Triple Threat. Regina Kyle

      “Sure, if you promise me something in return.”

      “As long as it doesn’t involve anything illegal, immoral or fattening.”

      “Whatever happens in there, promise you won’t hate me.”

      “Hate you? Why would I hate you?” She shook his hand off, her stomach knotting up like a ball of yarn. “You’re freaking me out, Ethan. Who’s waiting for us in there? The pope? Jimmy Hoffa? My ex-mother-in-law?”

      Before he could answer, the door fell open with a whoosh.

      “Here they are!” Ted opened the door wider, ushering them inside. “Our esteemed writer and director.” He brought them into a conference room where Judith and several others were seated in tapestry chairs around an enormous walnut table. One man stood apart, his back to the door, apparently engrossed in one of the framed photos of the New York skyline that dotted the walls. Black hair curled over the collar of his cream-colored dress shirt, which hugged his broad shoulders and displayed strong forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves.

      No. It couldn’t be him. He was supposed to be on a movie set overseas...

      “Holly Ryan, Ethan Phelps,” Ted boomed, earning him a stern look from his wife. He either ignored or missed it and continued, not lowering his voice one decibel. “Say hello to our new star, straight from the silver screen.”

      The man turned and Holly knew from his slack-jawed expression that he was as shocked as she was.

       Nick.

      He moved toward her like a tidal wave of gorgeous in an ocean of ohmigod. “It’s been a long time, Holly.” Tall, dark and to-die-for, he held out his hand. His voice, deep and rough, made her breath catch and her nipples tighten. She crossed her arms in front of her chest to hide her unfortunate and completely involuntary reaction to the man who had starred in her erotic dreams since—well, since she’d been old enough to have erotic dreams.

      “Nick. I thought you were in Hong Kong.” She stood, feet planted, afraid if she got any nearer to him she’d dissolve into a pool of fiery, lust-ridden goo.

      “Been keeping up with me?” He dropped his hand when she didn’t move to take it, slipping it casually into the front pocket of his jeans. “I’m flattered.”

      “It’s hard not to. You’re everywhere.”

      “Ethan didn’t tell you?” Ted stepped in, smile lines further crinkling his already wrinkled face, and clapped the director on the shoulder. Ethan gave him a warning glare, but the older man, either truly oblivious or deliberately ignorant, ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and continued, “He insisted we see Nick for this role, that he’d be perfect as our modern-day Stanley Kowalski. Even convinced us to put off casting until he finished shooting.”

      “Perfect,” Holly echoed, her blood closely approaching the boiling point.

      A bead of sweat trickled down Ethan’s forehead and his Adam’s apple did a nervous dance in his throat. “Surprise.”

       3

      NICK OWED ETHAN PHELPS one hell of an expensive bottle of Scotch. He didn’t know why, but thanks to Phelps he was face-to-face with Holly Nelson. His teenage fantasy, all grown up.

      Unfortunately, his teenage fantasy didn’t seem to want anything to do with him. Instead, she dragged the director into a corner where they conversed in hushed tones. Nick caught comments like “what the hell were you thinking” and “not in this lifetime.”

      Looked as if he wasn’t the only one knocked for a loop by their little reunion. Too bad he was the only one happy about it.

      Nick took advantage of Holly’s distraction to look at her. Really look at her. She was dressed a bit more provocatively than she used to. Wearing more makeup, too. And her hair was different, all spiky and brushed to one side.

      The soft, sweet curve of her breasts peeked from the low-cut neckline of her blouse, but under the designer clothes and makeup was the girl he remembered. She’d filled out, of course, and in all the right places. But it was still Holly, with those piercing green eyes.

      She stabbed a finger at Ethan’s chest to make some particularly passionate point. The movement thrust those delectable breasts out farther.

      Oh, yeah. She’d grown up, all right. But what was she doing here? She seemed awfully familiar with the director. His assistant, maybe?

      He eased himself into a chair and reached for the pitcher of ice water at the center of the table. As he did, the cover of his script, and the name of the author inscribed across it, caught his eye.

       H. N. Ryan.

      And then it hit him. Ted had introduced her as Holly Ryan. Holly was the playwright. Holly Nelson Ryan.

      “Why don’t we all sit down and get things rolling.” Judith’s sharp Brooklyn accent jolted Nick back to the conference room. “Colleen,” she continued, turning to a pretty blonde lurking by the door, “why don’t you get Holly a copy of the script. She can—”

      “Read the role of the wife,” Ted finished for Judith. She frowned and pulled out a chair at the end of the table, as far from her husband as possible. “Wonderful.”

      “Of course.” The blonde disappeared momentarily, then returned with script in hand. “Here you are, Mrs. Ryan.”

       Shit.

      She was married. Sweet little Holly Nelson, the object of some of his hottest adolescent fantasies, was Mrs. Holly Ryan. Wife. Playwright. Maybe even mother.

      Tony award and Spielberg film be damned, there was no way in hell he could work side by side with Holly for months on end, all the while silently lusting after her. Or maybe not so silently, he thought. He watched her smile as she took the script from Colleen, the tip of her tongue darting out to swipe her lips. He bit back a groan at the unconsciously erotic gesture.

      This play already had two strikes against it as far as Nick was concerned. He hadn’t been onstage in years, and he had dyslexia. He’d need to be completely focused to pull it off. No distractions. And Holly had distraction written all over her—untouchable, unattainable distraction.

      He eyed Garrett sitting next to him. There was no way around it. His agent would have to learn to live with the disappointment.

      “Nick.” Ethan took a seat across the table. “I understand you and Holly go way back.” Ethan winced and frowned at Holly in the chair to his left. She returned his grimace with a smirk, and Nick was pretty sure she’d just kicked the director under the table. What exactly was their relationship, anyway?

      “Yes. We grew up together in Stockton, Connecticut.” The big dumb jock and the cute little honors student. “Just outside New Haven.”

      “Well,” Ted said. “That makes this even better.” He paused and looked around the table for dramatic effect. “Let’s start with act one, scene two, the argument at the dinner table.”

      Holly’s face reddened and she ducked her head, frantically turning the pages of her script. “Of course.”

      Fuck. Getting out of this was going to be harder than he thought.

      “Actually, Ted, I—”

      “Nick,” Garrett interrupted, glaring at him, “would be happy to—”

      “What I’m trying to say,” Nick said, glaring right back, “is that I’m sorry I wasted your time, but I don’t think this project’s right for me.” He stood, leaving his script on the table, and risked one last glance at Holly. Damn, she looked fine. Good enough to eat, starting with those lush lips and working his way down, inch by glorious inch. “It was nice seeing you, Holly. Good luck with...everything.”