Starstruck (17 page)

“Then don’t sit around in half-lit rooms, playing soft music and wearing that skimpy top without a bra!”

“It’s hot!” Liv retorted, bounding to her feet and flinging the book down on the couch. “And I’ve been wearing this skimpy top all evening and you haven’t said a word till now!”

“What was I supposed to say in front of all those big-eared children, ‘Put a bra on, sweetie; seeing you falling out of that shirt is driving me wild’?”

Liv made a strangled sound, wrapping her arms across her breasts. “The only thing you think about is sex!”

“I’m human,” he said. “Put a normal human male in the same room with a woman he’s attracted to, dim the lights and play seductive music and dress her in tight jeans and a flimsy shirt that—”

“At least it’s buttoned,” Liv shouted, her eyes raking his chest w
hich was still visible beyond th
e open front of his shirt.

“Turned you on, did I?” he mocked, his hands going to his shirt front, doing up the buttons with a seductive slowness that was calculated to drive her mad. Only Joe Harrington, she thought, could make getting dressed seem sexy.

“No,” she lied. “After all these years I’m quite familiar with the male body. I shouldn’t think yours is substantially different from Tom’s.” Which was, she realized, almost as absurd as saying that a Maserati wasn’t much different from a middle-of-the-line Ford.

“It’s not the body, it’s the performance,” Joe replied and stuck his tongue in his
cheek, a grin twitching the corn
ers of his mouth. “But in the interests of preserving your blasted treaty, I’ll forbear—for the moment—to demonstrate mine.”

Thank heaven, Liv thought, trembling all the way to her toes. If he knew how strongly he affected her their treaty would be in shreds in seconds. She’d never been one for believing in a strong defense, but with Joe Harrington she could definitely see merits to that argument for the first time. “I would appreciate it,” she said coolly, having paused long enough to get a good grip on her emotional response to him. “In any case, since your tolerance for seeing my body appears to be severely limited, I’ll just remove it. Good night.”

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard him snort, “Good?” and that one word echoed in her mind all the while she was brushing her teeth and getting into her thin cotton nightgown that she was desperately glad Joe wouldn’t see.

Even after she had checked on the children and had got into bed, her cheeks still burned and her heart pounded as she remembered the look on his face as he stood glaring at her. The march music ended abruptly downstairs and she heard his footsteps pass her room on the way to his. Moments later the shower was running again. Cold, no doubt, she thought. She wished she were taking one herself—anything to soothe the heat that coursed through her body as she remembered his gaze. It was going to be a long week.

I
n fact it was nowhere near as trying an experience as she had imagined it might be. Joe’s march music the first night set the tone for the entire interlude. The days were upbeat, peppy, cheerful—at least as much so as a household full of children whose entire vocabulary ran to “I itch,” and “Mommy, I’m burning,” and “Mommy, can I have some Kool-Aid?” could be. She marveled that
Joe stood it as well as he did; he saw them for far more of the day than she did. But he was unfailingly easygoing and seemed to cope far better than the average father might have.

It’s because they aren’t his, she reminded herself.
He
knows he can tell them when to leave. If they bug
him
enough we’re the ones who will be out on our ears, not he. But she suspected that she was selling him short.
She
had to, however. If she didn’t it was far too easy to simply let her fantasies run away with her. What would it
be
like to come home to him every night, she
found herself
wondering more than once.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said aloud now as she shut off the light in her bedroom, having determined that Jennifer, whom she was sharing the bed with, was fast asleep. “He’s not going to turn himself into a house-husband just for your convenience,” she told herself and pulled the door shut, padding down the hall to the room Stephen and Theo were sharing. The thought of Joe as a house-husband was almost laughable. A pity it was also so tempting.

“Can’t we stay up?” Theo asked plaintively when she went to switch out their light. “There’s an old movie of Joe’s on tonight.”

“You’re too young for any of Joe’s old movies,” she said, smiling as she kissed his scabby nose. “Besides, the real thing is right downstairs.”

“Yeah, but he isn’t half as exciting,” Stephen grumbled, shutting his book.

“Tell me about it,” Liv said lightly. He was quite exciting enough, thank you, she thought as she kissed Stephen and put out the light. “Good night,” she told them both. “Maybe you won’t itch so much tomorrow.”

“Don’t talk about itching,” Stephen growled. “It just makes it worse. It’s terrible being reminded.”

“I know what you mean,” Liv replied
.
“I’m sorry.” She gave him a short wave of her hand before pulling the door closed. A living reminder of her own personal
“itch” was right downstairs. It wasn’t just a physical itch, either. That she could have rationalized away.
That
was the sort of thing she could have joked about with Frances. What she was beginning to feel about Joe was far more than that. Of course she was aware of him as a man. Who wouldn’t be, she almost snorted as she went down the stairs. His smouldering glances were even more effective in person than in wide-screen technicolor. But then, so was everything else about him—his caring, his gentleness, his patience with the kids, his tolerance of her treaties and her one-foot rules. He might be a famous actor, a talented director, and a struggling screenwriter, but he was also just about the most marvelous man she had ever met. She stopped at the foot of the stairs to stand and simply look at him.

Joe was hunched over his typewriter, where he had been since helping her with the dinner dishes. She had hustled the kids out of his way, determined to give him some time for himself, and occasionally she had heard the tap-tap of the machine while she was bathing them and reading stories, but now he sat unmoving, his head resting on the top of the machine, hands limp in his lap, looking like a sacrifice to twentieth century technology. Liv felt an almost overpowering urge of longing for him, wanting to go up behind him and rub the tension out of his slumped shoulders and run her fingers through his thick disheveled hair. But that, she knew, would be extreme foolishness, especially when it was because of her wishes that they had a treaty at all. So she crossed quietly to the sofa and sank down, observing as she did so, “You look exhausted.”

