“What do you mean?” she asked with sham innocence, turning up the volume on the remote controller, her gaze riveted on the television screen.
“Why are you watching that?”
“Watching what?” Julie asked with an indifference that completely belied the twisting ache in her stomach at the sight of Zack’s hands on Glenn Close’s body, his mouth on hers in a torrid kiss like the ones he gave Julie, his tanned torso gleaming against the stark white of a sheet that barely covered his hip.
“You know exactly what I mean. First you acted like you’d never seen a movie of mine in that cabinet and didn’t care to, and when you do decide to watch one, you go directly to a scene like this.”
“I’ve seen all your movies,” she informed him, watching the television set and refusing to look at him when he sat down beside her. “I have most of them, including this one, on videotape. I’ve watched this particular one at least a half-dozen times.” She nodded toward the picture. “How’s the lighting there?”
Zack pulled his gaze from her rigid features and flicked a glance at the television screen. “Not bad,”
“What about the acting?”
“Not bad.”
“Yes, but do you think you did a good enough job with that kiss? I mean, could you have kissed her deeper or harder just then? Probably not,” she answered herself bitterly. “Your tongue was in her mouth already.”
She was making her point eloquently, and now that he understood what was eating her, he regretted everything he’d said that had ultimately caused her to do this. He’d never imagined it would upset her to watch him do anything in what was, to him, simply a movie, a performance given in the presence of dozens of people on a sound stage.
“How did you feel when she was kissing you back like that?”
“Hot,” he said. When she flinched at the word he used, he clarified quickly, “The lights were hot—too bright—I could tell they were, and I was worried about it.”
“Oh, but I’m sure you weren’t thinking about lights right now,” she nodded toward the set as if mesmerized by it. “Not with your hands all over her breasts.”
“As I recall, I was thinking how much I wanted to strangle the director for making us do another take of that same scene.”
She ignored that truth completely and said with a hurt that was poorly concealed beneath sarcasm, “I wonder what Glenn Close was thinking just then—when you kissed her breasts.”
“She was fantasizing about murdering the director, too, for the same reason.”
“Really?” she said sarcastically. “What do you suppose she was thinking about when you rolled on top of her like that?”
Zack reached out and caught Julie’s chin, gently forcing her face toward his. “I know what she was thinking about. She was praying I’d get my elbow out of her stomach before she got the giggles again and spoiled another take.”
In the face of his calm sincerity and matter-of-fact attitude, Julie suddenly felt foolish and completely unsophisticated. With an exasperated sigh, she said, “I’m sorry for behaving like an idiot. The reason I pretended I wasn’t interested in watching your movies was because I dreaded seeing a scene like this with you in it. I know it’s stupid, but it makes me feel—” she broke off, refusing to say jealous because she knew she had no right to be that.
“Jealous?” he suggested, and the word sounded even more revolting when spoken aloud.
“Jealousy is a destructive and immature emotion,” she hedged.
“One that makes a person irrational and impossible to get along with,” he agreed.
Julie said a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn’t used that word and nodded. “Yes, well, watching you in those scenes simply makes me wish . . . we could watch a different movie.”
“Fine, whose movie would you like to watch? Name any actor you choose.” She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, he added flatly, “So long as it isn’t Swayze, Costner, Cruise, Redford, Newman, McQueen, Ford, Douglas, or Gere.”
Julie gaped at him. “Who’s left?”
Curving his arm around her shoulders, he drew her close and whispered his answer against her hair. “Mickey Mouse.”
Julie didn’t know whether to laugh or demand an explanation. “Mickey Mouse! But why?”
“Because,” he murmured, sliding his lips to her temple, “I think I could listen to you rave about Mickey without getting ‘irrational’ again and ‘impossible to get along with.’ ”
Trying to hide the poignant pleasure she felt at what he’d just admitted, Julie lifted her face to his and teasingly said, “There’s always Sean Connery. He was wonderful in The Hunt for Red October.”
Zack raised his brows in mocking challenge. “There’s always the other six of my movies in that cabinet, too.”
Now that she’d made a joke of his admission and safely avoided admitting her own jealousy, Julie instantly regretted her cowardice and the fact that she’d belittled a special moment. Sobering, she looked into his eyes and said shakily, “I hated watching you making love to Glenn Close.”
The reward for her courage was a brush of his long fingers against her jaw and a roughtender kiss that stole her breath.
37
JULIE GLANCED OUT THE KITCHEN window at the setting sun, put down her paring knife, and went into the living room to turn on the television set. A satellite dish somewhere on the mountain enabled them to bring in CNN, and she hadn’t heard the news since this morning.
Zack had spent the day clearing the drive all the way down to the bridge, using the huge tractor in the garage that spewed snow in a seventy-foot arc from a blower attached to it, and now he was taking a shower. This morning, when he first told her what he planned to do, she’d thought he intended for them to leave today or tomorrow, and she’d been seized with a panic that nearly strangled her. As if he read her thoughts, he said, “I’ll tell you the day before it’s time to leave.” When she tried to get him to say if he already knew what day that was going to be, he replied vaguely that he wasn’t certain, which gave Julie the impression he was waiting for something to happen . . . or for someone to contact him.
