Redemption (14 page)

It hadn’t helped. His body had responded to her as naturally as his lungs took in air.

The urgency between them built with each frame. Each camera angle captured a new aspect of desire. Matt realized now that what he was viewing wasn’t at all what the tabloids had luridly depicted. It wasn’t sordid or ugly. It was poignant, not pornographic.

Even unedited, the film clearly showed a scene evocative in its beauty, in its human passion. Hands reaching, touching tenderly, caressing. There was no sound, so he didn’t hear the moans, the sighs, the intake of breath when he touched her—there, on the soft pillow of her belly.

As an actor, he could see the moves he had made to simulate passion. As a lover, though, he knew the result wasn’t simulated. After she lost her nervousness, it was as if she became another woman beneath his hands. Her eyes closed, she let herself go, let herself enjoy his caresses. Let herself feel. The look on her face—wonder, joy, as if she had just discovered a new species.

Could it have been true? What had her life been like up to that point? She hadn’t been all that experienced, he felt instinctively, yet she hadn’t been a virgin. Or had she? How would he have known, after all, unless she had told him?

He remembered visiting her immediately after the take. She had seemed confused at first, endearingly attentive to his stumbling apologies. And later, in her hotel room, he had taken it a step further—at her invitation, he remembered. But the shyness with which she had tried to hide her body, did that belong to the same woman who had told him coldly she was only interested in an acting lesson?

Her explanation, that she had gone to bed with him simply to help her learn her role, didn’t ring true. They had already filmed the scene, and though the director wanted to add more the next day—mostly close-ups and reaction shots after Hayley’s character caught them “in the act,” the bulk of the scene was already a wrap.

Claire was lying to him. Lying to keep him at a distance. Maybe lying to herself for the same reason he had been tempted to: guilt.

Damn it, she had no reason to feel guilty. What they had done was perfectly natural, perfectly human.

The scene on the screen ended, and Matt pressed the off button. He had no desire to see what came next.

And besides, he already had his answer. As well as more questions.

“Here’s your coffee and the latest issue of
Chain Store Executive
. There’s an article on private-label merchandise you might want to check out. Page twenty.” Joan placed her offerings on Claire’s desk.

“Thanks.” Claire glanced up as she reached for the coffee, then noticed Joan’s trim maternity suit. “That’s a nice outfit,” she commented. “Maternity clothes have certainly improved in the last ten years. Did that come from the store?”

Joan beamed. “Sure did. That was a great idea, moving the maternity department right next to Infants.”

Claire tapped the magazine in front of her. “There was an article in here last year on the resurgence of maternity wear. With more working mothers-to-be who can afford designer maternity fashions, it seemed a timely idea.”

“I guess it was a lot tougher back when you were a brand new single mother.” Joan sighed. “As I keep telling myself, if you could do it, then so can I.” She glanced down and gave her belly a fond pat. “This little guy is gonna have it lucky. I never dreamed when I came to work here there’d be on-site daycare up and running by the time he made his appearance in the world.”

“That should be soon, shouldn’t it?”

“Another month, and I’ll start training my temp.” Then she pointed to the calendar on Claire’s desk. “I’ve marked it on your calendar. Don’t forget, you have a meeting with Evan Kaslow at nine to discuss store renovations. I sent him a copy of your budget projections, so be prepared for fallout.”

Claire made a face. “I plan on wearing a hard hat. The Atlantic City store was his pet project, but there’s no way we can justify the expansion to the stockholders, even with his new figures, as well as the renovations for our downtown store. He’ll just have to accept it.”

“Speaking of stockholders, you have a conference call scheduled with Mr. Forrest at one. After that, you’re free until three, but I’ll be out this afternoon—doctor appointment.”

Joan left, and Claire spent the next hour preparing for her meeting with Evan.

As predicted, he took the news of his project’s demise with more than a little resentment.

“I believe this shows an appalling lack of foresight on your part,” he told her later when she joined him in his office, and then he added, “and on the part of our new owner. The Atlantic City market is a logical expansion location for a company like Kaslow’s.”

“I disagree,” Claire replied. “Our market projections there don’t indicate a need for a high-end retailer. If Kaslow’s were a discount store, then yes, I’d say damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. Presently, however, Boscov’s is filling our niche, and until—”

“It sounds to me like you’re just afraid to jump in the ring and compete with the big boys.” Evan glared at her from behind his desk, his hand nervously tapping the Mont Blanc pen against the blotter.

“At this point, jumping in the ring would be foolish. Kaslow’s needs to concentrate on winning the contests we’re already involved in. As I’ve said repeatedly, our current customer base must be satisfied before we try to conquer any new markets.”

“I guess the rumors weren’t true,” he said.

“What rumors?”

“Our aggressive new financial manager isn’t so aggressive after all. Maybe Jackie was right. Maybe your priorities are—”

“With the stockholders,” she said firmly. “Who happen to care only about the bottom line. Once we shore that up, then we’ll consider expanding our markets. Until then, forget about Atlantic City.”

Claire turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her with a determined click. She was sure she had made the right decision and equally sure Connor Forrest would back her up.

That was confirmed during the conference call with him later. “I’m really impressed with the numbers I’m seeing from Kaslow’s,” he told her. “Keep up the good work out there. By the way, how’s the film coming along? No major explosions?”

“As far as I know, everything’s gone smoothly. It’s all done at night, so there’s been little inconvenience. They should wrap it up tomorrow evening.” And as she said the words, Claire could almost feel her stress level pulse back to normal.

The freight entrance of Kaslow’s was deserted, and Matt was able to slip up to Claire’s office unnoticed. There was no one in the outer office, so he approached her opened door silently, then watched her unobserved for a moment.