Her voice caused Joe to raise his head, but he didn’t turn around, staring instead at the sheet of paper halftyped in front of him. “I am,” he confessed, the weariness evident simply in his ragged tone of voice.

“The kids are too much for you,” Liv said quickly, smote by another pang of guilt for all she was taking from him while giving nothing in return.

“No,” he disagreed. “It’s not the kids at all. It’s this play.” He waved a hand at the paper in the typewriter and the crumpled ones in the wastebasket beside the table.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything. The characters are f
l
at.”
He sighed and stretched his arm
s over his head. “The scenes don’t move. You name it, it’s wrong.”

“May I read it?” She didn’t know how she dared ask it, except that somehow she had the notion that perhaps it would help him to share some of the frustration he obviously felt.

Joe looked at her skeptically.

“I do know something about writing,” she went on hurriedly. “It is my job and all.”

He seemed to consider this, then a half-smile tugged at his mouth and he shrugged. “Sure, why not? But it isn’t very good,” he added self-consciously. He handed her the thin manuscript and watched as she settled back against the cushions and began to read. Then he got up and paced to the sliding doors overlooking the patio and came back again. Once she had the manuscript in her hands, she didn’t notice him again, starting instead to read. When she finally looked up, having finished as much as he had given her, she found him leaning against the fireplace, arms folded across his chest, his hooded green eyes watching her carefully.

“I’m not much of a writer, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically before she could speak. “I’m just beginning to find that out.”

Liv shook her head emphatically. “On the contrary, I think you have the core of a really intriguing story here. A love story set against a revolution like the Spanish Civil War has a lot of potential.”

“More than I have,” Joe said with a humility that she found strangely touching. “But the period has always in
terested me and, well—
” He shrugged, embarrassed.

“I think you have a really good start,” Liv said, tuck
in
g her knees under her and snuggling more comfortably into the comer of the couch. “But I think you have to give Elena more of a chance to prove herself. She’s flatter than Pio as a character, less of a mover, more of a pawn. But every now and then she shows flashes of spirit that make me like her a lot.” She tapped the manuscript with her fingernail. “You’ve got to let her go.”

Joe frowned, but not angrily, merely as if she weren’t making herself completely clear. “What do you mean?” he asked, coming across the room and sitting down beside her.

“Here.” Liv pointed to the scene she had just finished
reading. “She is furious with Pi
o, and rightly so, I would think. But just when she’s ready to tell him off, she inexplicably calms down. Why?”

Joe grinned. “I guess I was empathizing with P
i
o.”

“Well, I empathize with Elena,” Liv retorted, then grinned self-consciously because she had, in fact, felt a real rapport with Joe’s fledgling character. “How about just letting her follow through with her anger? What would happen?”

Joe rested his elbows on his knees, closing his eyes, considering her question. Then he nodded slowly. “Yeah. I see what you’re saying.
If she really spoke up, then…
” He opened his eyes, a glimmer of excitement shining in them. “You’re right, I think. Let me try it.” He bounded
off
the couch and sat down at the typewriter and began banging away. “Will you read it again when I’ve got this?”

“Of course.” Meanwhile she simply relaxed, enjoying the luxury of just studying him. He typed for almost an hour, and she was nearly dozing when he handed her several pages. She read them, immediately caught up again in the lives of his two protagonists.

“Well?” Joe demanded, hands on his hips, regarding her almost belligerently.

“I like it.” She smiled.

So did he. Then reaching for the pages, he said, “Let me add some more while it’s still fresh in my mind.
Okay?” He gave her a boyish grin of sheer enthusiasm and Liv grinned back.

“Go to it.”

He was still at it two hours later when the Seth Thomas clock on the mantelpiece chimed twelve and Liv uncurled from her catnap on the couch and stared at his fingers moving quickly over the typewriter keys. For a man who was weary hours ago, he seemed to have got a second wind. His hawklike concentration was evident in his profile; he scowled intently at the keys, pondering, then typed some more. Liv smiled and stretched. Joe typed. She yawned and got slowly to her feet, trying to loosen the crimps in her back and neck she had got by falling asleep on the couch. Her loose peasant blouse stuck to her, a remnant of the sultry summer night, and she shook it, trying to get a breath of cool air. Joe had left the screens open to the patio and she heard the buzz of cicadas over the hum of the air conditioner she had turned on in the boys’ room earlier that night. She remembered nights like this when she was married to Tom, when she had fallen asleep while he sat up watching a late film. “Just like an old married couple,” she remembered Joe saying the first night they had washed dishes together in this house. Yes, she thought, it was. She looked at his dark head bent over the typewriter and longed to go over and tousle his hair, to give him a kiss and promise to meet him upstairs. If they were married, she would.

If they were married
!
How many times had she thought that lately? It was a hazard of agreeing to share his house. But at times it seemed as if they were married— they were sharing a closeness, a partnership. And tonight they had even shared his work. For a change she had given something, even though it was only some simple ideas, and Joe had taken them. In that, at least, they were closer than she and Tom had ever been. What would Joe do, she wondered, if she did bend over and kiss his cheek before going up the stairs? She hovered,
considering. But she didn’t consider long. The evening had been beautiful. They had relaxed together, shared something together, something important. She didn’t dare spoil it even if, deep inside, she knew she was tempted to ask for more. For years to come all she would have of Joe Harrington would be her memories and she wanted them to be good ones—ones she would look back on with joy and fondness, not ones that would cause her heartache and tears.