Dark Desires Read online

  "You've got the job, Savannah. Why quibble about the whys and hows?" The warmth she'd felt in Blake's kiss was missing from his eyes.

  Savannah wanted to tell him that she wouldn't score his horrid film even if he groveled—if he crawled on his hands and knees over broken glass. But then she thought about those wonderful, vivid scenes and decided that to turn her back on such a golden opportunity, simply because Blake Winters was a egotistical, male-chauvinist playboy who couldn't resist anything in skirts, would be a classic case of cutting off her nose to spite her face.

  Outside, lightning ripped across the night sky as she forced herself to meet his shuttered gaze with a calm she was a very long way from feeling.

  "You seem to be under the impression that I came all this way, slogging through mud and rain, to sleep with you."

  He retrieved his glass from the coffee table, cupped it between his palms and slowly swirled the amber cognac. "Didn't you?" he asked laconically.

  Her cool pretense slipped. Savannah stared at him. "Of course not! No more than you intended to sleep with me."

  "But I do." His voice, while low, was deadly. "I thought I'd made that quite obvious."

  She looked as if she'd been struck. Her eyes were wide and uncharacteristically vulnerable; her face was pale. "But you don't even know me."

  "Of course I do."

  She swallowed, but her throat stayed dry. "We've never met."

  "True. But I've spent the past two weeks screening your last film. Over and over again."

  "That doesn't count. I was playing a character who was nothing like me." Dear Lord, Savannah considered, surely Blake didn't think she was anything like that oversexed black widow she'd portrayed in Seduced. He, of all people, should be able to distinguish between a movie and real life. Shouldn't he?

  "I realize that. I was talking about the sound track." His eyes left hers to settle on her softly parted lips. lips he could still taste. "It told me everything about you, Savannah."

  "That's ridiculous," she insisted raggedly. Even as she denied his outrageous statement, Savannah found herself remembering her mother's complaint, years after the divorce, that the only way she'd ever been able to remotely know what Savannah's father had been thinking or feeling was through his music.

  "Is it?" His hand cupped her chin, gently holding her hostage. "I know that you're a woman who made a near-fatal mistake by choosing the wrong man."

  He frightened her. She didn't know him, she couldn't understand his mind or his motives. There was a great deal of violence in his movies. Was there violence in the man?

  "Anyone who reads People magazine, or the Enquirer, knows that." Success. Her voice was calm and steady. Unlike her runaway pulse.

  "But do those readers know how passionate you are?" he wondered aloud. "Do they realize the hidden depths lurking beneath that smooth, polite exterior?"

  His eyes on hers, he trailed his hand down her throat, lingering against her pulse beat, which leaped in response to his touch. "Do they know that your flesh warms when I touch you here?" When his wicked fingers blazed a trail across the skin revealed by the rolled collar of the oversize robe, something soft, something warm, flowed through her. "Or here?"

  Other than a multitude of doctors, no man had touched her in over a year. As she felt herself succumbing to the seductive heat of his caress, Savannah told herself that she should be grateful to Blake Winters for stimulating feelings that she thought had died. It had been so long, Savannah mused as her warming body warred with her mind. Too long.

  Frustrated and furious and desperately needing to distance herself and regain some small measure of control, she broke away and went over to the bank of windows, where she stood looking out over the wine-dark sea.

  Blake stretched his legs out in front of him, leaned back and watched her silently. She had her arms wrapped around herself, in an unconscious gesture of self-protection. Engulfed as she was in the too-large robe, she suddenly looked very small. And very vulnerable. Something in his heart moved, frowning, he steeled himself against it.

  Neither of them said anything for a long, silent time. But Savannah knew, without turning around, that he was watching her through those dangerously narrowed, dark eyes. As for Blake, it didn't take mind-reading ability to know that Savannah was thinking about him. And about the devastating kiss they'd shared.

