Love in Reality: A Contemporary Romance (The Blackjack Quartet) (25 page)

“Cold?”

She shook her head. “I was thinking about the other night, about what you felt like naked, the scent of your skin. Very intoxicating,” she admitted.

He groaned. “So why are we still outdoors?” he asked rhetorically. He looked over at the road. “Okay, it’s not too bad. The hotel’s just up there.” She expected him to pull away, but he started to kiss her again, deeply and just on the edge of control. His desire for her made her ache.

Finally, she pushed away from him. “Let’s go. I want the rest of our time together to be clothing optional.”

* * *

The lobby looked empty, but they had the bad luck of passing two couples, the wives chatting happily, followed by their older husbands, coming from what must have been a very late drink in the bar. Rand made the mistake of recognizing one of the men. Saul Berenson, a producer friend of his dad’s. Worse yet, Saul recognized him.

“Randall Jennings,” Berenson said warmly. “Jerry, this is Alan’s son,” he added for his companion’s benefit.

Rand turned quickly to Lissa. “I need a minute. Meet me by the elevators?”

She looked alarmed, but when she ducked her head and tugged her baseball cap lower, Rand figured she understood why he was doing this.

“Sorry about that,” he said to Saul and Jerry. “She doesn’t want to be recognized.” That was a true statement, if wildly misleading.

Men of the world, Saul and Jerry nodded sagely, then Saul changed the subject. “So Alan told me about a screenplay you’re working on. A satire that skewers the reality TV industry, he says.”

Rand’s jaw sagged. His dad pitched the screenplay for him? “Yeah, well, it’s not done yet,” he began.

Saul waved a hand in the air. “No, no, I get that. I’ve been watching the show, what’s it called?
The Fishery
? I’m trying to figure out who the ringers are.” Saul’s Brooklyn accent made it sound like “ringuhs.”

Rand struggled to answer him. Here it was, the break he’d dreamed of. Infuriating that it had to come via his dad. Still, Saul Berenson was a good mid-level producer. Working with him would be a dream start for a rookie filmmaker. But shit, Lissa was right around the corner.

“I’m glad you’re interested,” Rand stalled. He tensed his muscles to keep from checking on Lissa.

Saul reached out to pat Rand on the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Send me the script when it’s done. I love the idea and I think it would test well as a smaller budget film. Heh heh, you got anyone in mind for Marcy Edelstein? I was thinking Annette Bening.”

Rand mirrored Saul’s grin automatically, but his lips felt tight and stiff. “There are so many great actresses in that age group.”

Jerry piped up. “Diane Keaton still looks good.”

Rand had to smile at the idea of Diane Keaton playing a hard-edged type like Marcy.

“Jerry’s on the financing side,” Saul explained.

“Nice to meet you,” Rand said, without meaning a word of it. A year ago, he’d have killed to have a meeting with Saul, and even the idiotic Jerry. Today, this was like watching the first quivers before the mudslide engulfs you. Saul’s gossip might make it back to Marcy’s ears—and that was the least of Rand’s worries. He could only imagine what Lissa’s reaction would be if she learned that he wanted her as a love interest for his fictional persona.

“Look, fellas, I still need to get through the rest of the season before I can pitch the screenplay. You know?” Rand implored.

Saul nodded vigorously, and Jerry joined in. “Of course, kid. Call me when it’s ready.” They set off toward their wives. Rand could hear Saul saying, “It’s like
The Devil Wears Prada
meets…I dunno. Some psychological thriller. I forget which one,” as they walked away.

Rand pushed his hands through his hair, then turned toward the elevator. As soon as he’d tugged Lissa in after him, he put his hands on her hips and hauled her into a voracious kiss. He wanted to lose himself in her until the entire entertainment industry fell into the Pacific Ocean and drowned.

* * *

Libby wasn’t sure what those men had said, but Rand’s playful mood was gone, replaced by a flood of passion. Not that she was complaining.

He could barely take his hands off her long enough to unlock the door. In the hotel room, they shucked their clothes immediately before kissing their way to the bed.

