You Belong To Me (3 page)

Read You Belong To Me Online

Authors: Patricia Sargeant

BOOK: You Belong To Me
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“It may sound like a sales pitch, but it's the truth,” he assured her.
Denise hummed again. “You know, Nicky has worked very hard to get where she is today. She wasn't an overnight success.”
“I know. I've followed her career.” Malcolm recalled the first
InterDimensions
book had been published three years ago, the same year he'd started Celestial Productions. He'd remembered her working on the series when they were together. She'd put her writing aside after the miscarriage, though.
He knew the first book hadn't become popular until the second installment had been released six months later. Now, all three books had a cult success with a loyal and growing following.
“I'm not going to do anything to undermine her work,” Malcolm continued.
Denise's voice grew hard. “If you hurt her again, California won't be far enough for you to go. I'm from New York. Born and raised. I know people. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Good. Be at my office at eleven-forty-five tomorrow morning.” Denise disconnected.
 
Nicole sat in one of the comfortably stuffed chairs in front of Denise's polished, mahogany desk. A big picture window behind her agent's amethyst leather executive chair provided a visual journal of the bustling community outside the office building.
The cozy office was decorated in warm mahogany wood and accented in vibrant colors that reflected the owner's personality. A forest-green love seat with gold-and-red throw pillows sat against the right wall and was flanked by large, leafy plants. Across the room, a conversation table stood with two small chairs in the same forest green as the love seat. Although Nicole had never asked, she suspected the beige carpet was compliments of the management firm that owned the building in which Denise's company, The Maitland Agency, rented office space.
Nicole stared at the list of production houses Denise had approached on her behalf in the past nine months. She'd seen the chart before. It included the company name, address, and representative. The words
no longer interested
marched down the final column until she came to the Celestial Productions entry.
“The other company you referred to yesterday—” she began.
“Carter Enterprises. It's in L.A. as well,” Denise filled in.
“Do you think they would reconsider my requests?” Nicole scanned the list again, pausing at Carter Enterprises's entry. “They're willing to pay ten percent more than what I'm asking. Surely it would be worth it to them to save that money and just let me approve the script, location, and cast.”
“That's what I keep telling them,” Denise replied. “But apparently they think it's worth the money to pay you to shut up.”
“Hush money.” Nicole snorted. “It makes you wonder what they want to do to my work.”
“It certainly does.”
“I should have accepted one of the offers tendered the first time Hollywood showed interest in my stories. I just couldn't trust someone else to interpret my characters. I still don't.”
“Girl, I completely understand. You know I only take on work I believe in. And I fell in love with
InterDimensions
. Absolutely fell in love.” Denise pressed a small, bejeweled hand to her ample bosom. “It's like you're their mother and I'm their doting aunt. You understand?”
“Yes, I do.” Nicole smiled.
Denise was a terrier. She represented Nicole fiercely at the negotiating table and always looked out for her best interests. She had bullied Nicole's publisher into going back in print after the series' popularity had soared due to Nicole's modest marketing efforts and a frenzy of word-of-mouth recommendations. It had also helped that the series appealed to both genders and a large age group.
Nicole leaned forward to return the list to Denise. Propping her elbows on her knees, she hooked her thumbs under her chin and tapped her fingers together, her lips pursed in concentration.
“It looks like I don't have a choice,” she mused. “I need the money, and I'm out of time. I'll have to accept Malcolm's offer.”
Denise's intercom buzzed. “Excuse me.” She picked up the red receiver. “Yes, Leslie? Thanks. Please send him in.”
Nicole frowned. “Who is it?”
Denise ignored the question. “What you need is an opportunity to get used to the idea of Malcolm being back in your life.”
Nicole looked over her shoulder as the door opened. And Malcolm Bryant walked in.
“Here's your opportunity,” her agent announced.
At first, Nicole couldn't credit what she was seeing. Malcolm. Here in New York. Denise's office, to be exact. This couldn't be happening. She would have popped out of her seat if she thought her knees would support her.
She turned back to her agent. “What's going on?”
Denise held up both hands with their plum-colored fingernails. “Face it, the two of you need to talk. Clear the air, so to speak, so you can put the past behind you and work together.”
“We don't need to rehash the past,” Nicole contradicted. “We just need to make the movie.”
Denise gave her a level stare. “I've never known you not to try to make something work. I only asked him here so you can talk. The final decision is still yours. But you owe it to yourself to try.”
“Denise, I don't need a reunion. All I need is a check.” Nicole felt ashamed when she saw the genuine concern in Denise's eyes.
“Nicky, you'll never get a second chance to make your first movie. I don't want this to be a bad experience for you. And I don't think it has to be,” Denise said.
“Denise—”
“Come on, Nicky. It's not going to kill you.”
Malcolm shifted into her line of vision. “Just give me an hour of your time. That's all I'm asking. We'll have lunch. Please.”
In the end, it was the “please” that made the difference.
“Fine.” She picked up her purse and coat, then brushed past him to pull open the door. “Separate checks.”
Malcolm followed Nicole down the two flights of stairs to the lobby. Her sneakered feet were almost silent on the steps now. Malcolm decided it was a good sign that she'd stopped stomping.
Her figure-distorting wardrobe for today consisted of a nut-brown, knee-length coat over a teal-green, crew-neck sweater and blue jeans. A clip at the nape of her neck again secured her hair. Malcolm missed the sassy little cut she used to wear.
