Page 5

He narrowed his eyes.
She narrowed her eyes.
He edged closer.
She squeezedagain.
“Don’t stop,” the director hissed. “You’re doing great. What else do you want to do to him?”
Touch him. Rub him. Press closer. All of the above.
What was she doing? She was supposed to be slapping handcuffs on a master pimp hawking innocent girls, not standing under a domineering actor.
“Are you going to cooperate?” As if he sensed her challenge, Julian murmured, his voice a lesson of satisfaction. Was that in the script? “If you don’t respond, I’ll have to treat you as a hostile witness, and protocol will require additional measures.”
Additional measures?Red sparks distorted her vision. By the story’s path, she could only respond one way. “Yes.”Clenched teeth allowed only a hiss, and it lingered in the air, the slight sound belying its tumultuous impact.
Triumph reined in the actor’s gaze, so genuine that for a second Cheyenne believed it to be real. But of course it wasn’t – he was simply playing a part. “Excellent.” He directed her hand to her side but didn’t return to the spaghetti strap. Thank goodness. Only then… he grasped the bottom of her shirt instead. “This will be more effective.”
This time no relief would come. She stood still as he raised his hands, and with it her shirt. Cheyenne jumped, pushing forward ever-so-slightly, enough his hands accidentally grazed her breast. Her nipples puckered, and his hand stilled. Had he felt it? He must have, as his pupils dilated to topaz shards. Her breasts were heavy and tender, her body heated and flushed. His hands lingered – would he ever move them? Finally he did, but then the cool air hit her stomach, a stark reminder of the current situation:
The entire studio could see her straining breasts, hidden only by a lacy black bra. She was breathing like she’d just run a twelve hour marathon. And Julian had a front row view.
“Touch him!” the director commanded, as the captive audience leaned forward as one. “Let him know how much you want him.”
Did she want him?
Um, a lot.
Like, a lot a lot.
Like, she was going to get fired if she didn’t start paying attention to anything but those muscles a lot.
Like, those muscles really were admirable and hard and she’d like to – stop – a lot.
So she splayed her hands wider against the metal masquerading as a chest – because the director wanted her to. And she traced the valleys and contours of a pectoral paradise– because the director wanted her to. And she squeezed that smooth skin – becauseshewanted to.
His nostrils flared as he lowered his gaze to her breasts. Then Cheyenne couldn’t see him as he brought the shirt up over her head, blocking her view and expanding his. Her own hot breath surrounded and suffocated her, locked in the confinement of the tight spandex cotton, stifling her as she gasped for fresh oxygen. Then the shirt was gone, lifted high above her head, and she heaved in a great gulp of air. Julian stood above her, pupils wide with blazing blackness, examining her uncovered state. Fate’s ironic twist bespoke the desired response − damsel in distress − yet she was no actor. Did he realize how sincere her response was?
His slightly wicked and altogether amused regard proved he did.
“This doesn’t have to be bad,” he whispered. Was he reading from the script or talking directly to her? She could no longer tell. “If you just relax and accept, it’ll be fine. Pleasurable even.”
Pleasurable?
Pleasure had never been mentioned by the hundreds of suspects she’d professionally searched in her career. Specific procedures dictated every movement to minimize personal disturbances and invasions, yet now those were the goal. It was disconcerting, strange and a million other things, but pleasurable? No, definitely, one hundred percent not. Well, perhaps 99%.
The script didn’t call for defiance, yet that’s exactly what she gave, not with words but by standing straight and meeting his gaze. Unfortunately, the stance caused her to jut out just a little further, in a way that sharpened his onslaught. “Are you hiding a weapon?” His voice boomed loud enough for the microphones to pick up. My God, she was fighting for the pride of womanhood, and he was simply following a script. “You will share all.”
“Say something!” the director hissed. “I don’t care what you say − just go with it.”
If he wanted a response, he would get it. Logic and reason boarded a plane for vacation, as she ignored the plot and responded naturally, “I will not. You don’t affect me at all.”
“I don’t?” Biceps flexed… a response to a challenge? “Not even a little bit?”
She stood up straighter. “Not even a little bit.”
“So you’re okay if we continue?”