She Thinks Her Ex Is Sexy...

She recalled they hadn’t noticed any other vehicle besides the van once they’d left the main route, so even if they could scale the embankment they’d fallen down, it wouldn’t do much good to wait for traffic on a road that had looked more geared to ATVs than real cars. “So we can either backtrack to the highway or try to cut northeast and see if we can meet up with it ahead of us.”

She unzipped her biggest suitcase, the vintage trunk, one of her favorite pieces of luggage, and wondered how she would leave anything behind. Even though they couldn’t see any other signs of two-legged life right now, that didn’t mean looters wouldn’t crawl out from the bushes to make off with her stuff.

“Right.” Romero dug a knife out of a tool kit that had fallen out of his trunk, and stuffed it inside the bag he apparently planned to bring with him. “But if we backtrack, we know the phone won’t work for the whole trip. Whereas if we move forward, we at least have the possibility of finding some kind of cell coverage.”

Shannon glanced at her bridesmaid dress, her curling iron and her hot rollers. None of them would be helpful on a journey through the Mexican desert, but she couldn’t see herself leaving all of it behind either, especially as the dress was the single most expensive item in any of her suitcases. Romero’s trunk latch had broken when he forced it open, so they couldn’t lock it up again. Tugging out the pink garment, she rolled it up tight to pack in the medium-size carry-on bag.

“You’re not bringing that with you.” Romero seemed to be cutting the carpet out of the BMW, for no real purpose that she could see.

“Did I tell you what to pack?” The sun overhead went behind a cloud and she noticed for the first time the day turning overcast. The ugly birds that had been stalking them had taken off, but she didn’t know if that meant impending bad weather or that the carrion-eating rats with wings had gotten tired of waiting for them to die.

“No, but that’s because I have the greater good in mind instead of thinking about what to wear tomorrow.” The carpet he’d been sawing at flopped on the ground, the underside stiff and rubberized.

“I’m not wearing this dress tomorrow.” In fact, she’d never wear it again, since the first thing she had to do when she returned home, after feeding her dogs, was post the garment on eBay to try to make a little money back on the ridiculously expensive piece. “But it’s Vera Wang. I can’t bloody well leave it in the desert for thieves.”

Any woman of Shannon’s acquaintance—and most of the men, for that matter—would have understood. A vein in Romero’s temple throbbed so hard it looked like it might well explode.

How could he walk out on her without a fight, and yet a dress brought out the ferocious beast in him?

“I think thieves are the least of our problems. Put the dress back and take the rest of the water I couldn’t fit in my bag.” He exaggerated the articulation. Clearly, he thought she was a moron.

“You know I may not have all the right survival skills to make it in the Mexican desert.” It looked like a freaking desert to her, damn it. She tossed bottle after bottle of water on top of the Vera Wang as a compromise. “But I’ve lived in Hollywood on my own since I was fourteen, becoming an emancipated minor at sixteen after my guardian aunt spent all my mom’s fortune.” Not that her personal history wasn’t known by every Hollywood insider, outsider and tabloid, considering her mother’s fame. “That means I’ve been surviving for over a decade in a jaded jungle full of people who wanted to tear me down, or at the very least, expected me to turn into my druggie mom. And not only have I managed to have a successful career—” okay, so she’d fudged that part, but this was her rant “—I’ve also never been photographed naked, never threw up in a nightclub, never got in a fight with the paparazzi, and not once did I cave to addictions that spit people out by the dozens every day in Los Angeles. The mere fact of my existence speaks to my intelligence, don’t you think?”

When she had all the bottles of water in her bag, she zipped it up and stared at him, daring him to tell her what to do again.

“I hope you’ve got everything you need in there, since you don’t have an ounce of space left.” He glared meaningfully at her bulging bag.

She didn’t. She had to have her face cleanser and a few other toiletries. But she could stuff those in the side pouches, couldn’t she? She was about to fire off a sharp retort when she remembered the movie script. Even though the treatment was for some crummy indie film cashing in on her mother’s fame, her ass would be grass if someone else got their hands on the screenplay and leaked it.

“Crap.”

Romero was at least wise enough to go back to peeling the carpet out of the trunk instead of gloating. Maybe that was a benefit to being with a man who never argued. He didn’t jump down her throat when she messed up, either. Sighing, Shannon sank to her knees to retrieve the one item she couldn’t jam into some tiny side flap. The padded manila envelope contained the project that represented Shannon’s only offer to stay in Hollywood. Not that she was taking it.

From Ceily’s description, Shannon knew the movie was about her poor mother’s arrival in Tinseltown, and her rise to fame that had included nude spreads in a variety of men’s magazines and rumors that she’d used sex to get some of the industry’s juiciest roles. Later, she’d descended into drugs, alcohol and depression. Nothing the public hadn’t heard about before.

Baby Doll would be a movie about a woman’s use of sex to get her way—a theme Hollywood producers loved. But Shannon had managed to have a sixteen-year career without taking her clothes off or playing the sexpot. Her mother had been famous for both, blazing through Hollywood with studio directors and producers panting at her heels. Bridget Leigh had elevated sensuality to an art form.

No, Shannon didn’t want to do a movie focused on all the things she resented most about her mom, the things that took Bridget away from her daughter before they could fix their dysfunctional relationship. But the script couldn’t stay here, either. Vera Wang would have to go.

