Phoenix Falling (20 page)

An apartment carved from a cliff was as deeply silent as a tomb. So silent that Kenzie thought he could hear the beating heart of the woman sleeping in his arms.

Faint light glowed from the living room to show the elegant contours of Rainey's shoulder and torso. Her body wasn't as dramatically sexy as some, but discipline and hard work had made her supple and perfectly toned, and she radiated the allure of passionate honesty and deep feeling. He wanted to lean forward and lick those soft curves and hidden places until she woke with slow-building desire.

Swearing silently, he slipped from the bed. Exhausted by days of grueling work, she didn't stir. He wondered how long it would be until she regretted succumbing to their mutual craziness. Probably about half a second after she woke up.

He pulled on his jeans and shirt and left the bedroom, crossing the living room to go out onto the balcony. Sharply cold night air on bare skin dispelled the physical languor of love-making. He braced his hands on the railing, wondering why the devil he'd let them end up in bed.

Because he had no willpower where Rainey was concerned, which was the underlying reason for letting their marriage end. Tonight's intimacy would rip open the wounds of separation all over again. Even so, he couldn't make himself regret what had happened. For a brief spell, he'd been... happy.

He'd even been weak enough to wonder what Rainey would do if he begged for forgiveness and another chance. Probably she'd say no, but the chance that she might be willing was dangerously tempting.

Luckily sanity returned when his blood cooled. Sex, no matter how great, changed nothing, except maybe to make matters worse. They were still bound for divorce, still facing weeks of painful proximity. Working together had been hard when the barriers were firmly in place between them. Now the treacherous, illogical part of his brain would want to be with her all the time even though tonight's lapse was an unplanned aberration.

He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering from the cold. Maybe he should blame John Randall, whose helpless longing for Sarah had oozed into Kenzie's brain and emotions. Yes, he'd blame Randall—if they'd been rehearsing a different story, he wouldn't have lost his control so disastrously.

Uneasily he wondered where Randall would take him next.

* * *

They'd been working on different continents for a month, with Kenzie in Greece and Rainey in California. Even daily phone calls didn't ease the bitter ache of separation. It would be at least another couple of weeks until they could see each other again, and she thought there was a very real chance that she 'd perish from longing.

Not for sex, even though every night brought scorching dreams, but because she missed the emotional intimacy. The knowledge that Kenzie understood and accepted, and was always on her side. She supposed that kind of closeness was why the institution of marriage survived.

If she hadn't wanted him so much, she wouldn't have blurted out what should have been said face-to-face, and only when and if the right moment arrived. During one of their daily phone calls, she said, "Maybe it's time to have a baby. I could keep it around for company when we're working at opposite ends of the world. Maybe two babies, so we could each take one on location."

The silence was palpable even across thousands of miles. They'd never discussed children, and now she knew why—her instincts had tried to warn her that the subject would be a source of conflict. She was about to start babbling to fill the blankness when he said, "An interesting thought, but cats housebreak much more easily."

Though they'd never had a real fight, his tone put a wall between them more frightening than an argument. "I was just kidding, Kenzie. Kids have their points, but they don't make really good pets."

More silence. "You wouldn't have mentioned a baby unless the subject was on your mind. It's perfectly reasonable to want children. Most people seem to."

Before she could reply, a knock sounded on the door of her trailer, followed by the director's personal assistant. "Miss Marlowe, you're needed on the set."

"I'll be along in a few minutes."

The assistant looked worried. "You need to come right away. He wants to shoot against the storm clouds, and the sky is changing fast."

She clutched the phone, torn between the need to talk things out with Kenzie and the demands of her job. Duty won. She said into the phone, "I'll call you back later. "

"It will be too late. A ten-hour time difference, remember. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Good night, my dear."

Then he was gone. She followed the assistant outside, biting her lower lip so hard the lipstick needed renewing. Luckily this scene called for her to stand around looking soulful rather than actually act, because her concentration was nonexistent.

Her anxiety grew until, at the end of the day's shooting, she asked the director to rearrange the schedule to give her three days off. After an initial howl of protest, he cooperated. She'd never requested special treatment before.

Kenzie was starring in a big, splashy action movie currently shooting on the island of Crete. Since he'd given her a shockingly expensive share in the private jet network for her birthday, she had Emmy arrange a flight to Greece ASAP.

Two hours later, she was in the air. She debated letting him know she was coming, and decided surprise was best. If he had time to rehearse a response, she'd never find out what he really felt about children, and they desperately needed to have an honest conversation on the subject.

She flew through the night and into morning, landing in Crete near noon. A hired car waited to take her out to the movie location.

As the car wound through the stark, sun-saturated landscape, she stared out the window, wondering what she would say to her husband. All her life she'd wanted children. At least two, because she'd hated being an only child.

She had dreamed of having Kenzie's children in images so vivid she'd wake up reaching for a soft infant form. They'd have three, she thought, two girls and a boy. She could see their faces in her dreams. They would be raised with the stability she hadn't known with Clementine, and the warmth she'd never received from her grandparents.

