Triple Threat Read online

  The next few minutes were a blur of activity. Cade and Sergeant Chang led Ted and Wes away. Judith and Ethan went in search of Jimmie Lee so they could work out what to tell the rest of the cast and crew and readjust the rehearsal schedule to make up for lost time. Malcolm took off, muttering something about having his assistants check his props and costumes for evidence of tampering.

  “I should probably call my parents,” Holly said, slipping out of Nick’s arms and fleeing for the door the minute they were alone. “I don’t want them to hear this through the Stockton grapevine.”

  “Wait.” He caught her elbow. “Talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “About whatever’s bothering you.”

  She gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You mean besides the fact that someone tried to kill my boyfriend and sabotage my play?”

  He slid his hand from her elbow to her wrist, winding his fingers through hers. “I get the feeling there’s something more than that. You’ve been acting funny ever since my trip to the hospital. Have I done something to upset you?”

  “What could you have done?” She squeezed his hand. “You were practically comatose, remember?”

  He frowned. “You’re sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure.” She went up on tiptoe to give him a quick, hard kiss. “We’ll talk tonight. I promise.”

  Nick watched her go, a cold, dull ache growing in the pit of his stomach. Her words were right, but her behavior was all wrong, and he had the sinking feeling he’d just witnessed the beginning of their end.

  20

  THE BALLROOM OF the Omni Hotel glittered with refracted light from the crystal chandeliers. Smartly dressed waiters passed among the two hundred or so guests at the play’s closing-night festivities, balancing trays laden with exotic hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne. The soft strains of a Gershwin tune underscored the buzz of conversation.

  Taking advantage of a rare moment alone, Holly snagged a glass from a passing waiter and retreated to the far corner of the room. She found an empty table and sat down as gracefully as she could, her feet aching, thanks to two hours spent standing in heels. Thank God she hadn’t worn the shoes Noelle had tried to foist on her—sky-high, candy-apple-red Manolo Blahniks. She’d need a wheelchair.

  She took a sip of champagne and sighed, watching the partygoers enjoy themselves. Marisa was chatting it up with a manager who had flown in from L.A. to see her perform. Ethan and Jean-Michel were schmoozing a group of investors Judith was courting for a Broadway run. She couldn’t spot Nick anywhere, but Malcolm was on the dance floor, doing a fair impression of the tango with one of the ushers. Holly smiled wistfully as he dipped the young woman, making her screech and giggle.

  Why couldn’t she be like Malcolm and the others, cheerful and lighthearted and apparently unconcerned about what was in store? She always got a little gloomy when a show closed, even as a techie in high school and college. Ethan called it her “postproduction depression.”

  But this time it was about more. This time it was about Nick.

  She’d been preparing herself for this moment ever since her realization in the hospital. Four weeks of steeling her heart for the day the show would close in New Haven and, with no word yet on a Broadway transfer, he’d go back to the west coast. Keeping to her stupid “casual fun” credo. And the end result?

  Epic fail.

  There was nothing casual about her feelings for Nick. All she’d accomplished was to put herself on edge for what could have been four amazing weeks with the man she loved. The man she’d always love, even if he was thousands of miles and a lifestyle away from her. Some days the joy of seeing her show on stage had barely registered through her moping. Her play and her affair were over as of tonight.

  Someone clinked a glass and Holly looked up to see that the band had stopped playing and the dance floor had cleared. Judith stood in the center, champagne flute in one hand, spoon in the other, surrounded by Ethan and the investors he’d been wooing.

  “If I could have your attention.” Someone passed Judith a microphone, which she traded for the glass. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I know you all want to get back to eating, drinking and dancing. At my expense.”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd. When it died down, Judith continued, “We’ve certainly had our share of ups and downs with this production. And I want to thank each and every one of you for the faith you showed in me by seeing it through. I think together we created something moving and beautiful, and the critics and sold-out audiences agreed.”