“Is that the proposal for the film about your mom?” Romero had set aside his knife and rolled up the carpet tightly with a bungee cord around it.

He stuffed the long roll into an elastic side strap on his overnight bag, which was more functional than label conscious. Romero had never been about high fashion or glitz, even in his days with bandmates who wore eyeliner like it was going out of style. Hence his decision to invest a few grand in a new brand of hiking boots to help give the fledgling company a PR boost. He liked to fish on the weekends and take a boat out to Catalina.

“Yes.” She hadn’t wanted anyone to know she was desperate enough even to consider this kind of film. Especially not a man she wanted to eat his heart out. “I’m probably not going to do this project, since I have a lot of other things in the works.”

Like a play so far off Broadway she’d probably be playing Staten Island.

“But it’s important enough to sacrifice the Vera Whatever for it.” He retrieved some energy bars from his glove compartment before moving to where she bent over her suitcase, firing water bottles out onto a thin brown patch of grass.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

His nearness rattled her far more than the threat of a downpour. They were even closer than they’d been in his car. His knee grazed hers. The veins on his bicep bulged from his battle ripping out the carpet. The scent of clean male sweat mixed with the bay rum of his soap in some kind of alchemy wizardry that created an instant aphrodisiac. Or maybe that was just because thinking about sex was easier than picking through her reasons for saving the script over the monetarily valuable bridesmaid’s dress.

“It’s not my script to leave in the middle of the desert.” She dodged further argument, stuffing the treatment into her suitcase and packing the pink dress back into the larger of her suitcases, which would have to remain with the ruined automobile. “Much as I might like to line a few birdcages with some of the tripe I’ve read about my mom.”

Shannon watched his broad hands wrap around one water bottle after the next as he repacked her smaller bag, her body remembering the feel of those warm fingers stroking up her back in the night. He’d told her once that the length of his fingers made it easier to play guitar. Musician’s hands. But she’d been as impressed with the way he played her body, always able to coax a response from her no matter how tired or overwrought she felt from the daily grind of life on the set.

God, she’d almost forgotten how great those days had been. She’d spent so much time alone while he’d been on tour. Then, even after he’d come home, she had lost him to his music all over again while he’d worked on a new CD. Maybe she’d put too much emphasis on talking, since right now she could picture herself being damn content with not speaking at all and just…touching.

“You don’t like the film because it’s low budget.” Romero zipped the bag, his forearm brushing her knee. The contact made her eyes flutter and threaten to close. She loved that sensation.

“Among other things.” She forced herself to focus on what he was saying. The film script. “Even the pictures I made that went straight to DVD were at least produced through major studios. Distribution was assured.”

And she’d been assured her performance would at least be viewed by more than a few hundred people. She didn’t need huge financial rewards from her work, but she dreamed of her skills being appreciated. Her talents shared.

Another clap of thunder made her shove the large suitcase beneath the protective shelter of the overturned car. If there was any chance thieves didn’t steal her stuff, she’d rather not have it water damaged.

“In the music business, great work is usually produced by people who have more freedom to follow their vision. Maybe that script you’re afraid to read will surprise you.”

She rocked back to sit on her heels just as the first raindrop kissed her cheek.

“I’m not afraid to read it.” Liar. That’s why it had been shoved in the back of a drawer since she’d received it a few days after Romero walked out. She’d known the project was coming, and had discussed it with him briefly in the days before he left. She was surprised he even remembered, since he hadn’t commented much at the time.

He’d been in his quiet, brooding musician phase.

“Whatever.” He got to his feet and held a hand to her to help her up. “If you don’t want to take a risk on something more artistic, I understand.”

Shannon nearly fell right back on her butt. Then the heavens opened up and doused them, saving Romero from seeing the smoke pour from her ears at the insult he’d just sent her way with so little thought. He pointed east, apparently showing her the direction they’d be taking on this hike from hell to get back to civilization.

He understood if she didn’t want to make a more artistic movie? Like the rest of her pictures had been total dreck? Besides, this would be a skin flick, wouldn’t it?

Her feet moved alongside his, her toes already protesting the three-and-a-half-inch heels, which sank into the sand with every single step. He thought she didn’t have the creativity to collaborate with a screenwriter? Or did he think she didn’t have the acting chops to pull off the kinds of sexually aggressive scenes she would have to play as the notorious Baby Doll Bridget?

She was no damn prude. And she could act, by God, or she wouldn’t have been offered some theater opportunities in New York, even if they were a little removed from Broadway’s mainstream.

“You think I can’t do something artsy? Assuming I’d have the creative freedom to add some depth to this script?” She stopped in her tracks, unable to stew silently the way he could.

Rain ran in rivulets down his face as he turned to look back at her, the drops chasing each other along the stark angles of his chiseled cheekbones.

“It’s not that—”

“Then you think it’s too sexy for me.”

He was silent for a beat too long.

She could hardly believe it, after she’d fought for so many years to prove she wasn’t her mother, and no one in the industry had bought it. Apparently Romero bought it.

“You’ve always said you didn’t want to be remembered for your cup size.” He reached for her, smoothing aside a section of hair the rain had plastered to her forehead. “Those are your words, not mine.”