Triple Threat (7 page)

Oh, wait. She’d already done that with Nick, and look where that had gotten her.

Ethan had won out in the end. Sort of. She’d gone, but not home. Instead, she’d stopped by Naboombu, the cozy underground bar around the corner from her East Village apartment, where Devin Padilla, her upstairs neighbor and best NYC gal pal, tended bar. If Holly was going to drown her sorrows, she could count on Devin to drag her home.

They made an odd pair. Holly, the suburban-housewife refugee. Devin, with her multiple piercings and tattoos. But Devin’s recent bad breakup had required just as much ice cream as Holly’s divorce, and they’d commiserated over multiple pints of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra.

“So what happens now?” Devin picked up a cloth and swirled circles down the length of the bar.

Holly knocked down another swig of Scotch. “Beats me.”

She checked her cell phone for what must have been the hundredth time. No messages. Four bars. And yes, the ringer was on high. “But if this show goes belly-up before it even opens, it’ll take years for me to get another shot at Broadway.”

“Why? It’s not your fault the place burned down.”

“That’s not the point. The fire’s just the latest—and worst—in a string of catastrophes. It’s like the show’s doomed. No one’s going to want to take a chance on it. Or on me.”

A man at the opposite end of the bar raised his empty mug and eyeballed Devin. With a sympathetic look at Holly, she tossed the cloth onto her shoulder and went to refill the guy’s beer, leaving Holly alone with her Scotch and fatalistic attitude. A dangerous combination, if there ever was one. What if they couldn’t find another theater? What if the show had to be canceled? What if Nick left town and they never got a chance to finish what they’d started in his hotel room?

Stop. Wait. Whoa.
Where the heck had that come from? Holly downed the rest of her Scotch, hoping the burning sensation would erase her last thought. It didn’t.

She so did not want to go there, but once her brain started down that dangerous path, her thoughts filled with images of her and Nick. Naked, sweaty and entwined.

It was official. She was an idiot. She’d had the man of her dreams in the palm of her hand—literally, she thought, remembering the feel of his smooth, bare chest—and she’d blown it. What was she so worried about? Her scars? Badges of honor. She was a survivor of domestic violence and should be proud of it, not hiding like a scared rabbit. The fact that she and Nick were working together? Big deal. Coworkers hooked up all the time. Wasn’t Noelle always going on about the affaires de coeur in the corps de ballet?

And that point would be moot soon anyway. Without a theater, there wouldn’t be a show. And without a show, she’d be collecting unemployment. Or walking dogs again, her family whispering behind her back about the demise of yet another one of “Holly’s follies.” Nick would go back to playing superheroes for billions. Or maybe he’d branch out into ancient warriors or Greek gods.

“You think too much.” Devin was back, replacing Holly’s empty glass with a tumbler of foamy white liquid. “I’m afraid to ask what’s going on in there sometimes.”

“Don’t.” Holly sipped the frothy concoction, hoping the rich, sweet taste would obliterate the lingering flavor of the Scotch and the memory of Nick’s kiss.

“Whatever it is, I’m jealous.” Devin strong-armed a tray of glasses onto the bar and grabbed a clean towel to wipe them dry. “I could swear there’s steam rising off your skin.”

“It’s steamy, all right.”

“Then it must involve your Hottie McHothot movie star.”

“He is not
my
movie star.” Holly shook her head, regretting her decision in a moment of girl-bonding over a
True Blood
marathon to tell Devin about her renewed obsession with Nick.

“But he could be.”

“What makes you say that?”

Devin smiled and waved her towel at the door. “He just walked in.”

“Not funny.” But normally cool, biker-tough Devin was beaming like an awestruck fangirl. Holly’s stomach dropped.

“No way,” she whispered.

“Way,” Devin mouthed back.

Holly spun on her stool, and there was Nick walking toward her, nine kinds of fine in a black leather jacket, heather-gray T-shirt and his customary jeans, faded and seemingly shrink-wrapped to his thighs. In a few strides, he crossed the narrow bar and was at her side.

“Okay if I sit here?”

Those five words took her back fifteen years. She eyed Nick, wondering if he realized he’d said the same thing to her on the dock that night?