Rand pressed her back against the covers, nuzzling her neck and making small noises that she felt in her bones. Libby arched, murmuring, “Please,” with no clear idea what she wanted. She wanted it all. He was kissing her breasts—lips and tongue, even his teeth, used with precision and abandon all at once.

“Rand,” she implored. He moved a hand down to her sex, slick and warm. Everything he was doing made her want more, and then more again. His mouth started to move down there but not before he’d taken her hands off his body and placed them on her own breasts, using his fingers to show hers what to do. “Oh, God,” she groaned.

“Don’t stop,” he told her.

He didn’t stop either, cradling her hips, kissing, sucking, lapping until she’d been wound tighter than ever, high and tight and then letting go. Soaring, throbbing, coming hard.

She floated in the aftermath of her orgasm, but Rand had a knack for bringing her back to the top of the roller coaster. She hadn’t thought she could climax again—he was clearly very good at this. When he moved up her body, Libby clasped his erection, fingering that one spot that made his face go slack. They were playing a little game—a delicate exercise in arousal. She shifted around to get a condom, then pushed him flat on his back.

“Fair play,” she told him.

His smell was heady and sweet, his skin damp satin in places, warm velvet in others. She tried to taste her way down his body the way he had for her, but he was making it hard. He wouldn’t lie back the way she had for him. She tried that trick with putting his hands where hers had been, but he just laughed at her and slid his open palms down her back. When he got to her hips, she pulled away.

“Not yet,” she said. She unrolled a condom on his cock. He expected her to stay on top but that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted him on top of her, pressing down and into her. She tugged him over to her side of the bed, opening her legs and herself to receive him.

It was a blur after that, an athletic effort to keep pace with him, sensation for sensation. When she got close, his touch became expert at pressing harder and stimulating her just so.

Several long moments later, Libby cautiously opened one eye. Rand was lying on top of her, breathing heavily, his face tucked into the side of her neck.

“Mmm, wait,” he mumbled. “I’ll move.”

She curved her arms around his back. “No need.” He was heavy, but it felt nice.

They stayed like that for a while before Rand excused himself. Libby gradually realized the bed was turned down in proper hotel fashion, meaning the covers were rather unevenly distributed beneath her. It took some effort to slide between the sheets.

When Rand emerged from the bathroom, she smiled at him. “That was…” Really, was there even a word for it that didn’t sound trite? She let her voice trail off.

He grinned. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said.

He looked around the room. “Do you want something from the minibar? Room service?”

Libby considered this but declined. “I’m on Fish Food for the week, remember? I know this must seem absurd given what we just did, but eating something real would feel like cheating.”

He laughed. “Yeah, that’s weird. But we all have our own funny form of ethics, I guess.”

“Like I can lie to everyone about being involved with you, but I still won’t eat a hamburger because it would violate a rule of a game I have no intention of winning.”

“Like that.”

“And you’ll break goodness knows how many rules to pull a fast one on your boss, but you won’t help me win.”

“Odd, I thought we both just won.”

“Cute.”

He climbed into bed next to her. “So I’m guessing TV is out of the question,” he said.

“It just seems like a waste. I can watch all the TV I want back home. Right now, I want to be with you.”

“I may need a little time yet,” he warned.

“I meant talking with you,” she said. What she really wanted was this closeness. She snuggled next to him and he obligingly wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Or not talking.”

“I want to ask you something,” he said a few minutes later.

Libby tensed briefly. “Unh-hunh?”

“How serious are you about your bartending job?”

Oh, lord, what was the answer to that? He was essentially asking her for the phony future plans of a fictitious person who was neither Lissa nor Libby. “I don’t know. Why?”

He didn’t answer her for a long time. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Did he want her to quit her faux-studies and move to L.A.? And what if he did? She could finish law school here, but was that what she wanted?

Yes, if it meant staying with Rand.

She closed her eyes. Oh, God. It was true—she felt much more for him than just a summer fling. That wasn’t a surprise, not really, but the intensity of it shocked her. She could move here, if he asked. That wasn’t a very Libby thing to contemplate, but she wasn’t that Libby anymore. She had always been the stable one, the one with the five-year plan. Now she wasn’t sure what her future looked like.

