I’m not usually that clumsy. I know you were embarrassed that everyone saw we were out on the balcony.”

“They saw a good bit more than that. It was obvious what we’d been doing. I was practically undressed, and you—”

“I know, I know. I was crawling over the wall like a seventeen-year-old in heat.” Michael grimaced. “I’m sorry. Believe me, the last thing I intended was to embarrass you and bring everyone out on their balconies to see us.”

“It wasn’t your fault any more than it was mine. It was...just a mistake.”

“No,” he whispered, so fiercely that Isabelle looked up at him in surprise. “Don’t say that. It wasn’t a mistake. It was exactly right. And it was inevitable. We’ve been heading straight toward it ever since I joined the show.”

Isabelle shook her head vehemently. “No.”

“We can’t ignore what we feel for each other,” he protested. “At least, I can’t. It was never finished between us. That was my fault. You were right when you told me that I left before you came back because I was a coward. I was. I was scared that if I told you face-to-face, you’d try to argue me out of it. And I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to follow through. I wanted you so much, loved you so much, I was scared I’d give in to whatever you wanted, even if I knew it was wrong. So I ran. I was wrong. All those years it’s still been there inside us, dormant. But never closed.”

“Then let’s close it now. I’ll tell you that I no longer hate you for it. You did what you thought was best, and maybe it was. I don’t know. We certainly wouldn’t be where we are now if we had stayed together. But that was years ago. We’re different people now. I’m not eighteen anymore, and I’m not interested in a giddy teenage romance. I like my life the way it is. I don’t want any disturbances.”

“What, you’re twenty-eight now and an old woman? Give me a break, Isabelle. What’s wrong with a little giddiness? What’s wrong with romance? Maybe we are different people now, and maybe it won’t be the same with us. But where’s the harm in seeing? What would be so wrong about taking a chance?”

“You can’t see the harm?” Frantically, Isabelle scrambled to come up with some reason that did not involve Jenny. “For one thing, there’s the show. I never get involved with anyone I work with. I hate the gossip. A soap set is like a small town. You know that. Everyone in the whole cast and crew will be gossiping about us. We’ve already given them a week’s worth of gossip since yesterday. And what happens when the affair turns sour? We still have to work together.”

“Oh, and it’s so easy working together now,” Michael mocked. “It’s such a breeze being in this state of sexual limbo with each other.”

“It would be even worse if we hated each other or if one of us grew indifferent and the other was madly in love. It would be an impossible working situation.”

“It seems pretty impossible to me right now.”

“Michael, please....”

“Come on, Iz. I don’t get it. I understand it’s difficult to have an affair with someone on the same show. It could be very awkward, worse than awkward. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. We are already involved. We can’t stop that.”

“We can, and we will!” Isabelle insisted.

“Why? And don’t give me this garbage about the show. Why are you so damn scared?”

Isabelle sprang to her feet. “Can’t you leave it alone? Hasn’t anyone ever turned you down before? I don’t want to have an affair with you! Just stay away from me!”

She realized belatedly that their voices had been growing louder and louder, until she had practically shouted her last words. Everyone on the set had stopped whatever they were doing and were watching them avidly. Isabelle groaned.

“Well, that will certainly make all the gossip die down,” Michael commented dryly.

Isabelle glared at him. He raised his hands, palms out, as if in surrender.

“All right. I give up. Obviously you’re not willing to talk about whatever’s bothering you. I can’t make you give us a chance.” His lips tightened, and he dropped his hands to his side. “Let’s just get back to work.”

He turned on his heel and walked away. Isabelle swallowed hard and followed him.

* * *

They finished shooting the following day. Michael and Isabelle avoided each other as much as possible. Isabelle could see that this was causing just as much gossip among the crew as the incident on the balcony had. It was a distinct relief when they flew back to L.A.

Or course, the location crew and director told everyone what had happened in Cancún, so the gossip about the two of them spread like wildfire throughout the rest of the staff and cast. Everyone from Felice to Amanda, the head of Wardrobe, hinted to Isabelle that they were ready and willing to let Isabelle unburden her heart to them about the matter. Isabelle laughed and shrugged it off as best she could, saying with a lightness that even she could tell rang false, that nothing was “going on” between Michael and her.

That was, of course, the literal truth. But there was another truth, as well, and that was that, no matter how much Isabelle avoided being around Michael, she could not stop thinking about him. Whether she was on the set, rehearsing or filming a scene with him, or at home alone with Jenny, her mind circled relentlessly around him. She remembered that evening on the balcony and the feel of his arms around her, his body hot and urgent against hers, his mouth consuming her.

Over the years, she had held herself aloof from sexual entanglements. Listening to other women talk about their feelings for one man or another, she had congratulated herself a little smugly that her head always kept a firm rule over her senses and emotions. Her experience with Michael years ago had taught her not to get carried away, she thought. Now she wondered if it was simply that Michael was the only man who had ever really put her control to the test. Perhaps it hadn’t been intelligence or self-control that kept her life on an even keel, but simply the absence of the one man who really stirred her passions. It was a lowering thought.