You Belong To Me (4 page)

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Authors: Patricia Sargeant

BOOK: You Belong To Me
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Oh, she was enjoying herself. Malcolm made a concerted effort to relax his jaw before he wore the enamel from his teeth. “This isn't getting us anywhere.”
“You've noticed.”
Steam rose from her manicotti as Nicole sliced it into manageable portions. Malcolm sympathized with the entrée.
“Mistakes were made in the past.”
“I'll say,” she muttered, slipping a forkful of pasta into her mouth.
“On both sides,” Malcolm added pointedly. “Can't we leave them there? This is about business.”
“It's also about trust.” Nicole sipped her iced tea. “You don't have a very good track record for sticking through the tough times, Malcolm.”
“You're determined to react to this emotionally,” he shot back, receiving visceral pleasure from the glare she aimed at him. “Rationally, you know this movie deal will benefit both of us.”
Nicole put down her drink, staring at Malcolm in silence. He held her gaze—a bewildering mixture of anger and desperation. The anger never went away, but the desperation seemed to grow. And then she lowered her gaze. Moments felt like hours as he waited for her response.
“Yes, I know. And I accept your offer,” she said softly.
Malcolm stared at her. “What did you say?”
“I said I accept your offer.” Nicole lifted her gaze to his. “I'll sign the contract giving Celestial Productions the movie rights to the first
InterDimensions
book.”
Malcolm couldn't believe she'd given in this soon. She had cut him down with finality in Los Angeles, and her reaction to him this morning had been hostile, to say the least. “What made you change your mind?”
“You don't need to worry about that. I've changed my mind. That's all that matters.”
“You're right. I know. I'm just surprised.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair. “Great. Well, once the contract is signed, we'll move you to L.A. to start pre-production.”
“I'll need time to make some arrangements before the move.” Nicole watched the server refill her glass.
“How much time?”
“I don't know.” Nicole shrugged, playing with the rest of her manicotti. “I should have a better idea Monday.”
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
She flicked a dismissive glance toward him. “Not a thing.”
Malcolm wondered if he should press further. He decided against it. For now, he'd celebrate this first victory. He tried a smile. “Okay. We'll eat now, deal with the details later.”
Conversation was stilted at best with Malcolm selecting innocuous subjects and Nicole reluctantly following his lead. They ate mechanically, and when lunch was over, Malcolm walked with Nicole to the subway station. She had rejected his offer to drive her home.
“Here's my cell phone number.” Malcolm handed her his business card.
Nicole glanced at his contact information. “I don't think I'll need to discuss anything with you. You and Denise can decide what time we'll meet to sign the contract. Anytime Monday works for me. Denise will let me know what you've decided.”
“Are you sure you don't want me to wait with you for the train?” he asked again.
“Positive.” Nicole turned toward the subway entrance.
Malcolm halted her with a hand on her arm. “Will you call me to let me know you've gotten home safely?”
Nicole glanced at the hand restraining her. “Don't worry. I'll be careful. At least until I've signed your contract.”
Malcolm's patience snapped. “I don't care about the contract.”
Nicole arched a brow. “Then why are you in New York?”
Malcolm continued as though she hadn't spoken. “I care about you. About your safety.”
“Sure you do,” she tossed back before descending into the subway station.
“Be careful,” Malcolm shouted.
“You, too,” Nicole shouted back.
Malcolm watched until she disappeared underground. She was stubborn and antagonistic. He was better off keeping their contact to the bare minimum. But he knew he wouldn't, because he couldn't.
 
He slammed the door, letting it reverberate in the threshold, and stomped across the room. He had just found out Malcolm was in New York trying to convince Ms. Collins to change her mind about the movie rights. He knew Malcolm wanted control of his
InterDimensions
family, but he wouldn't allow that to happen. Rage flowed warm and thick in his veins. He turned and marched to the opposite wall.
He would not allow his family to be cheapened by another man's greed. He would do whatever was necessary to protect them from being misinterpreted by people who didn't understand them as well as he did.
He stalked back toward the window, pausing as he reached his desk to pick up the framed photo of his family. It was the cover of the first
InterDimensions
book. He gazed at the illustration of the honorable captain and his courageous second-in-command. His temper cooled, and he began to think more clearly. His family owed their lives to Ms. Collins. For that, he would be forever grateful, but she didn't have the right to exploit them.
“I'll protect you.” He carefully returned the photograph to his desk.
He would have to put his plan into action. He couldn't trust that Ms. Collins would continue to deny Malcolm the movie rights. He knew from past experience that Malcolm was very persuasive. He couldn't remain in the shadows any longer. He just hoped no one would be hurt.
C
HAPTER
T
HREE
“Well, Phoenix,” Nicole addressed her spider plant. “What if we brought Senator O'Neill back to the
InterDimensions
space station?”
Nicole gave Phoenix a moment to absorb the story line while she poured water into the plant's soil. She had named all of her plants, and she thought Phoenix, the name of one of the X-Men's female heroines, the perfect name for her plotting partner. Like the Marvel Comics heroine, Nicole had lost her direction for a while, and then she'd started writing again.
