Unlikely (12 page)

He pushed aside their picnic remains and held out his hand. Reflexively she grasped it and he hauled her into his lap.

“Ryan, what are you—”

He slid her sunglasses to the top of her head, traced the rings laddered along the shell of her ear, and pulled her face toward his. This kiss, unlike last night’s, didn’t set her on fire. Rather, it was tender and giving, and snuck into her heart, grabbed hold, and wouldn’t let go.

She pulled back first and started talking before he could. “Have you ever done it in a national forest?”

“No, and I’m not going to start now,” he said without much humor.

Sophie wiggled her butt against his growing erection anyway. She wasn’t a student of body language, but she could tell Ryan was aroused. Men were easy that way. Another wiggle and Ryan responded as she hoped he would. He stopped talking and started kissing. She looped her arms around his back, pulling him closer and inhaling his wonderfully masculine scent—part soap, part sweat, and all man.

She slipped her hands under his sweater and shirt and dragged her short nails down the smooth warm skin of his back. His kisses grew hungrier. They tumbled back on the blanket, his large frame covering her from head to toe. He quickly did away with her sweater and pushed her tank up, exposing her small breasts to the slightly chilly air. Her nipples
hardened. The anticipation of his touch was almost as heady as his touch itself. Almost. He captured a nipple in his mouth, using his lips and tongue to sweeten her arousal. Her hips bucked when his lightly stubbled cheek brushed against her sensitive breasts as he moved from one to give attention to the other. She sucked in a lungful of air when his hands slid down to warm her belly and slid lower to brush against the elastic waistband of her panties.

Sasha’s sudden bark broke the spell they’d woven. Ryan pulled up, leaving her suddenly bereft. His hip abutted hers and he rested a hand on the other side of her hip. She was shielded
from the view of anyone who happened by. No one came upon their private retreat. They heard the rustle of hikers on the trail who passed them by. Turning back to her, Ryan brushed a wayward lock of hair away from her face.

“You, Miss Reid,” he grumbled, “are a distraction.” He eased the ribbed white tank down slowly, hiding her from his hungry gaze.

Instinctively she knew he wanted to talk about a relationship or move on to a serious topic, and she wasn’t ready to go there with him. Not that he wouldn’t be the perfect guy to do that with, the lawyer thing notwithstanding, but serious, “going somewhere” relationships were not in the cards for her. She was a free spirit from her ringed earlobes and crazy hair to her purple toenails. Great sex, now that she had finally experienced it first hand, was in the cards, however, and there wasn’t any reason she could think of that they couldn’t enjoy each other for as long as that lasted.

“I really like you, Sophie,” he said
, tracing the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose. Feeling vulnerable, she scooted back and sat up. She averted her eyes from Ryan and stroked Sasha’s soft head as the dog curled in her lap. “I wasn’t planning to say anything to you before the weekend was out—”

She put a single finger to his lips. “I don’t want to do this now.”

“I know this isn’t what you came here for, but we have an incredible connection, and I for one think we should build on it.”

She laughed, a harsh sound among the whispering trees. “Like what, go steady?” she asked deliberately, ignoring the sting of rejection she saw in his eyes. “Ryan, I’m not that kind of girl. You knew that when you met me. You need a Seven Sisters, Junior League kind of woman. I’m exactly the opposite of that.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, you—”

“I’m not selling myself short. I know exactly who I am, Ryan, and why I’m here. I thought we were on the same page. I came up here because we’re
physically
attracted to each other and…” She paused, suddenly embarrassed. “Well, you know why.”

Ryan rose to his feet and started gathering the remains of lunch, his movements jerky. Sophie stood, and hooked the dog on the leash, giving her a few scratches behind the ears for good measure. When she turned around, he’d folded the blanket. The clearing looked as if they’d never been there.

He pulled on dark, reflective sunglasses, hiding his expressive eyes. “You ready for the trip back down?” His voice was carefully neutral.

She nodded and he tweaked her nose in a brotherly fashion, then started down the hill, walking at a brisk pace.

Sophie had hated saying no to what he may be offering, but she knew it would be unfair to say yes when she couldn’t give anything in return. As she pulled on her sweater, the sun and cool breeze seemed to be mocking her. If she’d gotten what she wanted from him, why did she suddenly feel so alone?

Sophie was sitting on a chair by the cold fireplace unlacing her trail shoes when the jarring bleat of an old-fashioned telephone startled her.

Ryan dropped the bags in the doorway and sprinted to the phone.

“Are you expecting a call?” she asked, incredulous.

“I gave the number to Evangeline in case of an emergency.”