He was right, of course, that the less she knew, the better off they both were. He was equally right to insist they simply enjoy each moment of the time they had together and not think beyond that moment. He was right about everything, but it was impossible not to wonder and worry what was going to happen to him next. She couldn’t imagine how he could hope to find out who killed his wife when his face was so well known that he’d be recognized immediately wherever he went.
Still, he’d been an actor, so makeup and disguises would be easy for him. She was counting on that to keep him safe. And she was terrified it wouldn’t.
The television screen lit up, and she listened absently to some psychologist who was evidently the guest on CNN as she headed back to the kitchen. She was nearly there when she realized the psychologist was talking about her, and she whirled around. Eyes wide with disbelief, she walked toward the television set, staring at the subtitle on the screen that identified the speaker as William Everhardt, Ph.D. With absolute confidence, Dr. Everhardt was expounding on what Julie Mathison was going through emotionally as a result of being taken hostage:
“A great deal of research has been done with hostages like Miss Mathison,” he was saying. “I myself coauthored a book on this subject, and I can tell you with all certainty, that the young lady is living through a highly stressful, but very predictable sequence of emotions.”
Julie tipped her head to the side, fascinated to learn what was going on in her mind from this unknown expert on the subject.
“During the first and second day, fear is the primary emotion—and a very paralyzing one, I might add. The hostage feels helpless, too terrified to think or act, but they hold out hope that they’ll be rescued. Later, usually on the third day, rage sets in. Rage at the injustice being done them and at the victim role they’re forced to endure.”
With amused derision, Julie held up her fingers and counted off the days, comparing her reality with his “expert knowledge.” On the first day, she had gone from fear to fury within hours and tried to slip a note to the clerk in the fast-food restaurant. On the second day, she had tried to escape from him at the rest stop—and nearly succeeded. On the third day, she’d succeeded in escaping. She’d been a little afraid and extremely nervous, but certainly not paralyzed. Shaking her head in disgust, she concentrated on Dr. Everhardt’s next remarks:
“By now, Miss Mathison has reached the stage that I like to call the gratitude-dependent syndrome. She sees her captor as her protector, almost an ally, because he hasn’t killed her yet. Er—we’re assuming that Benedict has no reason to do that to her. In any case, she is now furious with the legal authorities for not being able to rescue her. She is beginning to think of them as impotent, while her captor, who is clearly outwitting them, becomes an object of reluctant admiration. Added to that admiration is a profound feeling of gratitude that he hasn’t harmed her. Benedict is an intelligent man with some degree of questionable charm, I understand, which means that she is very much at his mercy, both physically and emotionally.”
Julie gaped at the bearded face on the screen, caught between disbelief and hilarity at the pompous generalities being used in discussing her. Plunking her hands on her hips she advised Dr. Everhardt aloud, “You’re lucky you aren’t on Larry King’s show! He’d never let you get away with such sweeping assumptions!” The only thing Everhardt had gotten right so far was that Zack was intelligent and charming. She couldn’t believe Everhardt hadn’t stopped to consider that, since she hadn’t been taken hostage by crazed terrorists in a foreign country, she probably wouldn’t be going through that “predictable sequence.”
“She is going to need intensive psychological counseling in order to fully recover from this ordeal, and it will take considerable time, but the prognosis is good if she will seek help.”
Julie could not believe the nerve of the man—now he was telling the world she was going to be a mental case! She ought to have Ted sue him!
“Of course,” the moderator interjected smoothly, “this is all presupposing that Julie Mathison was actually taken hostage rather than being Benedict’s accomplice, as some people believe she is.”
Dr. Everhardt pondered that, stroking his beard. “In my opinion, based on what I’ve been able to learn about the young woman, I do not subscribe to that theory.”
“Thank you,” Julie told him aloud. “That remark just saved you from my megalawsuit.”
She was so engrossed that she didn’t register the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades until they were hovering directly overhead. Even when she heard the sound, it was so out of place in this quiet, mountain wilderness that she looked out of the window with surprise, not fear, and then it hit her. “Zack!” she screamed, turning and running. “There’s a helicopter out there! It’s low—” she cried, nearly mowing him down as he ran from the bedroom. “It’s hovering!” She stopped cold at the sight of the gun in his hand.
“Get outside and stay in the woods!” he commanded, shoving her down the hall toward the back door, yanking a jacket out of the closet as he passed it and thrusting it at her. “Don’t come near this house until I tell you to or until they take me out of here!” He racked a shell into the gun’s chamber, moving down the hall with her, holding the weapon high, muzzle up, with the deadly skill of someone who knew how to handle it and was prepared to use it. When she started to open the door, he shoved her out of the way, stepped into the doorway alone, looked up, listening, then he pulled her forward. “Run!”