  He'd wanted her, and for that, Blake refused to apologize. Desire was familiar, comfortable. Hell, even normal. What was disturbing was the sudden depth of that desire—along with something new, something alien; something that had felt uncomfortably like need.

  "This isn't ever going to work," she said finally, more to herself than to him.

  "Probably not," he agreed.

  Savannah spun around, pinning him with an accusing glare. The firelight danced on his arrogant, controlled features. How dare he remain so calm when she was not? She balled her hands into fists and plunged then deep into the pockets of the robe.

  "I know I've only done one sound track, but I'm the best person you'll find to score Unholy Matrimony."

  Although he was intrigued by the flame in her eyes, Blake's expression gave nothing away. "You're perfect."

  His easy answer surprised her. As had everything else about this man. "I don't understand."

  "That makes two of us." He rose from the couch and crossed the room, stopping directly in front of her. "It's late. And you've had a long flight and a harrowing drive. Why don't we talk about all this tomorrow?"

  His suggestion had merit, but Savannah found herself disliking the way that he was once again manipulating things to his own satisfaction. "Are you always this bossy?"

  "So I've been told. Are you always this obstinate?"

  "So I've been told."

  Blake rubbed his chin; a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "This could be a very interesting collaboration."

  Savannah decided that she rather liked the way little lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. For a fleeting moment, she felt that perhaps there was a chance they could work together, after all.

  "Or a disastrous one," he tacked on.

  Beginning to understand how he operated, Savannah refused to let him bait her. "You'll never know unless you try," she suggested sweetly.

  Blake nodded thoughtfully. "True enough." His gaze swept over, her, from her hair—shining like polished ebony in the glow of the firelight—to her gleaming pink toenails. "Tomorrow morning you'll show me what you've planned."

  "Fine."

  "How does five-thirty sound?"

  "Like the middle of the night."

  "I like to get an early start."

  "Good for you," she countered silkily. "But at five-thirty, you'll do it without me."

  He folded his arms over his chest. "Six?"

  "What do you have against working in the daylight?"

  His dark eyes were fixed on her face. Savannah found herself wishing for daylight, so she could determine their true color. "Everyone knows that we vampires do our best work in the dark."

  She had the grace to blush. "I'm sorry. That really was uncalled for," she admitted.

  The color rose in her cheeks like the bloom of late-summer roses, making Blake's fingers practically itch to touch their velvety softness. Determined not to be lured into her tender trap, he forced a nonchalant shrug.

  "You were cold and wet, and this house can be a little intimidating. Especially at night."

  And most especially when she was greeted by a man who was a dead ringer for Count Dracula, Savannah tacked on mentally. Even now, when he appeared to be trying to make peace, she still found Blake Winters's compelling masculine power more than a little intimidating.

  "So long as you've got a pot of coffee close at hand, I suppose I could be ready for work by seven-thirty," she said with a definite lack of enthusiasm.

  She was exhausted. He could see it in the fatigue lacing her wide eyes, in the slight slump of her slender shoulders. Blake decided that i
t would be in his own best interests to be generous.

  "The coffee will be ready whenever you get up," he allowed.

  Savannah looked at him curiously, wondering what had precipitated this sudden reversal. "That's very nice of you."

  "It's not nice at all," Blake replied mildly. "Since I need you at your creative best, it only makes sense to let you get a decent night's sleep."

  She should have known better than to expect any compassion from this man. Savannah tilted her chin and met his unreadable gaze with an icy one of her one. "Speaking of sleep, I think I'd like to go to bed now."

  He inclined his head. "Good idea," he drawled. Giving in to temptation, he touched her. It was just a hand to her hair, nothing more, but in the midst of the storm raging around them, the gesture seemed incredibly intimate.

  Savannah ordered herself to remain calm. "Alone."

  Good. Her voice was cool, steady, belying the reckless turmoil inside her. Savannah tried to forget that in every Hollywood remake of the vampire story since Bram Stoker's memorable novel, Dracula always got any woman he wanted.