Evangeline? Emergency? What kind of emergencies could a corporate lawyer have? Sophie’s father was a federal judge who presided over last minute search warrant requests and death penalty cases and even he almost never received emergency phone calls. She decided to shower the day’s sweat and dust off while giving Ryan privacy for whatever was going on with work.

Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, Sophie’s hair was still damp and her feet bare when she came out to the open living area ten minutes later. Ryan was hunched over his little Blackberry so engrossed he didn’t seem to notice her or the dog who was dancing around his feet.

He jumped when she tapped him gently on the shoulder.

“Sorry. I was just going to ask about dinner.”

“I have to go back to Los Angeles,” he said distractedly. At her look of consternation, he clarified. “Tonight.”

Sophie stepped back as if she’d been slapped. “Oh. I get it. No problem. I’ll get packed up right now.” She turned on her heel ready to sprint to the bedroom and hide her mortification. It hit her where it hurt that he didn’t want her. She understood why, sort of, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

But before she could put more than a foot between them, he grabbed her upper arm gently, halting her movements. He put down the smartphone and looked her in the eye. “It’s not like that. This has nothing to do with us. It’s that just something I had hoped was under control blew up at work.”

Skeptically, she lifted her pierced brow. “What’s so critical that you need to deal with it on a Saturday night?”

“You of all people should understand that I can’t talk about this. Confidentiality and all that.”

Their easy camaraderie from
that morning seemed like a distant memory. In its place was a fragile bond that was growing more tenuous by the moment.

“You know what? You’re right.
I
understand far better than you think,” she agreed. “My father certainly tutored me in those lessons.” Breaking the light grip on her arm, she turned on her heel and marched dejectedly toward the second bedroom where she’d put her luggage.

They drove back to Los Angeles in near silence, Ryan’s very adult sounding jazz filling the car’s darkened interior.

When he pulled up to her house, it was barely nine o’clock. She looked at the time, thinking dispiritedly of how she was going to fill the rest of the empty weekend hours. Hot wanton sex was not an option at this point. They were uncomfortably silent when she unharnessed the dog and he brought in her bags. She turned on the lights and kicked off her shoes by the door.

Ryan shifted from foot to foot, jingling his car keys. “I don’t want to leave things like this.”

Sophie plastered a smile on her face. “Don’t worry about it. I understand that you have to work.”

He looked bewildered. “I still want to see you. As soon as this crisis is over, we should
—”

“Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it?” She gently pushed him toward the door. “Goodnight, Ryan.” The heavy wood door closed, the latch catching with a quiet
snick
. She heard his car start and watched his taillights as they disappeared around the corner.

She walked the dog, unpacked her stuff, and ran to the twenty-four hour market to get fresh milk and eggs. She was proud of herself that she’d been able to hold off that long. When she came back at eleven, she broke down. Loud noisy sobs filled the room. Sasha, distressed by the sounds, leaned against her leg as if trying to console her. It was the first time she had cried in years.

Chapter Ten

The boardroom stretched from one side of the building to the other. The twenty-five people surrounding the table were cast in shadow. Speckles of streetlights barely penetrated the floor to ceiling windows lining three sides of the room. Even with subtle lighting from the hidden sconces, darkness swallowed the room. The gloom matched Ryan’s mood. Everyone looked like they would rather be anywhere
than here. A few were dressed like him in cargo shorts and hiking boots, others in designer eveningwear. But no one was dressed for a last minute strike negotiation session.

Someone’s overworked and harried assistant handed out thirty
-page packets that laid out the demands of the studios and directors as well as the demands of Local 706. The only sound in the room was the constant flick of pages as the lawyers and union representatives on the negotiating committee scanned the papers they had been given.

Why did these damned contracts always expire at midnight on a Saturday or Sunday? Were they written that way to make sure negotiators got to the bargaining table before their weekends were ruined? The timing ploy hadn’t worked this time. It was coming down to the wire on this one. He shook his head with regret. Unfortunately, th
e weekend was irredeemable for him and Sophie. There was nothing he could do to get back the magical world they had created in Big Bear. On top of that, he had ended the day, the whole weekend, badly.

After incredible sex
that morning, Ryan had wanted to take her on a romantic picnic and tell her that he was falling in love with her. But he’d butchered that completely, only to have to cut the weekend short for this. He slammed the packet closed in front of him, having barely skimmed its contents. He ignored the startled looks from others around the table. Instead, he raked his hand through already mussed hair and blew out a frustrated breath. This was not his finest hour. Thoughts of Sophie crowded work out of his mind.

Keeping the news of an impending strike from her wasn’t required by attorney-client confidentiality. He should have told her why he had to leave early even if it had breached some unwritten ethical rule. When he was honest with himself, he knew he had hidden the truth from her because he didn’t want her to worry about where her next job or meal would be coming from. Around the table were representatives of the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees. In the industry, they called themselves Local 706. It was Sophie’s union of makeup artists and hairstylists and the top union people were threatening to strike unless the studios and producers came to the table with better residual payments, cheaper health care, and more upfront money over the life of the new contract.

