“Meaning?” the little man asked, his small tight mouth flattening into a grim slash across his narrow face.
“Meaning, I said you could be on my property, but nowhere near the lambing sheds.”
“But Mr. King said…”
“If you’ve a problem with me,” Maura told him, “I suggest you phone your I’m-so-busy-I-can’t-bother-to-return-a-message King and deliver your complaints to him.” Just before she slammed the front door, she added, “And I wish you good luck getting him on the bleeding phone as I haven’t been able to manage that no-doubt miraculous feat in the last two months.”
Jefferson King was juggling what felt like thirty different projects at once. It helped to stay busy. Thankfully, his position at King Studios ensured that he remained that way.
There were currently three films under production and each of them presented different headaches. Dealing with producers, directors and, worst of all to his mind, the actors, was enough to make a man wonder what he’d first enjoyed about this business. He had deals rolling with agents, a couple of smaller studios he was looking to absorb and he was in the middle of buying the rights to a bestselling romance novel to turn it into what would be, he firmly believed, a blockbuster summer hit.
So yeah. Busy. But he preferred it that way. Busy meant his thoughts were too distracted to drift toward memories of Ireland that came only a dozen times a day now. Images of deep green fields, smoky, music-filled pubs and, mostly, thoughts of Maura Donohue.
Which was just as well because every time a picture of that blue-eyed woman rose up in his mind, he was filled with a wild mixture of emotions that were so tangled and twisted into knots inside him it was impossible to figure out which had prominence.
He tossed his pen onto the desktop and scowled at the wall opposite him. Of course he remembered the passion. The chemistry between them that had built slowly and inexorably until it had finally exploded on their last night together.
Yet he also recalled clearly the calm, cool look in her eye as she walked him to the door that last morning. He gritted his teeth as he saw her face in his mind. Clear blue eyes, luscious mouth curved in a half smile. She hadn’t cried. Hadn’t asked him to stay. Had, in fact, acted as if he were nothing more than an annoying guest keeping her from her work.
Fresh aggravation rose inside him at the memory, so he pushed it away and grabbed his pen again. Thumb flicking madly at the pen top, he told himself it wasn’t that he really cared, it was the principle of the thing. Women didn’t walk away from Jefferson King. No matter the situation, it was he who did the walking. Always. But she’d thrown him off. Caught him off balance and kept him that way and a part of him wondered if that hadn’t been her plan all along.
Had she been teasing him, leading him along sexually until she got the offer just the way she wanted it, and then took him to bed to seal the deal? Was she that manipulative and he simply hadn’t seen it? He’d hate to think that. Went against the grain to consider it, but why else had she been so casual about a night that had damn well hit him harder than he had expected it to?
What kind of woman spent the night with a man and then turned him loose the next morning so easily?
And why the hell was he still thinking about her? The deal was done; it was time to move on. “Well past time,” he muttered, since there was no one else in his office to overhear him.
“That’s perfect,” he added under his breath, “now she’s got me talking to myself and the woman probably hasn’t given me a single thought.”
Which really fried his ass if truth be told. Damn it, Jefferson King was not forgettable. Women usually crowded around him, clamoring for his attention. Not just the wannabe actresses who littered Hollywood’s streets every few feet, either. But women with wit and intelligence. Women who looked at him and saw a successful man, sure of himself and his own place in the world.
Women who weren’t Maura.
Still grumbling, Jefferson flipped through the stack of papers on his desk, and made a few scattered notes. He was buying up an independent film company, thinking of branching King Studios out into documentaries. But it was a stretch to say his mind was focused on that particular task at the moment.
No, like it or not, he was still thinking about her.
But why? After all, it wasn’t as if either of them had wanted or counted on a relationship. They’d had some good times together, capped by one amazing night of mind-blowing sex. So why was he so disgusted at her casual goodbye the next morning? It wasn’t as if he’d been planning to stay anyway.
It had to be ego, pure and simple.
His had taken a slap and that was something he wasn’t used to. How had Maura slipped under his well-honed defenses to leave such an indelible image on his mind?
“Doesn’t matter,” he said aloud, hearing the determination in not only the words but his tone. The memories would fade, eventually. But that wasn’t much comfort in the middle of the night when he woke up with dreams of her raging through his mind.
But a man couldn’t be held responsible for what his unconscious mind dredged up, could he? He pushed away from his desk and walked to the window overlooking Beverly Hills and Hollywood. The streets were jammed with cars and in the distance he could see the stalled traffic on the freeway. Smog hung low over the scene, a hazy brown blanket covering a city with millions of people all hurrying through their lives. And for just a moment, he let himself imagine the cool green fields of Ireland. The warm welcome of the pub.
The narrow road to Maura’s farmhouse.
Irritated with himself and the memories that were still far too vivid, he scrubbed both hands over his face and turned away from the window. He didn’t have time to waste indulging in thoughts of a woman who’d no doubt already moved on.
His phone rang and he grabbed at it with the eagerness of a drowning man reaching for a life preserver. “What is it, Joan?”
His assistant said, “Mr. King, Harry Robinson’s on line three for you. He says they’re having problems on location.”
Harry was directing the Irish epic shooting at Maura’s farmhouse. Frowning, Jefferson said, “Thanks, Joan. Put him through.”
The line clicked over and he asked, “What seems to be the problem, Harry?”
The other man’s voice was sharp and filled with both static and disgust. “The problem is, nothing’s going right over here. It’s a nightmare.”
“What? What happened?”