No Longer Forbidden(59)

Until a man in a modern trenchcoat, his dark blond hair foreign in a sea of black Irish peasant cuts, strode from between the carriages and ruined the scene.

“Cut! What the hell?” someone yelled. “Security!”

“Nic!” Stunned to recognize him, Rowan rushed forward, shock making her stumble. “It’s okay, I know him,” she assured the men in the red shirts charging forward.

Her whole body trembled in crazed reaction. He looked so good! But tired. His face was lined with weariness, breaking her heart. And he was annoyed. He glared at the assistant director when the woman tried to take his arm.

“Come with me, you crazy man.” Rowan grasped Nic’s wet sleeve and led him away, glancing back at her charge to say, “You’re doing great, Milly. I’ll be right back.”

Little Milly beamed with pride, then stood dutifully still as Makeup approached.

Rowan dragged Nic into a friend’s trailer and tried to catch her breath. It was impossible when he filled the space with his dominant presence and masculine scent. Everything about him hit her with fresh power: the authority he projected, the stirring energy he radiated into the air. The sexual excitement he sparked in her with the simple act of falling into her line of vision.

Oh, that physical pull was so much worse now she knew how incredible it was to lie with him. All of her wanted to fall forward and kiss, hold, caress, be with him.

She tried to conquer it, tried to quell the shaking and hold on to control. Tried to find her equilibrium and act like a rational human being when he’d just knocked her back after three months of learning to live without him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with growing defensiveness. “And like that? If someone barged into your board meeting you’d have them arrested.”

“Not if it was you.” He narrowed his gaze on her mouth. “Why is your accent so strong?”

The sound of his voice, the leading words he’d said, made her heart lurch. She could barely stay on her feet. “Living here does that. And I’m teaching that girl to speak like a native so they won’t crucify her for being American. I’m her dialogue coach.”

Nic ran a hand across his hair, then dried it on his thigh. “Frankie said you were on a film set in Ireland. I didn’t know if that meant you were acting … Can we go somewhere to talk?”

Seriously? She bit down on her lip, shocked by how badly she wanted to go anywhere with him, but self-preservation reminded her to keep her feet on the ground. “We’re in the middle of a scene,” she pointed out with forced patience.

“Do you like this job?”

His penetrating gaze had an effect that was nothing less than cataclysmic. She had missed those blue eyes, that stern expression, the way he looked at her like he really wanted to hear what she had to say.

“I do. I get to tell people off if I think they’re pushing Milly too hard and she’s a doll. I’m not sure what will come next. Frankie’s looking into an Italian film. But for the moment I have a roof over my head.” She tried to make it sound like it was all sunshine and roses, not hinting at how badly she’d been missing him.

“About that … A roof, I mean.” He cleared his throat and his hand went into his pocket. “I’ve done a few things.” The mixture of arrogance and sheepishness in his tone made Rowan tense.

“What things?” she asked with low-voiced foreboding.

His hand came out of his pocket and he set a key next to where she was involuntarily clutching the edge of the sink. Recognition hit in stages as she processed the bronze shape, the familiarity of it, the way its sharp angles seemed worn down—and the possessive longing and sense of privilege it inspired only now, after she’d given it up.

“What—?” She couldn’t believe he’d come all this way to tell her the house was rubble. That would be too cruel.

“It’s yours, Ro.”

“Rosedale?” The magnitude of the gift was too much. She had to clap a hand to her mouth to keep her suddenly wobbling chin from falling off. At the same time the tears that filled her eyes stung with loss. She couldn’t face that big, empty house without him in it. “I can’t,” she choked.

“You’d rather I destroy it?” He reached for the key.

She was quicker, snatching it up and holding it in a protective fist against her heart, realizing when she caught the glimmer of smug satisfaction in his eye that he’d been bluffing. He was far quicker than her when he wanted to be.

“Why, Nic? Something in Olief’s will?” She couldn’t believe it.

He dismissed that with a brief movement of his head. “No, this is my decision. Olief made provision for your mother, but left everything to me. And you must have seen a copy of Cassandra’s will by now?”