Ryan had not buried his head in the sand like an ostrich. He was more than aware, having grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, that it was very expensive to live in Los Angeles. Without pay raises, the union members wouldn’t be able to keep up with inflation, not to mention the escalating home prices. On the other hand, it was his job to get across the studio’s point of view. With hundreds of cable channels and dozens of entertainment outlets, the viewership for any particular television show or movie was much smaller than it had been in the past.

Gone were the days when Americans only had three television choices and few movie options. Now shows were lucky to make a slim profit, and there just weren’t huge piles of money to divvy among the different unions, actors, directors, writers, and below the line workers like Sophie. Studios and producers had to spend every penny wisely. Extravagant pay increases and fully paid health benefits
were a thing of the past.

They were getting nowhere and the meeting broke up at two in the morning, the union vowing to go on strike Monday or Tuesday. Ryan looked at his watch. Too late to call her, but he’d be at her house first thing Sunday morning. No need to give up the rest of the weekend even
though they were back in Los Angeles.

Ryan showed up unannounced at nine in the morning, greeting a woman too groggy to toss him out on his ear. She was a mess, red-gold hair askew, raccoon eyes, and rumpled pajamas, but Ryan saw the most beautiful woman in the world. She had become just a little more beautiful overnight. And here he thought he’d shown up at a decent hour. Sophie had seemed like such a morning person only yesterday when they’d made love in the glow of early dawn light. The memory had him grinning like a fool. He knew right then, with a certainty that made him quake, that this woman had snuck her way into his heart and he wasn’t going to let her go.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” Sophie’s tone was flat.

To say that Ryan was taken aback would be an understatement. How could she think that he wanted to call it quits after the most romantic half a weekend he’d ever had? “You can’t shake me that quickly, Sunflower,” he said softly, trying to ease her confusion.

“Did you work out your emergency?” She might as well as used air quotes. Sarcasm, anger, and hurt underlied the question.

Ryan opened his hands in supplication. “I guess I can tell you this much. Local seven-oh-six is on the verge of a strike. At the meeting last night the two sides weren’t able to even come close to any kind of deal.”

“Why couldn’t you tell me that yesterday?” she asked, a little less wary than a few minutes ago. “I
haven’t turned a deaf ear to everything. I’ve heard talk about a possible strike. It happens almost every year in this town. One union or another gets down to the wire, there’s strike talk, then a deal gets worked out and I go to work the next day. It’s no big deal, Ryan.”

He felt like a heel. He wanted her trust, and she’d given it time and again
over the weekend, but he hadn’t given his. He’d wanted to protect her, but she was an adult and deserved to know the truth.

Ryan leaned in for a hug. Not wanting to let go of the sleepy body in his arms, he set her back before he got distracted. “Can I ask you for a big favor?”

“It’s kind of early. What’s up?” Sophie asked warily. She surely thought him demented, standing there like a grinning fool.

Ryan looked at his watch. His Sunday morning brunch with his mother and brother was at eleven. He certainly had time to go home and go it alone. But after that disastrous brunch weeks ago where he’d had to reveal to his brother that he didn’t know Sophie’s name, he wanted to take her there. He wanted her to meet his family and know the truth about his blue-collar roots.

He’d already been burned, many years ago, when he had proposed to Jocelyn and she’d accepted. He had thought his future was secure—a high-class wife and the perfect job. He’d been sorely disappointed however when Josie had met his family. She’d looked down her straight patrician nose at his mother’s work roughened hands and his brother’s beat cop uniform. Josie had acted like she’d smelled something bad, or she would somehow get dirty if she stayed too long in his Reseda home. It had sickened him that he’d almost made a huge mistake. It was unfair, he knew, but he wanted to see if Sophie could pass the test.

“Do you want to go to brunch?” he asked. “I go with some people I know almost every Sunday.”

She looked at him a little quizzically. “Sure, I guess.” She turned and looked in the house as if making up her mind. Then, as if she’d decided something important, she said, “Why the hell not? I never turn down a free meal.” She backed into the living room and he followed her in. She looked down at her rumpled clothes. “But I’ll need to get ready.”

“It’s not for another couple of hours
…” he added suggestively.

“Ryan, if I’m going to meet your friends, I’m going to need time to prepare.” He didn’t correct her misunderstanding.

“Can we shower together?” he asked, making a last ditch effort to get in a quickie before they faced his mother’s scrutiny. “It’ll be more efficient that way.” Sex relaxed him more than a stiff drink ever could.