The number-crunching executive behind the desk looked so different from the woman in the video, he almost forgot why he had come.

Her head was bent over her desk, and with a pencil eraser, she poked the buttons of a serious-looking calculator. The pair of silver-rimmed glasses she had worn before were perched on the end of her nose.

Through the window behind her, he saw a chunk of ice fall to the ground.

She must have heard the small sound he made. Still engrossed in her figures, her head inched upward by slow degrees, her gaze clinging to the figures on the calculator before settling reluctantly on him. She blinked, and then her gray eyes darkened before they frosted over and she frowned. Matt wasn’t sure if she were more annoyed at being interrupted or by the fact that it was him doing the interrupting.

He ignored the lack of welcome and walked in, shutting the door behind him. “I have something for you.” He tossed a package onto her desk, then settled himself casually against the edge.

Claire gave the envelope a cursory glance. “If that’s a script revision, we have a very efficient interoffice mail system. You could have given it to any receptionist.”

“I don’t think that would have been a good idea. If that got into the wrong hands, we’d both have hell to pay.”

The envelope bore the unmistakable outline of a DVD. Claire eyed it again, frowning as if it contained a request for a budget increase.

“I’m not interested in seeing the finished product, if that’s what that is.”

He shook his head. “This isn’t
Lyin’ Hearts
.” He waited a beat, watching her for reaction. “It’s from
Bed of Roses
. The unedited footage.”

“Are you—oh, my God, have you lost your mind?” She half-rose from the chair and jerked the wire frames from her nose so she could glare at him unimpeded.

“You never did get a chance to view your screen debut, did you?” He nodded toward the package. “There it is, in Technicolor. Transferred to DVD for your viewing pleasure.”

“You sadistic son of a—” She broke off stiffly, then breathed in through nostrils that flared ever so slightly. She was clinging to her composure like the string of a helium balloon, fast floating away. Matt decided it was time she lost it.

He braced his chin with his fingers and eyed her appraisingly. “I’ve been critiquing your performance,” he told her. “After all, I was your teacher. I figured I should at least see how my star pupil measured up.”

He saw her flinch, a movement that would have been imperceptible to all but the most observant.

“Don’t tell me you watched that. What kind of sick person are you?” she said in a flat voice, then folded her glasses with a disgusted click, her movement controlled.

Too controlled, he decided. Giving her a calculating look, he crossed his arms and replied, “Sure I watched it. It’s really too bad the picture was never finished. Your performance—if that’s what it was—deserved an Academy nomination. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever worked with anyone quite as good as you.” He raised his eyebrows in a mock salute.

The tiny quiver in her chin was the only clue that she was upset, and even that disappeared when he let his gaze linger on it. As if on cue, she found her voice. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my office. Now.” With a wave of her hand, she dismissed him as if he were a copier salesman. “And take this—this piece of filth with you when you go.” She wrinkled her nose at the package on the desk.

The glow from her desktop computer abruptly went black as he looked at her, ignoring her instructions. Instead, he baited her once again.

“Filth? I prefer to think of it as educational. A documentary. We could call it
The Birth of a Woman.
”

She tapped a pencil on the desk. A typical Claire gesture, he thought:
Tightly Reined Fury.

“You really should get over this obsession you have with the past.” Her eyes narrowed with just the right touch of disdain.

He wanted to applaud her performance. Instead, he agreed with her. “You’re right. I am obsessed. But when the past doesn’t jive with the present, I feel compelled to find out why. Your story doesn’t ring true. All that was garbage you told me, wasn’t it? Sleeping with me just to learn your part—”

“The only garbage is this video! It’s going straight in the trash—or better yet, I’ll burn it.” She reached for it, but his hand got there first.

“Watch it first. I dare you.” His eyes met hers over the desk. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“You’re lying, Claire.” Leaning nearer, he continued. “That woman in the video…tell me, where did she disappear to?” His eyes traveled down her body, what he could see of it, encased in the gray wool of her dress. Past the white collar at her throat, over the trim buttons down the front, to where the sleeves ended in snowy white cuffs at her wrists. Her hand trembled ever so slightly.

He brought his gaze back to her throat, where a strand of pearls disappeared beneath her collar, rising a bit with each breath. She was flustered, he realized. The imperturbable Claire Porter was nervous as hell. The signs were so subtle he would have missed it, except he had been trained to notice the slightest evidence of emotion. The knowledge gave him a tiny thrill of victory, a reaction he wasn’t sure he wanted to examine.

He turned up the pressure. “I remember how hot it was—”

“It was the lights,” she said sharply.

“The lights, hell.” He laughed deep in his throat, then looked deliberately at her lips. “Someone had given us peppermints just before shooting began, remember? I remember tasting it—when I kissed you.”

Her mouth tightened.

“And your hair…it kept getting caught on my face. I remember it smelled like shampoo. Not all flowery, just clean. Like you.”

The pearls against her throat jerked as she swallowed. Her lips parted, as if she were going to speak, but no words came out.

“You had this sexy little intake of breath,” he continued, “and you shivered, like you were cold, every time I touched you.”

She gave a similar shiver now. His voice dropped to a lower register.

“I remember what it felt like—your skin. Soft as the rose petals in that greenhouse.”

She found her voice. “Still remember your lines, I see.”

He laughed, and the tension that had been coiling in his gut eased. “They were pretty corny, weren’t they?”

Claire relaxed back in her chair, her composure settling around her once again like a wool blazer. “You’ve got your own movie to make. You should be making it, not trying to resurrect the past.”