But with Simone's illness, Nicole had identified her kryptonite. Her family's pain made her weak, and worry had brought on a hellacious case of writer's block. She stroked one of the spider plant's offsprings, then exchanged the watering can for the misting bottle. While she sprayed Phoenix's leaves, she combed her mind for a story idea for the fifth book in her science-fiction series.
“O'Neill hasn't made an appearance since book three. I think it's time to remind our readers of his goal to federalize the station. What should we make him do? What brings him to the station?” she asked her silent partner.
Nicole continued to roll the idea around in her mind as she moved on to her other babies, including a flourishing African violet named Isis and a rabbit-legged fern named Batgirl. She fed them all water as well as words of love and encouragement.
The ringing telephone burst the creative web she was trying to weave. Foiled, she glanced at the clock. It was a little after 8:00
A.M.
Who would call this early on a Saturday morning? As she realized the call could be bad news about Simone, her heart thumped once, then seemed to stop. She rushed to the phone and grabbed the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Leave my family alone,” the caller demanded.
“Excuse me?” Nicole asked. The voice was so muffled, she couldn't be certain of the words.
“Just let them live their lives.”
“I think you have the wrong number.”
Nicole replaced the receiver and tried to shrug off the incident. At least it wasn't a call about Simone. But something about the distorted voice made her uneasy. The doorbell was a welcome distraction, at least until she checked the peephole and saw who stood on the other side. She opened the door.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, experiencing an unpleasant sense of déjà vu.
“An unusual greeting you've adopted,” Malcolm observed. “Do you use it with everyone or just me?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I brought you breakfast.” He lifted a bagel bag and a drink carrier, which held two coffee containers. “You're welcome. May I come in? I hate to eat standing up.”
Nicole debated whether to send Malcolm on his way or give in to the call of caffeine. Before she could decide, the apartment door across the hall opened and her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Velasquez, stepped out. Surprised pleasure spread across the woman's features. Nicole stifled a groan and forced herself not to run back into her apartment.
“Hello, sweetheart,” the elderly meddler lilted in a heavy Puerto Rican accent. Her bright bird eyes darted between Nicole and Malcolm. “How are you doing today?”
“I'm fine, thank you, Mrs. Velasquez. How are you?”
“I'm fine, sweetheart. Just fine.” She continued to glance between Nicole and Malcolm.
“Good.” Nicole searched for a graceful way to end the stilted exchange. “I appreciate your taking care of my mail and plants while I was away.”
“Oh, it was no problem, sweetheart. No problem at all.” Her neighbor waved a hand dismissively, sending her bulky, purple purse on a downward slide from her plump shoulder.
Nicole knew her neighbor was dying for an introduction, but she didn't want to give Malcolm that much importance in her life. As though sensing her thoughts and wanting to thwart her, Malcolm stepped forward to do the honors himself.
He wrapped his long fingers around the woman's small hand. “Good morning, Mrs. Velasquez. I'm Malcolm Bryant, a friend of Nicole's.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Velasquez cooed, her round cheeks flushed with excitement. “I didn't know Nicky had such handsome friends.”
Nicole cringed at the sly look Mrs. Velasquez slid her way. She envisioned her privacy being ripped to shreds right before her very eyes.
“Well, I can see you're on your way out—” Nicole began in a desperate attempt to stop the carnage.
“Do you know, Mr. Bryant—” Mrs. Velasquez's voice rolled over Nicole's words.
“Malcolm, please,” her ex-husband encouraged as he towered over the tiny lady.
“Malcolm.” Mrs. Velasquez smiled coyly. “Do you know that in the three years I've lived across this very hall from Nicky, I have not seen her with a single boyfriend?”
“No?” Malcolm asked.
Nicole shrank inside herself. In her peripheral vision, she saw Malcolm look toward her, but she was too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
“No,” Mrs. Velasquez happily continued. “Not in three years. And she's so lovely. Little and lovely. Don't you think so?”
“Yes, I do.” Malcolm caught and held Nicole's gaze.
“Oh, she talks to some of the men in the building. The old men,” Mrs. Velasquez emphasized. “The only young men I see her talk to are relatives. Her brother and her cousin. But you, you're not old. Right? And you're not related to her. Right?” Mrs. Velasquez smiled up at Malcolm. Obviously, she thought she had identified a romantic prospect.
Nicole had had enough. “Well,” she tried again, raising her voice, “I can see you're on your way out, Mrs. Velasquez. I don't want to keep you.” She stepped aside, signaling Malcolm to precede her into her apartment.
“Oh, it's no problem, sweetheart.” Mrs. Velasquez watched as Malcolm crossed Nicole's threshold. “Will I see you at church tomorrow morning?”
“I'll probably attend the evening services tonight.” Nicole smiled. “You know Sunday is my day to rest.”
Gazing over Nicole's shoulder, Mrs. Velasquez winked. “You'll probably need it.”
With a final cherubic smile, the incurable romantic walked away, leaving a gaping Nicole staring after her. After picking up her dropped jaw, she followed Malcolm into her apartment, pulling the door closed behind her.
“So, can I interest you in breakfast?” Malcolm asked again, lifting the bag and the drink carrier.