“The guest shower works perfectly well,” she said, pointing away from her bedroom. “Though you look as clean as a whistle anyway.” He shrugged. He
had
showered before he came over, but a little water never killed anyone.

She
shuffled away, slamming the bedroom door hard. He got the message. He wouldn’t bother her for the next couple of hours unless he wanted to take his life into his own hands.

When it became clear she was going to use up every last minute before they departed, he wandered around the house looking at the books on her narrow bookshelf and the various paintings she had hung. None of the oils or signatures were familiar, but the bright colors and chaotic abstract art suited her décor and her personality. Sasha whined at his feet and he went with her to the backyard. While the dog relieved herself and sniffed her way along the edge of the fence, he wandered the grassy area. He cocked his head seeing a door that jutted from an addition to the back of the garage he hadn’t noticed on his other visits to the house. He twisted the doorknob. It was unlocked.

He entered a small room, painted a cool periwinkle blue. There was one tiny window overlooking the backyard, but the room was awash with diffused light. Ryan looked up. White sailcloth shades partially covered three large skylights. A few canvases leaned in a colorful array against the walls. The canvas on the easel drew his attention. It was an unfinished oil painting of a woman glancing coyly at the viewer. From the bright red hair flowing down the woman’s back, Ryan guessed it might be a self-portrait, though it didn’t look so much like Sophie, but reflected a universal woman who could represent anyone or everyone.

When he drew closer, though, he saw that the flaming red hair wasn’t in fact hair, but dozens of different faces with different expressions
—some sad, some happy, a few melancholy, many gleeful. The naked display of emotion on the faces was so raw that he turned away knowing he had somehow breached the protective shell Sophie worked hard to maintain.

He backed from the room as if a specter dogged his every step. Closing the door gently, he corralled the dog and both went into the house. He pulled the television remote control from the basket and flipped through five hundred satellite channels not seeing the various moving images that flickered on the screen.

Everyone in the industry knew there was a certain artistry to makeup. When one saw Hollywood stars up close, they looked nothing like their beautiful on-screen counterparts. But it was a secondary job in an industry where actors and directors were considered the creative giants. He shook his head, awed by Sophie’s talent. She had the soul of an artist. How her family could have ever thought she could squeeze her larger than life gifts into the narrow worlds of law or business, he would never know.

The woman that emerged from the bedroom over an hour later was an eclectic blend of the old Sophie and the new Sophie he’d uncovered this weekend. She was Audrey Hepburn meets the Clash.

Touché.

She was doing a little test of her own.

Today she’d paired hot pink hair with a somewhat conservative outfit, for her. The bright floral halter-top festooned with red, yellow, and blue roses hugged her small breasts in all the right places, without revealing too much. But her cute peach of a butt was squeezed into some very short white shorts. The slim legs that extended from the bottom of her short shorts to the tops of her gold strappy sandals were a major distraction. It took all he had to control his desire to pull her back to the bedroom and skip brunch.

Since his mother could get dry toast anywhere, he and Cameron rotated between about four or five of their favorite restaurants for brunch. This week he
’d picked an upscale French restaurant on Ventura and Hazeltine that offered a champagne brunch. Leaving his car with the valet, he escorted Sophie in the door. He spotted his mother with her usual glass of plain tap water, and his brother with a mimosa at a window table. Cameron stood at their approach.

“Mom, Cam, I want you to meet Sophie,” he said by way of introduction.

She was going to kill him
—literally wrap her hands around his attractive throat and throttle him as soon as she had the chance.
Some people
had turned out to be his mother and brother. Her first thought was that Cameron was the more conservative of the two brothers, if it was possible to be more conservative than Ryan. His blond hair and blue eyes mirrored Ryan’s, but where Ryan’s too-long hair curled at the ends, Cameron’s was a severe buzz cut against his head. Though he looked just a little older, Cameron had a few wrinkles around his knowing eyes. An inch or two shorter than Ryan, he was stockier, built like he did pushups for a living.

Unlike her own mother, their mother Bridget was no shrinking violet. Though she looked like she’d worked hard in her life, her faded blue eyes were kind and radiated intelligence. She didn’t wear clothes that advertised her widow status. She dressed very hip for her age
in a crisp white oxford, black jeans and sequined flats that sparkled in the chandelier’s light.

Sophie pulled her hand from Ryan’s and shook their hands firmly, then sat down at the table. She debated between taking him out back and throttling him now or waiting until brunch was over. Involuntarily, she shook her head. No, she’d do it slowly, starting now. Honesty was always the best policy.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she started. “Ryan neglected to mention that I would be meeting his family today. He mentioned a get together with some
friends
,” she said, emphasizing the last word.