Private Passions (6 page)

"Tell Malcolm I'm not some d-lister—"

"It wasn't Malcolm's decision," Deck
interrupted. "It was mine."

The admission hit her like a blow. She
struggled to keep her balance in her four inch platform heels. "Can
I talk to you in private?"

"Of course," Deck said, but she didn't miss
the resigned look on his face before she turned to walk down the
hall to her study.

"What's going on, Deck?" she asked when he
closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

Leaning away from her.

"What happened between us was highly
inappropriate, a tremendous breech of professionalism." Deck said,
his voice void of any emotion.

"A breech of professionalism?" Jane repeated
helplessly. She wanted to yell and scream that no, it was amazing,
potentially life-changing, nothing that could be described so
coldly. A breech of professionalism. He made it sound like he'd
spit on the sidewalk in front of her, or had too many cocktails
while on the job.

"Ross Securities has a strict no
fraternization rule, and it's no longer possible for me to work for
you."

"So that's it? We slept together and now
you're quitting?"

"After what happened, Malcolm and I both
decided it's not appropriate for me to work with you. Ramirez has
worked for the company for three years, and his client list
includes people nearly as famous as you."

Jane nodded absently as Deck listed off the
names of several actresses Ramirez had worked for. How funny to
believe that just five minutes ago she'd been giddily apprehensive,
wondering what he would think about all of her grand plans.

If nothing else she had her answer and it was
loud and clear. Jane had won numerous awards for acting, but she'd
never given a performance like she gave that evening in her office.
Hiding the fact that she was dying inside, writhing in an agony of
humiliation that she'd actually let herself get so carried away as
to think Deck felt anything close to what she felt.

So he'd fucked her. Most guys would when a
halfway decent looking woman threw herself at him. Even with a few
extra pounds and a few extra lines, Jane knew she was better than
decent. God, she was so stupid, imagining there was anything there
beyond Deck taking pity on her. Throwing her his bone in her moment
of sadness.

She was pathetic, just like all the magazines
said.

She was determined, though, that Deck would
see none of this. Neither would anyone else. "While I'm not excited
at the prospect of working with someone unfamiliar, I completely
respect your position. I'm just sorry my poor judgment cost me such
a valuable employee."

The muscles of his jaw tightened at that last
word. She felt a petty stab of satisfaction.

Deck gave a curt nod and opened the door,
gesturing with his big callused arm for her to precede him. She
felt exposed in her flashy, too tight dress, but instead of
scurrying past, shoulders hunched, she lifted her chin, threw her
shoulders back and sauntered past like she didn't have a care in
the world. In spite of everything, when she passed within a few
inches of him, it took everything she had not to turn her face into
his chest, not to spill the truth that to her it hadn't been about
just sex, or blocking out grief, or anything that shallow or
meaningless. It had been the fulfillment of what she'd wanted from
the moment she met him, and now that she'd had one taste she wanted
so much more.

She kept going down the hall, focusing on the
sharp tap of her heels on the hardwood. She'd eat a pile of worms
before she admitted any of this. She'd suffered enough rejection
and public humiliation to last two lifetimes, thank you very
much.

If Deck was so hellbent on getting away from
her, she wasn't about to stop him.

Three Months Later

"You've been staring at that same page for
five minutes," The voice of Aria Shapiro, Jane's production
partner, penetrated the gray haze that had settled over her the
night of the SAG awards and had only grown thicker in the ensuing
months. "We're supposed to have notes back to the writers by
two."

Jane checked her watch. It was one-fifteen
and she was only on page three of the twenty two page document. She
blinked a few times, forced herself to focus on the script for the
pilot episode of the sitcom they were hoping to get on the fall
schedule. Somehow she managed to get through the script, though the
act of reading and formulating intelligent comments seemed to take
a Herculean effort.

Everything did these days. From getting out
of bed in the morning, figuring out what to wear, forcing herself
to respond to critical calls and emails. Somehow she'd made it
through awards season, though every event was like running an ultra
marathon. The only good thing about the hopeless funk she'd fallen
into was that for the first time ever even eating felt like an
unbearable chore.

As a result the 15 pounds that she couldn't
seem to run, spin, or yoga off had finally disappeared. But that
was the only outward sign of her distress and Jane was determined
to keep it that way. No way in hell would she let on in public that
she was in any way shape or form depressed. They would ascribe it
to Ryan and Katya, and Jane had had it up to her neck with people
feeling sorry for her because of him.

And of course, she didn't want Deck to have
any clue that she might be upset about his disappearance from her
life. If he even thought of her at all...

Focus, Jane, she scolded herself and forced
herself to finish reading through the script. She managed to make
it through the writers' meeting and offer semi-intelligent
feedback, but by the time he meeting was over she felt like she'd
been run over by a truck.

She followed Aria back to their office, her
feet feeling like they weighed a hundred pounds each.

"Okay, so we need to brainstorm solid
outlines for at least six more episodes," Aria said. "And I'm still
not happy with the B story in the pilot. I think we could do a lot
more with Eddie's character—" She was talking a mile minute, making
quick, punctuated gestures with her hands. Jane had always
appreciated how energetic her partner was, her brain racing with so
many ideas she couldn't express them fast enough.

Working with Aria was exciting,
invigorating.

And today, absolutely exhausting.

Jane held her hand up, but Aria continued on,
oblivious. She had to say Aria's name three times before she got
her attention.

She stopped mid-sentence, snapping her focus
on Jane. "What?"

"Aria, we have another month before
production starts, and I'm really not feeling it right now."

"Not feeling it right now? You were a rock
star in there, throwing out jokes, and you hit the nail on the head
with Ginger's backstory. Let's keep going while the juices are
flowing."