“I've already had breakfast.” Nicole wanted to stand her ground, but her stubbornness wavered in the face of coffee.
“It's only eight o'clock,” Malcolm said, walking past her kitchen into an area she magnanimously referred to as her dining room.
Nicole followed him, feeling slightly put out. “I've been up since six.”
Malcolm paused in front of her dinette table, a furniture discount store triumph. “On a Saturday?”
Nicole smiled at his incredulous tone. “I'm a writer. We don't restrict our work to eight-to-five weekdays. We write whenever the Muse strikes us.”
“And this one struck at six? How rude.” Malcolm put the bag and carrier on the table and shrugged out of his coat. His eyes widened as he gazed toward the window. “Wow. Are you zoned for this park land?” He stepped closer to the foliage.
“Very funny,” she said.
Trailing after him, Nicole tried to view her plant menagerie through his eyes. She supposed it could be a bit overwhelming.
“Do you still name your plants after comic book heroes?” He turned toward her. The warmth of his brown gaze beckoned her into their shared memories.
She resisted the call. “No. I name them after heroines now. I don't have much experience with heroes.”
Malcolm's gaze cooled, and he turned back to the plants. He nodded toward a ficus in the corner. “Isn't that Superman?”
“No,” she replied, surprised he'd remembered she'd had a ficus. “That's Superwoman. The Man of Steel didn't survive the move.”
I barely survived it myself
, she thought.
“And who are these beauties?” Amusement tinged Malcolm's voice as he pointed to a clique of potted plants on top of a waist-high bookcase.
Gesturing toward each plant in turn, Nicole identified them: “The dwarf nikita is Harley Quinn. She's the Joker's girlfriend, remember?” Nicole waited for Malcolm's nod before continuing. “The cactus is Catwoman. And the miniature dendrobium orchid is Poison Ivy.”
Malcolm frowned. “Aren't those Batman's villains?”
Nicole flicked him a chiding glance. “They aren't bad,” she explained, returning to the dining room. “They're misunderstood.”
“Oh. I see.” Amusement returned to Malcolm's voice.
Nicole examined the bagels. “How did you get my address?”
“Your agent gave it to me. And the directions,” Malcolm said.
“How helpful of her.” Nicole's tone contradicted her words.
“I thought so.” Malcolm grinned, revealing the dimple she used to caress.
She looked away. “Are you trying to bribe me with food?”
“Would it work?”
“No.” Her hands hovered above the bag, restless for some task. “Do you want your bagel toasted?”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
She grabbed the bag and escaped toward the kitchen.
“Do you have any clothes that aren't baggy?” Malcolm called after her.
Nicole stopped, glancing first at her faded, oversized gray sweat suit, then back at Malcolm. “I have a piece of paper in my files that states you've signed away your rights to comment on my wardrobe.”
Malcolm frowned. “Can we have one conversation in which you don't bring up the divorce?”
“Sure.” She forced a grin. “Which one do you want?” Nicole continued into the kitchen.
The sink, counters, and overhead cupboards formed a call-through between the kitchen and the dining room. Nicole leaned her hips against the opposite countertops and used the call-through to study Malcolm as she waited for the bagels to toast.
“Why are you here, Malcolm? I told you I would sign the contract.”
“I know.” Malcolm wandered back to the dining room. “But since we're going to work together, we need to spend some time together.”
Nicole frowned. “Why?” She took the bagels out of the toaster.
“Because I think your hostility is going to hurt the project.”
Stung, Nicole stood away from the counter. “My hostility?”
Malcolm cocked an eyebrow at her. “Do you deny you've been hostile to me?”
“With good reason.”
“Is the reason good enough to risk the project?”
Nicole opened the refrigerator. She thought it debatable whether her hostility was putting the project at risk. However, she'd consider his concern objectively, when he wasn't around. For now, she'd change the subject. “Do you want butter?”
Malcolm's sigh was impatient. “Sure.”
“Orange juice?”
“Yes, please.”
Nicole poured two glasses of orange juice. She turned to carry them to the table and almost spilled them onto the caramel sweater spanning Malcolm's broad chest. She hadn't heard him enter the kitchen.
“Here.” She handed the glasses to him.
Malcolm carried the juice into the dining room. Nicole followed with the plates of toasted bagels and butter. She passed him the butter and sat across the table from him.
“So, what are you doing today?” He buttered his bagel.
“I'm working on the revisions for book four and the outline for book five,” she answered, ignoring her writer's block.
“All day? Do you want some butter?”
“Pretty much. No, thanks.”
“How 'bout going to the movies with me later?”
“I'm on a deadline,” she reminded him.
“It's just a few hours,” he coaxed. “It might help you get over your hostility toward me.”
“Malcolm, this is not a joking matter.”
“It's been four years, Nicky.”
“Actually, Mal,” she countered, “it's been two days.”
“I'm going to get bored in that motel room all day.”
“I'm not your entertainment.” Nicole put down her coffee. “Stop pressuring me. I'll sign the contract Monday, and I'll work with you on the movie. I have no intention of jeopardizing this project. After all, it will have my name on it as well.”

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