“I'll drive,” he said as they reached the lobby level.
“This is New York.” Nicole zipped her coat. “You don't drive, you walk. Follow me.”
Malcolm put his hand on her forearm and felt Nicole stiffen beneath his touch. “I'm not going to discuss a movie deal with you at a McDonald's.” He smiled to himself. Her quick frown told him he could still—occasionally—read her mind. Maybe she hadn't changed as much as he'd feared. “There's a restaurant down the street. We'll walk. Together.”
“Fine.” She tugged on her gloves. “It had better be a good restaurant.”
“I'm sure you won't be disappointed.” Malcolm tried a smile, pulling on his own gloves. “It's a little Italian place. Do you still live for pasta?”
Nicole ignored his question, obviously not ready to stroll down memory lane.
“Okay. Let's go,” Malcolm said. But when she turned toward him, he couldn't move away. Instead, he stood fossilized by Nicole's regard. He wondered what she was thinking as her gaze skimmed his slate-gray tweed overcoat hanging open over his pale gray suit and high-collared white shirt.
“What is it?” he asked as her gaze darted away from him.
She shrugged and looked up at him. “I'm surprised you have such a heavy winter coat. It must have been eleven years since you've needed one.”
“I visit my family in Michigan a couple of times a year, including Christmas.” He took her arm as they continued across the lobby. He was pleased she only eased away from his touch rather than shrugging him off. Progress.
Malcolm held the lobby door open for her, and they walked in silence to the restaurant. After being seated and placing their orders, Malcolm, taking advantage of the fact that Nicole looked everywhere but at him, studied her again.
Her bulky sweater masked her figure. His Nicole had worn clothes that had complemented her generous curves. The Nicole he'd known had worn makeup as well. This Nicole didn't. At least not on the occasions he'd seen her. But her delicate features were beautiful with or without makeup. Her slanted ebony eyes, brown skin, and dusky rose lips didn't need enhancements. His gaze followed her small, slim hands as they stirred her iced tea. No nail polish, no rings. He hadn't wanted to admit his relief, not even to himself, when he'd discovered she hadn't remarried.
She looked up and caught him staring at her. He saw the flash of irritation in her eyes before her lips parted.
Malcolm spoke to forestall the attack. “Your agent is very protective of you. How long have you worked with her?”
“Since I started shopping my manuscript. I signed as one of her first clients after she left the firm she worked for to start her own agency.”
“It looks like the two of you make a good team.”
“I think so.” Nicole picked up her iced tea and sipped through her straw.
“She's a terrier,” Malcolm teased.
Nicole blinked, a smile tipping her generous lips before she remembered to scowl again.
“How's your mother?” he asked, hoping to build on her softening mood. When she stiffened, he realized he had miscalculated.
“She died,” Nicole murmured.
Malcolm felt his eyes widen with shock. He remembered the loving woman who had welcomed him into her family and treated him like her own. He reached across the table and gripped her hand. “Nicky, I'm so sorry. When?”
She tried to pull her hand away but stilled when his hold didn't break. “Two years ago.” Her tone did not encourage questions, but Malcolm pressed on.
“What happened?”
“Cancer.” Her tone was clipped. “Malcolm, I'm not going to answer any more questions. This is business, remember? Let's not get personal.”
Malcolm saw pain and anger swirling in her eyes. He also saw wariness.
Why?
“What are you afraid of?”
Nicole made a visible effort to relax. He watched her look around the small, neighborhood restaurant. Its dark, scarred hardwood chairs. Its faded red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Italian music played softly in the background as he waited for her answer.
Nicole's gaze returned to his. “I'm afraid you'll quit before the project's over. That you'll leave in the middle of production or something.”
Malcolm went cold. He'd never expected that response. “What makes you think I would do something like that?”
Nicole reached out and ran the tip of her index finger over the fake red bud in the plastic centerpiece on their table. “Despite your company's success with previous projects, you're not well-known in the film industry, and I'm not well-known, either. We're going to face a lot of challenges making and marketing this project, and I don't know how you'll react.”
Malcolm leaned into the table. “You say that as though you don't know me. We knew each other for seven years. For five of those years, we lived together.”
Nicole sipped her iced tea. “And during three of those years, we were married.” She held his gaze. “And when things got tough, you left.”
Malcolm clenched his teeth at the unfair accusation. If she hadn't pushed him away, he never would have left. But he steered the conversation back to business. Their more personal discussion would need to wait for another time and place.
“We would have a signed contract detailing all aspects of the project.” He strove for a moderate tone, suppressing the anger beneath. “If my word that I won't abandon the project isn't good enough, we could add a clause to the contract to make you more comfortable.”
Bitter humor gleamed in her eyes. “We had a signed contract before, Mal.” She folded her hands on the table. “I think the clause read something like, ‘Till death do us part.'”
Malcolm felt his face heat as the waiter arrived with their meals. He waited until the young man served their entrées and left them again.
“If you didn't want the divorce, why did you sign the papers?” Malcolm twirled the pasta onto his fork. The scents of tangy red sauce and seasonings wafted up to him.
Nicole lifted wide, ebony eyes to his and blinked with exaggerated innocence. “Oh, I'm sorry. Was I supposed to beg you to stay?” She held up a hand to stop Malcolm's frustrated response. “I must not have gotten that script revision.”

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