Jane supposed she should be happy she'd put
on a good enough performance to fool even her friend. But the truth
was her juices were flowing about as quickly as the silt on the
bottom of the Mississippi. "Thanks, but the truth is, I'm kind of
worn out—I was up really late last night and I think I might be
coming down with something." She lowered her lashes and did her
best imitation of an emphysema patient.

As she knew she would, Aria immediately
backed away, waving her arms in front of her as though that would
dissipate any germs floating her way, then pulled the collar of her
shirt up so it covered her nose and mouth. "Oh my god, why didn't
you say anything?" Though her voice was muffled by her shirt, there
was no mistaking the accusatory tone in Aria's voice. "You know I
just got over West Nile virus like a week ago!"

"I'm sorry," Jane said, feeling a pinch of
guilt for exploiting her friend's hypochondria. The truth was,
Aria's "West Nile virus" had been nothing more than a mild case of
the flu. The fact that the mosquitoes that carried the disease
weren't even active in Southern California this early in the spring
hadn't been enough to dissuade her. Jane cleared her throat,
grimacing for effect. When she spoke she tried to make her voice as
raspy as possible. "It's just it took us so long to get this
meeting on the calendar and this project is so important to us—"
She broke off with another fit of coughing.

Aria scrambled to gather up all of her stuff.
"You know whooping cough has been going around, right? And adults
can get it if they don't get their booster shots. Oh, my God, I've
got to get out of here and have the cleaning staff sanitize the
office." She headed for the door.

"I'll work on some stuff at home, I promise,"
Jane called after her as she gathered up her own notes and
computer.

"Don't worry about work," Aria called,
already heading full speed down the hall, away from Jane. "Just get
better!"

If only getting better was as simple as
eating some chicken soup and getting some extra rest, Jane thought
glumly as she headed home. Though all she wanted to do was flop
down on the couch and numb herself out with a glass of good red
wine and a reality television marathon, she was determined to make
good on her promise to Aria. Instead of heading for the couch, she
headed for her office.

She could hear Hailey behind the closed door
next to the door to the office, and she popped her head in to let
her assistant know she was back.

Settled at her own desk, she unpacked her
laptop, trying to think up ways to flesh out the male lead's
character and come up with a story arc that could carry through the
first season should the show be picked up. For nearly an hour she
typed in fits and starts, writing, deleting. Mostly deleting.

She found herself distracted by the sound of
Hailey on the phone next door.

Even with the door closed, she could hear her
assistant's slightly nasal tone, punctuated by the staccato machine
gun laugh that had once made Jane reflexively laugh in response but
now just got on her nerves.

She let out a frustrated sigh and dug her
earbuds and iPhone out of her purse. She turned on Pandora and
selected a station that played the trance music that sometimes
helped her concentrate. For good measure, she moved from her desk
to the armchair that faced out the window to the view looking over
the pool, hoping a slight change in scenery would provide
inspiration.

Within a few minutes she was finally on a
roll, her fingers flying on the keyboard as the ideas finally
started to flow.

Then, just as she was outlining the episode
involving the female lead's ex-fiancé, the cursor froze on the
screen and she got the endlessly spinning pinwheel of death.
Cursing, she forced the computer to restart. Fortunately the
autosave function prevented her from losing all of her work, but
the file was open only a few minutes before it froze again.

She'd just had the system upgraded with more
memory and the damn thing was already crashing.

She made a mental note to have Hailey take it
in to be serviced.

After another restart, she went to reopen the
document. As the arrow settled over her brainstorming document, her
attention snagged on a folder titled simply "stories."

As though with a will of its own, her index
finger slipped down the trackpad until the arrow hovered over the
folder. Before she could stop herself, she'd clicked it open.

The folder contained several files, all
innocuously named with roman numerals. There were seven in all.
Though she knew it was one of the worst ideas she'd had since
sleeping with Deck in the first place, she opened the one labeled
IV.

It had been so long—over a year—since she'd
looked at any of them, she couldn't remember the details of each
scenario.

He strips me naked and turns me against the
wall, his hard warrior's hands running down my sides. He holds my
hips hard so I can't move. I can feel his cock against my ass. Rock
hard and so big I wonder if it will hurt when he pushes inside
me.

But how can it hurt when I'm so wet I can
feel drops of my own juice sliding down my thigh. He's barely
touched me and I'm going crazy, dying to have him fuck me.

Heat rushed to her cheeks as she read her own
words as a similar heat rushed between her thighs at the memory of
the inspiration for that fantasy.

She'd been on set with Ryan while he was
shooting a movie about the Robert the Bruce. It had been a
particularly challenging time in what had already proven to be a
challenging marriage, as Ryan had decided to go "method" for his
role as a hardened Highland warrior.

Suddenly Ryan who showered twice a day and
never went out of the house without his hair perfectly moussed and
gelled, let his hair grow long and forgot how to use a comb.
Showering would make him "soft," so instead he turned off their
pool heater and "bathed" with a once or twice a week swim,
insisting that it was just like the Highlanders swimming in an icy
loch.

Between the BO and the fake brogue, Jane was
at her wit's end before they even started shooting.

Still, at the time Jane was actively trying
to conceive, so she visited him on the set with Deck in tow. She
hung out on the set, the cheerful, supportive spouse as she watched
Ryan trail with the weapons consultant on set. She listened with
half an ear to Ryan earnestly tell the weapons expert about how now
that he'd trained with the swords, he felt like his hands had
actually changed.

"I feel like I have a warrior's hands now,"
he'd said.

As he said it, Jane's gaze was fixed on Deck,
who had wandered a few feet away and casually picked up one of the
swords. Unlike the lightweight prop sword that Ryan held, this was
a heavy piece, the weapons master had explained to her, meant to be
used as a set decoration, not for the actors to wield on camera