But even more than babies, she wanted Kenzie. If he truly didn't want children—well, she would have to accept that. Heaven knew there were powerful arguments against having kids when they both had such demanding careers. But some actors managed it, and she thought they could, too.

Maybe he'd only been startled by her bringing up the subject of children so suddenly, and he'd like the idea after he got used to it? She suspected that was pure wishful thinking on her part.

She'd visited Kenzie earlier in the shoot, so it was easy to get admitted to the production site. Recognizing her, the security guard grinned toothily and pointed out the right trailer, assuring her that her husband was inside.

The trailer was parked in the shade of a cypress tree, its air conditioner roaring. Since the door was unlocked, she swung it open and climbed two steps into the cool interior.

Blinking at the dimness after the brilliant sunshine, she called, "Kenzie? I hope you're in the mood for a surprise."

"Shit!" The voice was throaty and female.

Rainey's eyes adjusted, and she froze. Kenzie was sprawled against a mound of pillows on the bed, straddled by his mostly naked costar, Angie Greene. Her red-nailed fingers on his zipper, she made a rueful face. "You shoulda called first."

Rainey felt as if she'd been slammed in the belly with a baseball bat. This couldn't be happening, it was the stuff of cheap melodrama. Maybe they were rehearsing for a bedroom scene.

But Kenzie made no move to explain or deny. After the first flash of shock, he just stared at her, his expression as unreadable as granite. She could almost hear wheels clicking in his brain over the best way to play this scene.

Angie sat back on her heels, her crotch still covering Kenzie's. Flipping her tumbling blond hair over her shoulders, she said breezily, "Don't look so upset, Raine. This is just a location fuck. No big deal."

Maybe it wasn't for Angie Greene, a voluptuous chaser of men and headlines, but it was a big deal to Rainey. Unable to bear the thought of breaking down in front of them, she fumbled for control, and found her grandmother's cool detachment. "So inconsiderate of me not to realize that my husband couldn't be trusted out of my sight. I'd expected better of him."

Kenzie swung Angie to one side, setting her on the bed beside him. "I'm sorry, Rainey. But maybe this is for the best."

Any frail hope that they might survive this shattered. She tugged off her wedding ring and threw it on the floor so hard that it bounced and skittered across the trailer. "My lawyer will contact yours."

Then she spun on her heel and left, grateful she hadn't dismissed the hired car. Even more grateful that she hadn't arrived five minutes later and caught them in the act. If that had happened, she'd have been violently ill.

Shock kept her impassive until she was back at the airport. Mercifully, the jet hadn't yet been assigned another trip, so she booked it for the return flight.

She cried for seven thousand miles.

* * *

Rainey awoke weeping to find Kenzie sitting on the edge of the bed, a gentle hand on her arm and his expression concerned. "Are you all right?"

She almost blurted out that she'd had a ghastly nightmare of him in bed with another woman, then bit off her words when she realized that she'd been dreaming the truth. Being with Kenzie had brought it all back, as agonizing as when it happened. He'd been right to warn her the night before that the joys of lust would be followed by a fierce morning after.

She drew a shuddering breath. "I've been better."

His face darkened. "I'm sorry. I should have taken you back to the hotel after the spare ribs. Stupid of me not to guess what might happen here."

She weighed the pleasure against the revitalized pain. "Maybe this was better. You were unfinished business. Now I think there will be some closure."

"How satisfying to know that the night's exertions weren't wasted," he said, his voice flat.

He started to rise but she caught his hand and stopped him. "Since we're here with our hair down, this is a good time to ask why you were so willing to throw away our marriage. Was it that horrible?'

"Not horrible at all." He hesitated, choosing his words. "Like John Randall, I'm not fit to be a husband. The difference is that I was slower to realize it. Less honorable. It would have been better never to have married."

"For heaven's sake, Kenzie, this isn't 1880! Grand statements about honor don't cut it. You were a pretty amiable husband, and you didn't seem unhappy. Quite the contrary. Was that all acting?'

"I wasn't acting." After a long pause, he continued, "But what we had was an affair, not a real marriage."

"So it was all sex."

For a moment she thought he was going to agree. Instead he said reluctantly, "There was more than sex. But a marriage requires two qualified and willing people. I proposed on a selfish impulse because I enjoyed being with you, but never really thought about what it means to be married."

"You could have found a better way of ending things once you decided you wanted out."

He grimaced. "I'm too right-brained for advance planning. Rather than thinking the situation through, I let events drift until they exploded in a way that was far crueler than anything I'd have consciously chosen. That was unforgivable on my part."

"Few things are truly unforgivable." Painful though this discussion was, at least they were finally talking honestly. "If either of us had shown an ounce of common sense, we could have gone our separate ways after our post-
Pimpernel
fling, and avoided all of the painful messiness of marriage and divorce."

"Common sense has never been my strong point." He smiled faintly. "Think of the trauma of divorce as adding to your creative repertoire."

"I prefer to get my experience vicariously." But he was right. No matter how rotten an event, it could be thought of as fuel for the creative process.