Malcolm was going into a Dumpster with a thick chain and padlock. And maybe a couple of hungry rats.
Nick sprang from his chair, slamming it into the wall behind him with a loud clang. Fuck this. He was done standing by while freaking Malcolm Justice made time with the woman who, barely more than a week ago, was melting into his kiss, panting at his touch, moaning his name.
Something had scared her off that day in his hotel room. One minute she’d been all over him, meeting his tongue thrust for thrust and grinding against him so hard he’d almost shot his load then and there. The next she was running for the door. He’d waited long enough to find out what had spooked her. Today he was getting some answers.
* * *
OH, CRAP.
Holly’s stomach sank as she saw Nick stalking toward her, his forehead creased, the lips that had kissed her so wantonly pressed together.
“Excuse me, Malcolm,” she said, interrupting another of his self-absorbed stories. This one, as far as she could tell, was building up to how he’d outsmarted Scorsese. “I’d better see if Ethan and the others have any questions.”
“Justice.” Nick cut in before she could break away. “You won’t mind if I steal our illustrious author for a few minutes.”
Malcolm reached for Holly’s wrist but she shook him off. “As a matter of fact, I would.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Damone.”
“I’m making it my business.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Stop, both of you!” Holly’s head ached from pinging back and forth between them. “You’re acting like a couple of overgrown frat boys, arguing over me as if I weren’t standing right in front of you.”
They continued to glare at each other over her head for a moment, making her feel a little like a choice sirloin in the middle of two hungry dogs. Was it possible to be flattered and disgusted at the same time?
Nick was the one to finally concede the staring contest. “Holly.” He put a hand on her elbow, his touch not demanding but imploring, those beautiful brown eyes sucking her in closer. Heat spread from his fingers to her traitorous girlie bits. “I just need a few minutes of your time. To...discuss my role.”
“Don’t you mean ‘show you my etchings’?” Malcolm leered.
Nick’s attention didn’t waver from Holly. “Please.”
If he had begged, pleaded, ranted, raved—anything but that one simple, quiet word—she could have fought him.
Two more weeks. That’s all she needed. Then they’d be in the Deville, the theater they’d call home for the foreseeable future. She’d be able to keep her distance from him in that cavern, her in the house with the rest of the creative team and him up onstage or in the wings.
But no. He’d managed to corner her today in the cramped rehearsal room, all intense and brooding and yeah, mouthwateringly hot in a Mr. Darcy kind of way, with those puppy-dog eyes and his hair flopping over his brows, a tad long and just this side of presentable.
“You don’t have to go with him, Holly.” Malcolm went for her wrist again but she managed to sidestep him. Ugh. He was a good actor, she’d give him that. Good-looking, too, although he didn’t make her stammer like a fool or bump into the furniture. That was apparently reserved for Nick.
But as talented and handsome as he was, Malcolm couldn’t take a hint to save his life. She’d told him flat-out that she wasn’t interested in him. But he still insisted on hounding her, at her side practically every time she turned around. The only plus was it had kept Nick at bay. Until now.
“It’s okay.” As if she really had a choice. Better to get it over with, painful but quick. “We won’t be long.”
“You’re going to let this guy—”
“I’m not going to ‘let’ him do anything.” She gave a meaningful look to both men. After Clark—and a fair amount of therapy—she’d made up her mind not to let any man have that kind of power over her ever again. And these two were no exception. She was the one calling the shots now. “But I am going to talk to him.”
Nick’s hand on her elbow gently navigated her to the door as he called over his shoulder to Malcolm, “Tell Ethan we’ll be down the hall, in studio G. If we’re not back in time, start without us.”
“I’m not your errand boy, Damone.”
“Then have Sean or Seth do it. It’s a step above the crap you usually palm off on them.” Nick continued down the hall, pulling Holly along with him. He didn’t speak again until they were inside the room with the door closed.
“Start talking.”
She arched a brow at him. “What?”
“You told Justice you were going to talk to me. So talk.”
“About your role?”
“You know damn well that’s not why I brought you here.”
“I’m not a mind reader.” She shook his hand off her elbow and stepped away from him, making her raging hormones scream in protest. Not to mention her conscience. Giving Nick the cold shoulder went against every rule of politeness and common decency she’d had drummed into her since childhood. But it was a matter of self-preservation, pure and simple. “If this isn’t about the show, we have nothing to discuss.”
“Like hell we don’t.” He crossed his arms, looking yummy with his long denim-clad legs braced apart, his biceps straining at his shirt sleeves.
“What do you want from me, Nick?”
“I want to know what kind of game you’re playing.”
“Game?”
“First me. Now Justice.” Nick’s eyes were narrowed, his lips tight.
Holly gaped at him. He was jealous! Nick Damone was actually jealous. Over her. She covered her mouth and let out a giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just wondering about the pigs.”
“Pigs?” The tension around his eyes relaxed and his mouth curved into the tiniest hint of a smile.
The ones that must be flying over the Manhattan skyline. “Never mind.” She scraped her hands through her hair. He made her crazy. “Look, nothing’s going on between me and Malcolm. Or me and you, for that matter.”
“You sure about that?” His wicked chocolate eyes, almost black with need, lasciviously perused her from head to toe and back again.
“Yes,” she choked out through a heavy swallow, her heart racing.
“You can’t run forever, Holly.”
She sighed, knowing he was right. “I can sure as heck try.”
“You’re going to have to try a lot harder to shake me, sweetheart.” He pushed off the doorframe, chest muscles rippling under his tight T-shirt—darn it if her own chest didn’t rise to attention—and started toward her.
She took two steps back—straight into a table.
“See?” He inched one leg between hers and braced a hand on the tabletop. “No more running.”
“It certainly seems that way.” She took a deep breath meant to steady her. Instead it brought her closer to him, brushing her already aching nipples against his rock-hard pecs and making her shiver.
“So you’re ready to admit defeat?”
She raised herself up on tiptoe, her lips only inches from his. “I—”
The