“Feel free,” she answered, trying to sound indifferent. Not an easy feat when just the sound of his voice made her whole body hum like a tuning fork. At least this time she’d managed more than “Uh, yeah.”

And then he was next to her. Sitting. Leaning. His knee brushed hers, ratcheting the hum up to a dull roar.

Devin ditched the towel and leaned against the bar, giving Nick an eyeful of her ample cleavage. “What can I get you?”

“Traitor,” Holly muttered, shooting daggers at her. Devin smiled and shrugged as if to say,
You’re not interested. That makes him fair game. Right?

Right,
Holly told herself.
Not interested. Fair game
. No matter what her mutinous, pulsating body said.

“Scotch.” Nick placed his order, either completely oblivious to her back-and-forth with Devin or totally ignoring it. “Neat. Macallan, if you have it.”

“We might. For you.” Devin swept a hand through her long dark hair and Holly fought the urge to leap over the bar and tackle her. “Let me check the boss’s private stock.”

“How come he gets the good stuff?” Holly complained.

Nick shifted in his seat and his leg brushed hers again, shooting her pulse into the red zone. “Maybe because I can tell the difference.”

“There’s that,” Devin cooed, batting her thick, full eyelashes at him. The hussy. “Plus, you’re prettier than her. And you asked real polite. Besides,” she continued, turning to Holly, “I’ve been watering yours down when you weren’t looking. Otherwise you’d be on the floor by now. No bartender worth her salt would do that to Macallan.”

“Amen to that.” Nick raised a mock glass in salute.

“Thanks a lot,” Holly grumbled. No wonder she didn’t feel wasted.

“You kids play nice until I get back,” Devin called over her shoulder as she sashayed around the bar. “And if Frankie down there at the end wants another, tell him he’s cut off.”

“As if,” Holly fired back but not quickly enough. Devin disappeared down the hall leading to the office and storage room.

“Friend of yours?” Nick asked.

“Yeah. You can autograph her chest later.” Holly toyed with the swizzle stick in her drink. “How did you find me?”

“Ethan. He gave me your address. Said if you weren’t there, you’d probably be here.”

Wow. He’d wormed her address out of Ethan—which, okay, probably wasn’t that hard—trekked all the way downtown, then followed her to Naboombu. All so he could... What? Hold her hand? Dry her tears? Or maybe he planned to console her more...intimately.

Holly’s breath quickened at the thought and she pressed her cold glass against her cheek in a vain attempt to stop the flush she felt from spreading across her face. Did Nick still want her? Was that why he’d tracked her down? And what if he did?

“I spoke with Ted.”

Nick’s voice was like a bucket of cold water doused over her head. Of course, he was here to discuss the show. “Any progress?” she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t look good. Everything suitable is booked until fall. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except...”

“Except if we wait that long we risk losing you.”

“Unfortunately.”

“And Malcolm.”

“Now,
that
would be tragic,” he drawled.

Devin came back with Nick’s Scotch and they drank silently while she went to handle Frankie, who was banging his mug impatiently on the bar.

Nick was the one to break the silence. “I’m sorry, Holly,” he said. “I wish...”

“I know.” After a long pause, she asked, “Will you go back to L.A.?”

“Dunno. Probably.” He leaned back, swirling the Scotch around in his glass. “Maybe make a quick stop home first.”

“Stockton?”

He nodded and stared into his drink.

“When was the last time you were there?”

“Fifteen years ago.”

“You mean you haven’t been back?”

“Nope.” He lifted his glass and downed the contents. “Not since I left.”

“What about your parents?” As much as they sometimes annoyed her, Holly couldn’t imagine going that long without seeing her family. Even during the last few years of her marriage, when Clark had done his best to cut her off from the rest of the world, she’d managed to see them on holidays.

“My mom visits me on the West Coast twice a year.”

“And your dad?”

A hint of the vulnerable teenager she’d seen that night at the cast party flashed across Nick’s handsome face. “He doesn’t travel.”

“Oh.” She watched his expression flatten and calm, the boy within him disappearing. Nick was a man toughened—and blessed—by life. But maybe he was as much of a screw-up in his family as anyone else.

As much as her.

He tunneled a hand through his luscious, too-long locks and dropped his empty glass down on the bar. “Enough about me. I came here to make sure you’re okay. Unless you’d rather be alone...”