  Applause broke out and someone yelled, “Hear! Hear!”

  “Some shows you wish would go on forever,” Judith said when the clapping faded. “The Lesser Vessel is definitely one of them, which is why I’m thrilled to announce that, thanks to these fine folks from the Churchill Foundation—” she gestured to the group of dark-suited men and women standing behind her “—this show will go on. On Broadway, that is. This fall.”

  If the cheering was loud before, now it was a deafening roar. Holly, suddenly discovered in her corner and swamped with well-wishers, sat stunned.

  She’d made it. Broadway was hers again. So why did she feel so empty?

  She stood to accept their congratulations, her eyes scanning the ballroom for the one person she wanted—no, needed—to share her success with.

  “Has anyone seen Nick?”

  “About five minutes ago,” Jimmie Lee offered. “He was with his agent in the bar.”

  “Thanks.”

  Holly made her way through the boisterous crowd, out the ballroom’s ornate double doors and into the lobby. Her heels tapped briskly on the parquet floor as she hurried past the reception desk and down the hall toward the bar.

  The show was going to Broadway.

  What did that mean for her and Nick? If he stayed with the show and in New York for a few months, maybe they had a shot at something. Something strong enough to withstand distance and starlets and paparazzi when he went back to making movies.

  From day one, everything about their romance had been surreal, from finding him in the audition room for the first time in years to falling in love. Ending their fling now would hurt but make sense. She was braced for the sting and could keep her dignity intact. But if they agreed to go further and he lost interest or moved on... She had no idea how she’d survive professing her love, then watching him leave. The alternative—chin up, play it safe—hurt almost as much. What was she supposed to do?

  Be bold. Be brave.

  Nick’s advice to Mr. Traver’s drama students—her own teenage words—echoed in her mind. You didn’t win without taking chances. If he’d taught her anything, it was not to stay silent and hidden. However he reacted, she had to know. Her body gave a little stage-fright shudder and she checked her voice. Throat closed, vocal cords paralyzed. Big moment coming up.

  Holly heaved in a gulp of air, pushed open the door to the bar and blinked, her vision adjusting to the mood lighting. When she could see, she took a few steps inside, searching for Nick. The place was a virtual ghost town, only a couple of patrons at the far end of the bar, and neither Nick nor his agent were anywhere in sight.

  She was about to head back to the party, hoping Nick had done the same, when she heard what sounded like Garrett’s voice from a booth in the corner.

  “You did it, man.”

  “No, we did it. I’d still be doing deodorant commercials if it wasn’t for you.” The deep rumble of Nick’s voice, the clink of glasses, then silence as the two men drank.

  She started toward them, wondering if they’d heard about Judith’s announcement or were just toasting the end of a successful run at the Rep. “They want you back in L.A. on Wednesday for costume fittings. Location shooting starts in three weeks in Indiana.”

  “Indiana?”

  Holly froze, listening to Garrett.

  “Yeah, they’re doing all the baseball scenes at an old stadium in Evansville. Same one they use
d in A League of Their Own.”

  “Fine by me.” Nick sounded almost giddy. “Hell, I’d go to Detroit to work with Spielberg.”

  “Here’s to you, Joe DiMaggio.” They clinked glasses again. “Now let’s get back to the party and celebrate. But not too much. By noon tomorrow, I need you packed and on a plane home.”

  * * *

  “YOU OKAY?” NICK asked Holly a few hours later when they were finally alone in his apartment—the last time they’d be alone together. “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight. Especially for a woman who should be on top of the world.” He brushed a fingertip down her arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “You made it, baby. The show’s back on Broadway.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied, flopping onto the couch, removing one of her shoes and wiggling her toes to make sure they still worked. She’d wanted to know how Nick felt and now she did. He was leaving the show. Leaving her. He wasn’t thinking next month or even next week. More like it’s been fun, gotta run. “Just a little overwhelmed.”