“For the love of God!” Julie cried stopping just outside the door. “You can’t mean to shoot that thing down! There must be—”
“MOVE!” he thundered.
Julie obeyed, her heart hammering with terror as she raced around the side of the house, stumbling in the deep snow, stopping beneath the trees, then moving through them, working her way around the house until she could see Zack inside the front windows. The helicopter had circled and banked to the left, then it flew over again, and for one terror-filled moment, she thought he was raising his gun, intending to shoot through the window. And then she saw he was holding binoculars, watching the helicopter fly overhead and slowly disappear. Her knees gave out and she slid to the ground in relief, the vision of Zack holding that gun as he shoved her down the hall indelibly imprinted on her mind. It was right out of a violent movie, except this was real. She felt her stomach heave and leaned back against the tree, swallowing, trying to keep her lunch—and her fear— down.
“It’s all right,” Zack said, walking toward her, but she noticed the butt of the gun sticking out from the waist of his pants. “They were skiers swigging wine and circling too low.”
She looked up at him but couldn’t seem to move.
“Here,” he said quietly. “Give me your hand.”
Julie shook her head, trying to shake off her paralyzed terror with the movement and reassure him. “That’s okay, I don’t need any help. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine!” he said savagely and leaned down, grabbing her by the arms and starting to pick her up. “You’re one second from fainting.”
The sickness and dizziness receded and she managed a shaky smile as she stopped him from swinging her into her arms. “My brother’s a cop, remember? I’ve seen guns before. I just wasn’t . . . prepared.”
By the time they got back into the house, she was so relieved that the helicopter had been harmless that she was almost giddy. “Ted used to practice stakeouts in our backyard when he was going through police academy,” she tried to joke, hanging up her jacket. “It was very funny to see. I mean, how can you practice something like that?”
“Drink this,” he said, walking out of the kitchen and shoving a glass of brandy into her hand. “All of it,” he instructed when she took a sip and tried to hand it back to him. She took another swallow and put the glass down on the counter. “I don’t want any more.”
“Fine,” Zack said curtly. “Now get in there and take a long, hot bath.”
“But—”
“Do it. Don’t argue with me. The next time I—” He started to order her to do exactly as he said the next time something like this happened, but he knew there could never be a next time. This had been a false alarm, but it had forced him to see the risk he was taking with her life and the terror he was subjecting her to. God, the terror. He’d never seen anyone look like she had when he found her out there, huddled in the snow.
* * *
It was dark when Julie walked into the living room, bathed and dressed again in a sweater and slacks. Zack was standing in front of the fire, staring into it, his jaw as rigid as granite.
Judging from his expression and his actions earlier, she correctly assumed that much of what was bothering him was probably guilt for what he’d just put her through, but the experience had affected her in a much different way, now that it was over. She was furious that people were forcing him to live like this and determined to find out what he intended to do to put an end to it. Whatever he intended, she was adamantly resolved to convince him to let her help in any way she could.
Rather than broaching the subject immediately, she decided to wait until after they’d eaten dinner. Given Zack’s amazing ability to shove his worries into the background, she assumed an hour or two would be plenty of time for him to get over what appeared to be an extremely black mood. Walking forward, she said lightly, “Are you going to cook the steaks tonight on that fancy stove-top grill, or do you intend for me to do all the cooking?”
He turned and looked at her for several seconds, his face preoccupied and stony. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I was discussing the cooking chores around here.” Shoving her hands into the back waistband of her pants, she teased, “You are in violation of the hostage bill of rights.”
“What are you talking about?” Zack said, trying
fiercely to believe she’d be safe if she stayed here . . . trying to forget the way she’d looked, crouched under that tree, shaking all over, clutching a jacket to her chest . . . trying to convince himself it had been an isolated incident that wouldn’t be repeated.
She gave him one of her breathtaking smiles. “I am talking about cooking chores, Mr. Benedict! Under the laws of the Geneva Convention, a prisoner is not to be subjected to cruel or unjust treatment, and making me do all the cooking for two consecutive days constitutes just that. Don’t you agree?”
Zack managed an unconvincing imitation of a smile and nodded. All he wanted to do at that moment was take her to bed and lose himself in her, to forget for a blissful hour what had happened and what he now knew had to happen next, and much sooner than he’d planned.
38
JULIE’S HOPE THAT HE’D BOUNCE back from his somber mood proved to be a little too optimistic this time. He was polite but preoccupied through most of their meal and now that she’d cleared the dishes away, she was resorting to the underhanded but hopefully effective trick of trying to loosen him up with wine. She had questions to ask, and she felt she had a better chance to get forthright, complete answers if he were relaxed and his guard was down.
Leaning forward, she picked up the bottle and carefully refilled his glass for the fourth time, then she handed it to him, congratulating herself on her subtlety.
Zack looked from the wine glass to her face. “I hope you aren’t trying to get me drunk,” he stated drily, “because if you are, wine isn’t the way to go about it.”
“Shall I get the Scotch instead?” Julie said, stifling a nervous laugh.