“I’m...” She started to give her standard “I’m fine,” then stopped. She wasn’t fine. She was a churning mass of competing emotions, not one of them “fine.” And the last thing she wanted was to be alone.

What she wanted was Nick. Touching her. Kissing her. Making her forget that the show she’d banked her reputation on was dead in the water, that she’d soon be back in Stockton, living with her parents. And while she didn’t want to go fifteen years without seeing them, moving in with them wasn’t exactly part of her master plan.

Holly knew if she and Nick picked up where they’d left off that day in his hotel room, they weren’t going to stop with touching and kissing. She also knew he’d be gone before she could say off-off-Broadway, back to the sun, surf and starlets in L.A. But she didn’t care. Nick was here with her now.

And it wasn’t as if she was looking for anything permanent. She’d been there, done that, gone down in flames. Clark had seemed so harmless, the prototypical mild-mannered science geek, complete with glasses and pocket protector. Yet marrying him had wound up being the most dangerous decision she’d ever made.

Sleeping with Nick would be dangerous, too, but for far different reasons. He might not pose a threat to her body—at least not the way Clark had—but there was a good chance that, if she let him, he could walk away with her heart and soul. A real triple threat, never mind the whole acting, singing and dancing thing.

So just make sure you don’t let him,
she told herself. Easier said than done, but the heat coursing through her body—whether from the alcohol or Nick’s earthy, totally male scent—was telling her it was time she started taking some risks in her personal life. And Nick Damone was six foot plus of heart-stopping, lip-smacking risk personified.

“I’m glad you’re here. I could use some company tonight.”

“At your service.” He gestured toward her half-empty glass. “Can I buy you another?”

“Actually, I was thinking we should...”

“Should?” He inched his bar stool closer to hers.

“Maybe...”

“Maybe?”

She stared up at the ball game on TV. If she looked at him, she’d never get out what she needed to say. As it was, her words came out in a breathless rush. “Go somewhere a little more private.”

She felt Nick tense beside her. Heard him inhale sharply. “Where did you have in mind?”

He rested his arm on the back of her bar stool, skimming her shoulder with his fingers. Heat radiated down her arm and crackled across her chest. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t believe she was going to do this. She took a hefty slug of her mudslide for Dutch courage and turned to him, running a hand up his leg until it came to rest on his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch so he couldn’t possibly misunderstand her. His muscles twitched under her palm.

“My place.”

7

H
E WAS THE
luckiest son of a bitch on earth.

“Are you sure?” Nick asked.

Holly nodded. “Positive.” Her voice, low and breathy, crawled up his spine like naughty fingers, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake. “One night before you go. No strings.”

He threw a stack of bills down on the bar, not bothering to count them, and grabbed the hand that was only millimeters from his throbbing dick. “Then let’s get out of here,” he growled, pulling her up from the stool and practically dragging her toward the door. He pushed it open, blasting them with warm air.

“Leaving so soon?” Devin hollered after them.

“I’ll text you,” Holly called back.

“Tomorrow,” Nick added as he hauled her outside, the door slamming shut behind them. He looked left, then right, relieved to find the street virtually deserted. Not a paparazzo in sight. The New York photogs were way less vigilant than their L.A. counterparts. Yet another check in the pros column for the Big Apple. Just to be safe, he hung a sharp right and rounded the corner of the bar, moving them away from the glare of the streetlights and into a dark, shadowy alley along the side of the building.

“My apartment’s that way,” Holly protested, pointing in the opposite direction.

“First this.” He backed her against the wall and planted a palm on either side of her head, against the rough brick. With one knee, he nudged her legs apart and edged between them. Dipping his head, he captured her lips, first gently, coaxing them open with a sweep of his tongue, then, when he felt her arch against his chest, more deeply, more forcefully.

He lowered his hands and cupped her sweet, round ass. He squeezed lightly, savoring the feel of her, all soft and warm. Like a woman should feel. A far cry from the stick figures in Hollywood.

He tugged her closer for a better fit, molding her to him so she could feel his rock-hard erection. She gasped and he pulled back, raising his head to look at her. Her eyes shone and her breathing was choppy. He couldn’t tell if she wanted to hit him or jump his bones.