“That’s ridiculous. It’s your story, your people.”
“Was.” He smiled at her. She was becoming indignant for him, and he found it charming. “I sold it, so whatever they’ve done—for better or worse—you won’t hear me complain. And the spotlight most certainly will not be on “based on the novel written by’ tonight.”
“Well, it should be. They’d have nothing without you.”
“Damn right.”
She cut him a glance as they stepped into the lobby. “You’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m adoring you.” He kissed her to prove it, then led her outside where their limo was waiting. “The trick to surviving a Hollywood sale is not to take it too personally.”
“You could have written the screenplay yourself.”
“Do I look like a masochist?” He almost shuddered at the thought. “Thanks, but working with an editor is as close as I ever want to come to writing by committee.” He settled back as the car cruised through traffic. “I get paid well, I get my name on the screen for a few seconds, and if the movie’s a hit—and the early buzz seems to indicate this one will be—my sales soar.”
“Don’t you have any temperament?”
“Plenty of it. Just not about this.”
Their picture was snapped the moment they alighted at the theater. Brianna blinked against the lights, surprised and more than a little disconcerted. He’d indicated that he’d be all but ignored, yet a microphone was thrust at him before they’d taken two steps. Gray answered questions easily, avoided them just as easily, all the while keeping a firm grip on Brianna as they made their way toward the theater.
Dazzled, she looked around. There were people here she’d only seen in glossy magazines, on movie and television screens. Some loitered in the lobby, as ordinary people might, catching a last smoke, chatting over drinks, gossiping or talking shop.
Here and there, Gray introduced her. She made whatever responses seemed right and filed away names and faces for the people back in Clare.
Some dressed up, some dressed down. She saw diamonds, and she saw denim. There were baseball caps and thousand-dollar suits. She smelled popcorn, as she might in any theater on any continent, and that bubble gum scent of candy along with subtle perfumes. And over it all was a thin, glossy coat of glamour.
When they took their seats in the theater, Gray draped his arm over the back of her chair, turned so that his mouth was at her ear. “Impressed?”
“Desperately. I feel I’ve walked into a movie instead of coming to see one.”
“That’s because events like this have nothing to do with reality. Wait until the party after.”
Brianna let out a careful breath. She’d come a long way from Clare, she thought. A long, long way.
She didn’t have much time to chew over it. The lights dimmed, the screen lit. In only moments she felt the sharp, silvery thrill of seeing Gray’s name flash, hold, then fade.
“That’s wonderful,” she whispered. “That’s a wonderful thing.”
“Let’s see if the rest is as good.”
She thought it was. The action swept by, that edge-of-the-seat pace that had her immersed. It didn’t seem to matter that she’d read the book, already knew the twists of plot, recognized whole blocks of Gray’s words in the dialogue. Her stomach still clenched, her lips still curved, her eyes still widened. Once Gray pressed a handkerchief into her hands so she could dry her cheeks.
“You’re the perfect audience, Brie. I don’t know how I’ve watched a movie without you.”
“Ssh.” She sighed, took his hand, and held it through the breathless climax and through the closing credits while applause echoed from the walls.
“I’d say we’ve got a hit.”
“They won’t believe me,” Brianna said as they stepped out of the elevator in the Plaza hours later. “I wouldn’t believe me. I danced with Tom Cruise.” Giggling, a little light-headed on wine and excitement, she turned a quick pirouette. “Do you believe it?”
“I have to.” Gray unlocked the door. “I saw it. He seemed very taken with you.”
“Oh, he just wanted to talk about Ireland. He has a fondness for it. He’s charming, and madly in love with his wife. And to think they might actually come and stay at my house.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me to find the place lousy with celebrities after tonight.” Yawning, Gray toed off his shoes. “You enchanted everyone you spoke with.”
“You Yanks always fall for an Irish voice.” She unclasped her necklace, running the strands through her hands before she laid them in their box. “I’m so proud of you, Gray. Everyone was saying how wonderful the movie was, and all that talk about Oscars.” She beamed at him as she slipped off her earrings. “Imagine, you winning an Oscar.”
“I wouldn’t.” He took off his jacket, tossed it carelessly aside. “I didn’t write the movie.”
“But . . .” She made a sound of disgust, stepping out of her shoes, lowering the zipper of her dress. “That’s just not right. You should have one.”
He grinned, and taking off his shirt glanced over his shoulder at her. But the quip dried like dust on the tip of his tongue.
She stepped out of her dress and was standing there in the little strapless fancy he’d bought to go under it. Midnight blue. Silk. Lace.
Unprepared, he was hard as iron as she bent to unsnap a smoky stocking from its garters. Pretty hands with their neat, unpainted nails skimmed down over one long smooth thigh, over the knee, the calf, tidily rolling the stocking.
She was saying something, but he couldn’t hear it over the buzzing in his head. Part of his brain was warning him to get a choke hold on the violent flare of desire. Another part was urging him to take, as he’d wanted to take. Hard and fast and mindlessly.
Her stockings neatly folded, she reached up to unpin her hair. His hands fisted at his sides as those fired-gold tresses spilled down over bare shoulders. He could hear his own breathing, too quick, too harsh. And could almost, almost feel that silk rip in his hands, feel the flesh beneath go hot, taste that heat as his mouth closed greedily over her.
He forced himself to turn away. He needed only a moment, he assured himself, to reclaim control. It wouldn’t be right to frighten her.