Libby only knew the present. Unbearable to wonder how her relationship with Rand might turn out. Until she could tell him the truth, they’d be building on shifting sand.

“I just wondered,” he said finally. She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. In the end, she fell asleep.

Rand sensed when Lissa fell asleep, as her shoulders softened and her breathing changed. He was surprised the thumping of his heart hadn’t kept her awake. He’d been
that
close to asking her to move to Los Angeles. The words, the desire for it, had been right there, pushing to be said.

Then he imagined Brad’s dialogue in this situation. Disaster, either way. If Rand ditched the screenplay now, he’d have nothing. Less than nothing. He’d lose his job anyway and have nothing to show for it. No script, no high-concept movie to pitch, no professional options except—maybe—the ones his father would deign to dribble into his lap.

Damn Saul Berenson for reminding Rand how his life was supposed to be going. He’d crafted an exit strategy from Marcy, TV,
The Fishbowl
, and it was like Saul was holding the door open for him.

Then Rand had made love to Lissa. Suddenly, there was another path, one toward a life with her. But no way would she understand if he used their relationship as fodder for a screenplay. So either he’s successful and loses Lissa, or he lets her go without telling her how he feels.

What a mess. Rand had talent. At least his professors had thought so. He might even have been more talented than his classmates. They were hungrier, though. Many had found ways to work in the industry without selling their souls. A few of them had even broken into directing.

He understood what hunger felt like now—he was hungry for Lissa. When he was in the Control Room, he kept an eye on whichever monitor showed her smile or body. He struggled to maintain his calm through the interviews with the other Fish. Then he’d get to say into the mike, “Lissa to the Journal Room, please.” Once she was there, his concentration would be shot. He was fairly loose asking the others the scripted questions, but with Lissa he read straight from his notes. She distracted him.

He took a deep breath. He had a few weeks before the end of the show. He’d figure out what to do with the script, what to say to Lissa, how to build a career. It had to work. He’d make it work.

Rand clicked off the light and relaxed into sleep.

When the alarm woke him, Rand kissed Lissa awake. They had time for either a shower or more sex, and he reluctantly agreed that the shower made more sense. He watched her dress in the jeans and T-shirt with no underwear, the cloth clinging to her damp skin. When would they next make love? The competitions started later that morning, and he couldn’t see how to sneak her out again before the next Shark Fight.

They were quiet on the drive back to the studio.

Rand dragged the animatronic doll into the Journal Room, doing his best to make it look natural. Lissa’d stripped off her jeans and top. The sight of her nudity in the Journal Room was both startling and arousing. He handed her the clothes off the dummy. Even watching her get dressed in skimpy things was hot.

The urge to steal her for good—ditching his job, everything—swamped Rand. He tensed his muscles to quash that instinct. Sleep-deprivation-thinking at its worst.

Lissa must have sensed his frustration. She came over and held his face. “C’mon, it’s not that bad. I’ll get fished out of the ’Bowl soon enough,” she whispered against his lips.

Rand couldn’t relax. “Then you’ll be in the Holding Tank, and I won’t see you at all,” he grumbled.

She laughed. “What’s left—four weeks? That’s nothing. After the game ends we’ll be able to sleep together past 4 a.m.”

He clutched her hard to him, putting all his longing and frustration into a single kiss. It worked. Her softness, the delight of her tongue on his, the press of her groin against him—enticing but soothing, too. She wasn’t going away. He’d see her later on, talk to her, maybe even find another ploy to get her out of the house. And she was right—it wouldn’t be that long before they could be together.

His kisses shifted, becoming softer and more tender. “I guess I don’t like this part,” he admitted.

She laid her cheek against his chest. “I know. I don’t like it either.”

Lissa was warm in his arms. Her hair smelled different, presumably because of the hotel’s shampoo. But underneath that was her own aroma, which he was certain he could pick out in a crowd. He got one last cheeky grin from her, and then she was out the door. Rand waited for a few minutes to see if the night crew would say anything about her being on the move, but the intercom stayed silent.