Page 43 of Captivated
But what if she hated it? The idea jumped into his mind like a warty toad and had him staring into space. Just because they had shared a bed, and something else too intangible for him to name, didn’t mean she would understand or appreciate his work.
What the hell had he been thinking of, giving it to her to read before he’d polished it?
Terrific, he thought in disgust and bent to snatch up his jeans. Now he had that to worry about for the next several hours. As he strode off to shower, Nash wondered how he had gotten in so deep that a woman could drive him crazy in so many ways.
Chapter 8
It was more than four hours later before Morgana had a chance for a cup of tea and a moment alone. Customers, phone calls, arriving shipments, had kept her busy enough that she’d had time enough only to glance at the first page or two of Nash’s script.
What she saw intrigued her enough to have her resenting each interruption. Now she heated water and nibbled on tart green grapes. Mindy was in the shop, waiting on two college students. Since both students were male, Morgana knew Mindy wouldn’t need any help.
With a sigh, she brewed the tea, set it to steep, then settled down with Nash’s script.
An hour later, she’d forgotten the tea that grew cold in the pot. Fascinated, she flipped back to page one and began all over again. It was brilliant, she thought, and felt a surge of pride that the man she loved could create something so rich, so clever, so absorbing.
Talented, yes. She’d known he was talented. His movies had always entertained and impressed her. But she’d never read a screenplay before. Somehow she’d thought it would be no more than an outline, the bare bones that a director, actors, technicians, would flesh out for an audience. But this was so rich in texture, so full of life and spirit, that it didn’t seem like words on paper at all. She could already see, and hear, and feel.
She imagined that, when those extra layers were added by the actors, the camera, the director, Nash might very well have the film of the decade on his hands.
It stunned her that the man she thought of as charming, a bit cocky, and often full of himself had something like this inside him. Then again, it had rocked her the night before to discover that he had such deep wells of tenderness.
Setting the script aside, she leaned back in her chair. And she had always considered herself so astute, shethought with a little smile. Just how many more surprises did Nash Kirkland have up his sleeve?
***
He was working on the next one as hard as he could. Inspiration had struck, and Nash had never been one to leta good idea slip away.
He’d had a moment’s twinge at the notion of leaving Morgana’s back door unlocked. But he’d figured that with her reputation, and with the wolf-dog roaming the grounds, nobody would dare break in.
For all he knew, she’d cast some sort of protective spell over the house in any case.
It was going to be perfect, he told himself as he struggled to arrange an armload of flowers—purchased this time—in a vase. They seemed to take on a life of their own, stems jamming, heads drooping. After several tries, the arrangement still looked as though the flowers had been shoved into the container by a careless ten-year-old. By the time he’d finished, he’d filled three vases and was happy to admit he’d never be a set director.
But they smelled good.
A glance at his watch warned him that time was running short. Crouching in front of the hearth, he built a fire. It took him longer, and he imagined it took considerably more effort, than it would have taken Morgana, but at last the flames were licking cheerfully at the wood. A fire was hardly necessary, but he liked the effect.
Satisfied, he rose to check the scene he’d so carefully set. The table for two was laid with a white cloth he’d found in the drawer of the sideboard in Morgana’s dining room. Though that room had had possibilities, with its soaring ceiling and its huge fireplace, he thought the drawing room more intimate.
The china was hers, too, and looked old and lovely, with little rosebuds hugging the edges of gleaming white plates. He’d arranged the heavy silverware and the crystal champagne glasses. All hers, as well. And folded the deep rose damask napkins into neat triangles.
Perfect, he decided. Then swore.
Music. How could he have forgotten the music? And the candlelight. He made a dash to the stereo andfumbled through a wide selection of CDs. Chopin, he decided, though he was more in tune with the Rolling Stones than with classical music. He switched it on and slipped the disc in, then nodded his approval after the first few bars. Then he went on a treasure hunt for candles.
Ten minutes later, he had over a dozen ranged throughout the room, glowing and wafting out the fragrances of vanilla, jasmine, sandalwood.
He’d barely had time to pat himself on the back when he heard her car. He beat Pan to the door by inches.
Outside, Morgana lifted a brow when she spotted Nash’s car. But the fact that he was nearly a half hour early didn’t annoy her. Not in the least. She was smiling as she crossed to the door, his script under one arm, a bottle of champagne in the other.
He opened the door and scooped her up into a long, luxurious kiss. Wanting his own greeting, Pan did his best to crowbar between them.
“Hi,” Nash said when he freed her mouth.
“Hello.” She handed Nash both bottle and envelope so that she could ruffle Pan’s fur before closing the door. “You’re early.”
“I know.” He glanced at the label on the bottle. “Well, well... Are we celebrating?”