  She shook her head in an attempt to dear it, reminding herself that despite having grown up in a town built on fantasy and illusion, she was a sensible, down-to-earth woman who had never believed in ghosts, werewolves, vampires, or anything even remotely paranormal.

  Blake accepted her refusal without comment. "I'll take you to your room."

  Although the last thing Savannah wanted was to allow this man into her bedroom, she also knew that she'd never find her way back to that guest room without his guidance.

  She stayed close beside him as they walked through the gloomy, twisting hallways. When they finally reached her room, Savannah was surprised when Blake behaved like a true gentleman, stopping outside the door.

  "Good night, Savannah. I'll be looking forward to tomorrow."

  "Well, that makes one of us."

  At her flippant tone, his piercing eyes filled with questions—as well as a look of suspicion she'd seen there before.

  "A surprising answer, Savannah." His hand curled around the nape of her neck, drawing her closer until their lips were only a whisper apart. "But you're a surprising woman." His fingers kneaded her neck. "Perhaps that's why you excite me," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

  Longings, needs, desires—all sprang free in her again. Fighting them, Savannah stiffened. She sucked in her breath, vowing to remain cool, detached. But when his lips brushed against hers, detachment quickly turned into longing, denial into need, as all sensation—arousal, a lifetime of passion—became centered on her mouth.

  When he caught her bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, Savannah shuddered. When he moved his mouth from hers to the arch of her throat, a moan of pleasure escaped her lips. Even as she fought against it, Savannah was caught in a blinding swirl of longing that had her dinging desperately to his shoulders.

  Greed. Hunger. Need. They rose like ancient demons, battering at his insides. Never had Blake felt such intense pain. He pressed her against him, body to body, and his heat seeped into her, melting her last vestiges of resistance. He knew that it would be an easy thing to take Savannah now, while she was caught up in the urgency of the moment. But he wanted more from Savannah Starr than mere sexual gratification. Much, much more.

  If he took her to bed now, the first thing she'd do tomorrow morning would be to run back down the mountain to the safety of her Malibu home, leaving his film without a score. Which was one more problem than he could handle.

  Due to bad weather and, Blake reluctantly admitted, his own unyielding perfectionism that made him shoot a scene ten times when three would have been sufficient, Unholy Matrimony was over budget and dangerously behind schedule. Once, that wouldn't have mattered. Back in the days when studios were run by people who loved movies and whose first concerns were creating films that people would enjoy.

  But these days things were different. The entire industry had been taken over by the money-counters— unimaginative, clonelike accountants. Individuals who were only interested in the bottom line. Profits, not originality, were the engine that ran this new and frightening Hollywood machine. And the board of the international conglomerate—headed up by a Japanese car company—who'd taken over his studio during the filming of Unholy Matrimony, were even more cost-conscious than most.

  They'd already threatened to take the processed film, along with the negative, and put someone less critical—someone willing to rush the creative process, sacrificing style for speed—in charge of the final mix.

  He knew exactly what they'd do: hire a talentless hack to chum out some lousy elevator music and track it into the film, whether it fit the mood of each scene or not.

  Postproduction was the most crucial period in a film's creation; it was where mediocre movies could be made acceptable—or brilliant ones killed. And he damn well wasn't going to let the Philistines murder Unholy Matrimony. Which was why he'd sneaked the edited film out of the studio one night and brought it here, where it couldn't accidentally "disappear."

  When the studio executives had found out what he'd done, they'd hit the roof. They'd threatened Blake with lawsuits, pointing out the critical paragraphs in his contract that gave the studio the right to take control of the film. Refusing to be intimidated, Blake had told the outraged executives that he'd rather burn the negative than let them get their greedy hands on it.

  His lawyer, more temperamentally suited to negotiation than Blake, had diplomatically suggested that, since Blake was one of the few truly bankable writer/ directors in town, the studio give him a little more time to spin his magic. After all, a blockbuster could easily wipe out the overage in its opening weekend.