  “Good.” He sat down next to her, taking her feet onto his lap and removing her other shoe. “Because there’s something we need to talk about.” His thumbs drew gentle circles along her arches, turning her bones to Jell-O.

  Here it comes, she thought. The Dear Jane speech. It’s not you, it’s me. We always knew this was temporary. Our lives are just too different.

  “Spielberg wants me back in L.A. as soon as possible. I’m playing Joe DiMaggio in his new biopic. Filming starts in a few weeks.”

  “Oh, Nick. That’s wonderful.” She sat up, trying to look surprised. “I’m happy for you. Really, I am. It’s the kind of film role you’ve always wanted. You’ve worked so hard. Don’t worry about the show. Ethan and Judith will work their magic and find someone almost as fabulous as you for New York.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Actors are a dime a dozen. But it’s not the show I’m worried about. It’s you.” He massaged her toes gently. “It’s us.”

  She pulled her feet away and tucked them underneath her, praying she sounded more laid-back than she felt. This acting thing was hard work. “We knew going into this it was only short-term. A showmance.” God, she hated that word.

  “I was hoping we could renegotiate our deal.” Nick laid a hand on her thigh, and heat burned through the fabric of the Oscar de la Renta sheath dress Noelle had sent her as a closing-night gift, accompanied by a note threatening bodily injury if she didn’t wear it to the party along with the masochistic Manolos that were back in Holly’s closet. “I want to keep things going. There’s Skype, email, texting. And you can come visit me on set in your downtime.”

  “I don’t know....” It sounded good in theory. But Holly didn’t have to be a fortune-teller to figure out what would happen. They’d keep up the pretense for a while. Long, steamy video-chat sessions. Heartfelt emails. Sexts. Maybe even a visit or two. Then gradually, almost imperceptibly, the messages would slow. They’d be too busy with their respective careers to see each other. And eventually their contact would stop altogether.

  The poets had it all wrong. Absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder. It made the heart forget.

  “Don’t say anything yet.” He shushed her with a finger to her lips, then used it to trace their outline. “Just think of the possibilities. We’re filming the baseball scenes in Evansville. And you know what they say about Indiana.”

  “No.” She shuddered as his finger moved down her neck, following the low-cut line of her dress to the valley between her breasts. “What?”

  He leaned in, his voice a warm murmur against her ear. “Indiana is for lovers.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s Virginia.”

  “Virginia, Indiana. It’s all the same to me.” The hand on her leg slid beneath the hem of her dress. “I’d be hot for you in Siberia.”

  She sighed and curved into his touch, as helpless to resist him now as she had been at sixteen. Even more so, now that she knew firsthand the heights he could bring her to in oh-so-many wicked ways she never could have imagined as a teenager. “We are pretty combustible, aren’t we?”

  “Downright explosive.”

  His lips met hers, but the kiss they shared belied their words. Tender, coaxing and sweet, it was more like a slow-burning ember than a flash fire. Tears pricked at her eyelids. Saying goodbye to him now was going to be agony. Prolonging the torture by stringing things out long-distance would just about kill her.

  “You’re crying,” Nick said when he lifted his head.

  She smiled through the stabbing pain in her heart. “They’re happy tears.”

  He kissed one away. “Happy?”

  “For you. For tonight. For this.” She framed his face with her hands and kissed him, harder this time, more insistent. Desperate.

  “Slow down, sugar.” He freed himself from her grasp, stood and extended his hand, pulling her up with him when she took it. “We’ve got all night.”

  “Yes.” Hand in hand, she followed him to the bedroom. “We do.”

  They undressed each other slowly, savoring every breath, every whispered endearment, every touch. Naked, they lay on the bed, his long, broad body somehow fitting perfectly with her smaller, softer one. She hooked one leg over his hip, pulling him even closer. She wanted to inhale him, consume him, take him inside her and make him a part of her so he’d be with her always.

  But Nick had other ideas. He teased her with his wicked hands and tongue on every inch of her body, from her earlobes to the sensitive skin behind her knees until she nearly wept with desire.