“Was.” He smiled at her. She was becoming indignant for him, and he found it charming. “I sold it, so whatever they’ve done—for better or worse—you won’t hear me complain. And the spotlight most certainly will not be on “based on the novel written by’ tonight.”
“Well, it should be. They’d have nothing without you.”
“Damn right.”
She cut him a glance as they stepped into the lobby. “You’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m adoring you.” He kissed her to prove it, then led her outside where their limo was waiting. “The trick to surviving a Hollywood sale is not to take it too personally.”
“You could have written the screenplay yourself.”
“Do I look like a masochist?” He almost shuddered at the thought. “Thanks, but working with an editor is as close as I ever want to come to writing by committee.” He settled back as the car cruised through traffic. “I get paid well, I get my name on the screen for a few seconds, and if the movie’s a hit—and the early buzz seems to indicate this one will be—my sales soar.”
“Don’t you have any temperament?”
“Plenty of it. Just not about this.”
Their picture was snapped the moment they alighted at the theater. Brianna blinked against the lights, surprised and more than a little disconcerted. He’d indicated that he’d be all but ignored, yet a microphone was thrust at him before they’d taken two steps. Gray answered questions easily, avoided them just as easily, all the while keeping a firm grip on Brianna as they made their way toward the theater.
Dazzled, she looked around. There were people here she’d only seen in glossy magazines, on movie and television screens. Some loitered in the lobby, as ordinary people might, catching a last smoke, chatting over drinks, gossiping or talking shop.
Here and there, Gray introduced her. She made whatever responses seemed right and filed away names and faces for the people back in Clare.
Some dressed up, some dressed down. She saw diamonds, and she saw denim. There were baseball caps and thousand-dollar suits. She smelled popcorn, as she might in any theater on any continent, and that bubble gum scent of candy along with subtle perfumes. And over it all was a thin, glossy coat of glamour.
When they took their seats in the theater, Gray draped his arm over the back of her chair, turned so that his mouth was at her ear. “Impressed?”
“Desperately. I feel I’ve walked into a movie instead of coming to see one.”
“That’s because events like this have nothing to do with reality. Wait until the party after.”
Brianna let out a careful breath. She’d come a long way from Clare, she thought. A long, long way.
She didn’t have much time to chew over it. The lights dimmed, the screen lit. In only moments she felt the sharp, silvery thrill of seeing Gray’s name flash, hold, then fade.
“That’s wonderful,” she whispered. “That’s a wonderful thing.”
“Let’s see if the rest is as good.”
She thought it was. The action swept by, that edge-of-the-seat pace that had her immersed. It didn’t seem to matter that she’d read the book, already knew the twists of plot, recognized whole blocks of Gray’s words in the dialogue. Her stomach still clenched, her lips still curved, her eyes still widened. Once Gray pressed a handkerchief into her hands so she could dry her cheeks.
“You’re the perfect audience, Brie. I don’t know how I’ve watched a movie without you.”
“Ssh.” She sighed, took his hand, and held it through the breathless climax and through the closing credits while applause echoed from the walls.
“I’d say we’ve got a hit.”
“They won’t believe me,” Brianna said as they stepped out of the elevator in the Plaza hours later. “I wouldn’t believe me. I danced with Tom Cruise.” Giggling, a little light-headed on wine and excitement, she turned a quick pirouette. “Do you believe it?”
“I have to.” Gray unlocked the door. “I saw it. He seemed very taken with you.”
“Oh, he just wanted to talk about Ireland. He has a fondness for it. He’s charming, and madly in love with his wife. And to think they might actually come and stay at my house.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me to find the place lousy with celebrities after tonight.” Yawning, Gray toed off his shoes. “You enchanted everyone you spoke with.”
“You Yanks always fall for an Irish voice.” She unclasped her necklace, running the strands through her hands before she laid them in their box. “I’m so proud of you, Gray. Everyone was saying how wonderful the movie was, and all that talk about Oscars.” She beamed at him as she slipped off her earrings. “Imagine, you winning an Oscar.”
“I wouldn’t.” He took off his jacket, tossed it carelessly aside. “I didn’t write the movie.”
“But . . .” She made a sound of disgust, stepping out of her shoes, lowering the zipper of her dress. “That’s just not right. You should have one.”
He grinned, and taking off his shirt glanced over his shoulder at her. But the quip dried like dust on the tip of his tongue.
She stepped out of her dress and was standing there in the little strapless fancy he’d bought to go under it. Midnight blue. Silk. Lace.
Unprepared, he was hard as iron as she bent to unsnap a smoky stocking from its garters. Pretty hands with their neat, unpainted nails skimmed down over one long smooth thigh, over the knee, the calf, tidily rolling the stocking.
She was saying something, but he couldn’t hear it over the buzzing in his head. Part of his brain was warning him to get a choke hold on the violent flare of desire. Another part was urging him to take, as he’d wanted to take. Hard and fast and mindlessly.
Her stockings neatly folded, she reached up to unpin her hair. His hands fisted at his sides as those fired-gold tresses spilled down over bare shoulders. He could hear his own breathing, too quick, too harsh. And could almost, almost feel that silk rip in his hands, feel the flesh beneath go hot, taste that heat as his mouth closed greedily over her.
He forced himself to turn away. He needed only a moment, he assured himself, to reclaim control. It wouldn’t be right to frighten her.