  Only slightly mollified, the studio executives had weighed the chance of a blockbuster movie against a crazy man's threat to destroy nine months'—and millions of dollars'—worth of work, and reluctantly agreed to give Blake more time.

  They gave him exactly four weeks. And although only one of those weeks had passed, the damn wolves were already howling at his door; if he didn't have the film ready for release in twenty-one short days, he'd lose control—something he wasn't about to let happen. Slowly, reluctantly, he released Savannah.

  Her head still whirling, Savannah drew back, aroused and alarmed by how helpless she'd felt. She stared at Blake in horror, her words stuck in her throat. But before she could summon up an appropriately vile curse, he turned on his booted heel and strode down the hallway, disappearing into the shadows.

  Ill at ease and not trusting Blake Winters, Savannah locked the bedroom door behind her. Knowing that she was being paranoid—after all, the bedroom was on the third floor—she also checked to make certain that the window and the French doors leading out to the widow's walk were locked, as well. Then, after washing her face and brushing her teeth, she crawled between the covers.

  An eerie wind wailed at the window like a lost spirit's cries as Savannah tossed and turned, trying to dismiss the unsettling encounter with Blake Winters from her mind.

  It wasn't easy. Try as she might, she couldn't forget those mind-blinding kisses, she couldn't deny how right she'd felt in his arms. Rolling over onto her stomach, she pulled the pillow over her head and cursed softly. When would she learn?

  She'd already allowed her emotions to rule her head once. With Jerry. And look how disastrous that affair had turned out to be. This attraction to Blake Winters might be unavoidable—after all, he was, in his own way, a fatally attractive man—but it wasn't safe.

  And safe was what Savannah was looking for. Because having already made one near-deadly mistake, she wasn't about to let herself make another.

  Finally, exhaustion overcame nervousness and Savannah drifted off into a restless sleep, filled with dreams of a demonically handsome, black-caped Dracula sinking his sharp fangs into the neck of an eagerly willing female victim. Whenever the moonlight slashed across his face, the vampire's features bore a disturbing resemblance to those of Blake Win
ters.

  A glance at his watch told Blake that it was three hours past midnight. Outside, the storm continued to rage. Inside, the house was quiet, except for the usual creaks and the occasional sound of a branch against a window. He might have been alone. But he wasn't. As he paced the floor of the tower room, Blake was all too aware of the woman on the floor below. A woman he found frighteningly fascinating.

  He'd spent the past lonely hours attempting to reassure himself that his feelings for Savannah Starr were nothing to worry about. She was, after all, a remarkably beautiful woman. Any man not attracted to her would have to be blind, dead, or gay. And he was definitely none of those.

  Even the fact that he'd experienced such a driving physical need was not so surprising, considering that he'd been without a woman for a very long time. Coming from a broken family, Blake had taken his marriage vows more seriously than many of his Hollywood contemporaries. This rock-solid belief in fidelity had kept him from straying—even when he began to realize that Pamela didn't share what she blatantly dismissed as his outdated, hopelessly naive views concerning marital monogamy.

  Perhaps he had been naive, Blake considered—not for the first time since she had thrown the accusation in his face. After all, he'd never had much firsthand experience with love or affection. His father had taken off before he was born; his mother had been an alcoholic who'd tended to forget she had a kid whenever she drank—which was most of the time.

  When he was fourteen years old, Blake left his ramshackle mobile home to bum around the oil fields of West Texas. He worked as a roustabout by day, earn twice as much money with a pool cue in the cowboy bars at night. Eschewing sleep for days at a time, between jobs he wrote screenplays that never made it past the studio secretaries—until he came up with a radically new concept for a television cop show.

  Although the critics had unanimously raved about Police Beat, the television-viewing public, accustomed to car chases and blazing shoot-outs in police shows, had found its stark, cinema-verite look and gritty realism unappealing. Citing dismal ratings, the network had reluctantly canceled the show after the first season.