  “Nick,” she panted when she couldn’t stand it one second longer. “Now.”

  He answered her with a long, slow thrust, entering her for what she knew would be the last time. Claiming her, as if she hadn’t been his from the moment he’d resurfaced in her life.

  “I need you,” he said when he was fully embedded in her body. “So much.”

  Need. A step above want. But not quite love.

  She arched her neck to run a string of kisses along his stubbled jaw. “You’ve got me.”

  He thrust again and she met him movement for movement, moan for moan, until together they exploded in a heated rush.

  “Stay,” he murmured as he drifted into sleep, still buried inside her.

  She nodded, not able to voice the lie, and laid her head on his chest, listening to the steady sound of his breathing and the patter of raindrops on the roof. She didn’t know when it had started to rain, but it suited her mood. Dreary. Hopeless. Alone.

  After a few minutes, when she was sure Nick was asleep, Holly eased herself out of his embrace and out of bed, gathered her clothes and dressed quickly and quietly in the darkened bedroom, checking periodically to make sure he hadn’t stirred. A strange sense of déjà vu came over her. She was running away again, chickening out the way she had that night at the Plaza. She’d never thought of herself as a quitter. But quitting Nick seemed like the only sane thing to do. He had his career to consider. And she had her heart to protect.

  As she let herself out, holding the door to make sure it didn’t slam shut, she consoled herself with the thought that at least this time she’d had the guts to leave him a note.

  Three words.

  I’m sorry. Holly.

  21

  “CUT.” WITH A shake of his head, the director—Spielberg’s latest golden boy—hopped out of his chair, rubbing the back of his neck and scowling at Nick, who’d flubbed his line for the umpteenth time that morning. “Why don’t we break for lunch. We’ll start fresh in an hour.”

  Nick swore under his breath and threw down the baseball bat he’d been swinging. True to character, the preteen playing the batboy stepped in and picked it up.

  “Thanks.” Nick gave the boy an embarrassed smile. Christ. He was becoming as obnoxious as Malcolm. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I let my temper get the best of me.”

  “No sweat, Mr. Damone. My dad says everyone’s entitled to a bad day once in a while.” T
he boy leaned the bat against the backstop and bounded off for the craft service table.

  Nick steered away from the crowded buffet toward his trailer, needing solitude more than food. The kid’s dad was right. An occasional bad day was par for the course. But Nick’s bad days were becoming a regular occurrence. Not even three weeks on set, and his legendary focus had deserted him. He was screwing up left and right, forgetting lines and missing his mark. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

  Okay, that was a bald-faced lie. He knew why. He just didn’t want to admit it.

  Holly.

  He missed her. And not the sex. Or not just the sex. He missed her laugh. Missed sitting on the lumpy sofa in his temporary apartment after rehearsal with her curled up next to him, going over the events of the day. Hell, he was even jonesing for stuff like the fruity smell of her shampoo and the adorable way her tongue poked out one corner of her mouth when she was concentrating on something extra-hard.

  He barely ate. Slept like shit. Yesterday, the director had flat out asked him if he had a drug problem. He was one screwup away from getting fired.

  With a groan, Nick settled onto the overstuffed couch that occupied most of the living room of the Airstream the studio had provided for him. In what had become a daily ritual, he sat down with his tablet and surfed through several theater message boards and chat rooms, looking for news of the play. Pathetic, he knew. But it was his only way of keeping track of Holly, since she’d refused to return any of his phone calls or text messages. Her family and friends hadn’t been any better. They were harder to crack than Fort Knox. Devin had even threatened to tie him down and tattoo his ass if he kept—in her words—“blowing up her phone.”

  He was on one of the most popular—and poisonous—boards, Broadway Buzz, when he struck gold. The subject line alone was enough to make him lose his lunch, if he’d eaten any: Newbie playwright a prima donna? Holly Ryan storms out of auditions.