Sunny Chandler's Return

“Maybe. Whatever it was, I fell for it.”

“He swept you off your feet?”

“He made me feel giddy and breathless. After being around campus types who wore musty tweeds, affected Ivy League accents, and smoked pipes, Charlie was refreshing, with his rakish leather jacket, his Southwestern twang, and his dashing smile.” Her blue eyes were glowing. Her lips were slightly parted and moist from frequent licking. Through them her breath rushed, lightly and thinly. “It was exciting just to be near him.”

“I can imagine,” he remarked wryly.

It was a new emotion for him, jealousy. He’d been struck. The fangs of the green-eyed monster had sunk in deep. Jealousy was pumping like poisonous venom through his system with each heartbeat.

He could imagine the effervescence she felt in her chest because it matched his own, that sexual awareness that made one tingle all over, that unspoken knowledge that something good was going on and that, given liberty, it would get even better. It wreaked havoc on one’s erogenous zones and played Russian roulette with one’s judgment. It was hell. And it was heaven. Poets and lyricists, try though they might, couldn’t pen words to describe that twisting tightness in one’s chest, that delicious pressure in one’s loins, that fizzy fever in one’s blood.

But, dammit, he wondered if Kirsten was feeling it vicariously through her recollections of another man, or was it for him? Was Demon Rumm responsible for that turbulence in her blue eyes? Or was Rylan North?

Apparently his eyes were as hot as his blood. His piercing stare must have frightened her. She moved quickly, swinging her feet to the floor.

“It’s getting late and I’ve got five pages to rewrite tomorrow.”

With one lithe movement, he was on his feet, facing her and bracketing her shoulders between his hands. “It’s not that late. I’m not finished.”

“Well, I am.” She tried to squirm free, but he wouldn’t let her go. He wasn’t hurting her; his eyes exercised far more force than his hands. He could have compelled her to stay even without touching her.

“He asked you to dance, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“What did you dance to?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Like hell you don’t. You remember everything else. What did you dance to?”

“What does it matter?”

“Precisely. What does it matter?”

Resigned, she said, “The crowd had mellowed out. They were playing a lot of slow dances on the jukebox. Neil Diamond, late Beatles, the Carpenters.”

“Got any?”

He released her and walked over to the wall that had a sound system built into it. He began riffling through the wooden rack that held her compact discs.

“No, I don’t have any of those,” she said. “I don’t think. I’m not sure.”

“Then we’ll improvise. Chicago or REO Speedwagon? ‘Careless Whisper’ by Wham? What do you prefer?”

“This is crazy. Do you mean for us to dance?”

“That’s the general idea. It’s in the script. I need to research it.” He chose the Chicago album and turned on the sophisticated machine. In a moment the music filled the room from various hidden speakers. He adjusted the volume to suit him and came back to her. “How did he hold you?”

“This isn’t necessary, Rylan.”

That was the first time she had used his name. It had been spoken in exasperation, but he’d take it any way he could get it. Smiling, he slid his right arm around her waist. “It’s necessary for me.”

“Why?” She resisted when he tried to draw her closer.

“Because we haven’t filmed this scene yet. I want to get it right.”

“I sound like a broken record. Read my book.”