Once In A Blue Moon. Kristin James
Isabelle had been too numb for tears. Those had come later, as had the saving fury, the scorn at her own naiveté. She had played the fool, she had realized; she had given her heart to a man who had wanted nothing beyond a summer fling. His career was all that mattered to him; he wanted no entanglements. All the other girls at the theater were quick to agree; they had, they assured her, seen it coming. It had happened to most of them at one time or another, they told her, and nodded their heads sagely. That was life. She had learned a valuable lesson.
Perhaps she had. But it had taken her a long, painful time to get over him. And she had always had a reminder of Michael and the pain: his daughter, Jenny.
“...but of course she always claims to have the inside scoop on everybody,” Amanda was saying, giving Isabelle’s suit a last straightening twitch.
Isabelle nodded vaguely and hoped she didn’t need to respond. She had no idea what the woman had been saying while her own thoughts had been wandering back ten years in time.
“Well...” Amanda draped the suit over her arm and picked up the shoes from the counter where she had placed them. “See you Friday—you’re not scheduled tomorrow, are you?”
“No. A day of rest tomorrow, thank heavens.” Isabelle smiled at Amanda. Whatever tendencies Amanda had toward gossip, she was always on top of her job. And she had unerring taste. Isabelle was grateful to her. After all, there were those costume designers whose chief objective seemed to be to make their actresses look frumpy or sallow.
“Okay. Just wait till you see the green evening dress I’ve got picked out for you for the party next week. I’ll show you Friday. You’ll look like a million dollars in it.”
“Wonderful.” Isabelle summoned up enough energy for a last smile at Amanda, then sank onto her chair in front of the vanity and began to take off her heavy on-camera makeup. She combed through her heavily sprayed and arranged hair until it was back into its normal loose style over her shoulders.
Free of the makeup and elaborate hairdo, she felt better. She rolled her head from side to side, letting the tension of the day begin to drain from her. She thought about the fact that in a few minutes she would be home with Jenny—and there would be a whole day alone tomorrow to marshal her inner strength before she had to see Michael Traynor again.
Isabelle slipped her feet into her ragged sneakers and grabbed her bag, heading out the door. She walked down the hall, nodding at the people she passed, and out the front door. The sun struck her like a blow, and she hurriedly dug in her bag for her sunglasses. She didn’t notice the knot of people standing on the sidewalk in front of the building until it was too late.
Michael Traynor was chatting with two of the writers. Isabelle’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t been prepared to see him again. But she summoned up a smile and walked past them with a breezy wave and a “hi,” continuing toward her car in the parking lot without breaking stride.
“Isabelle! Wait!” She glanced back and saw with an inward groan that Michael had peeled away from the others and was walking toward her.
Two
Isabelle hesitated. The nerves in her stomach were jumping. She didn’t have the strength to deal with Michael right now. She would have liked to turn and continue walking to her car. But her pride would not let her. She did not want Michael to think that he was able to affect her in any way. So she squared her shoulders and waited, putting a faintly questioning and impatient expression on her face.
“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling impersonally. “I was just about to leave.”
Michael stopped in front of her. Isabelle was disconcertingly aware of his body, his charisma, the magnetism of his blue eyes. She fought a sudden surge of sensual memories—the warmth and strength of his arms around her, the delicious taste of his mouth, the shivers of delight his hands had roused on her body.
“I’ve been hanging around waiting for you,” Michael began. “We need to talk.”
Isabelle raised her eyebrows coolly, though inside, her nerves were jangling. “We do?”
“Yes.” Michael frowned. “We’re going to be working together. I—It would be easier if things were straight between us.”
“As far as I know, there isn’t anything ‘between us,’” Isabelle answered, pleased at the indifference she had managed to inject into her voice. It was difficult, considering the way Michael’s cobalt-blue eyes were boring into her.
“There was once,” Michael replied seriously. “I don’t want that to be a problem.”
“No problem,” Isabelle returned lightly. “I hadn’t even thought of you in years until Danny brought you in today.”
“I could see that it was a surprise. I had assumed that they’d told you we were negotiating. I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to be a shock to you.”
“Michael...” Isabelle made her voice crisp, using every acting skill she possessed to sound faintly amused. “I’m afraid you don’t have the power to shock me anymore.”
His eyebrows rose lazily. “Ah...a direct hit.” He shrugged. “Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re okay with my joining the cast. I want to work with you without either one of us being submarined by a lot of things from the past.”
“I’m not a teenager anymore, Michael. I don’t fall in and out of love at the drop of a hat. And I used up my supply of tears where you were concerned years ago. If it will relieve your mind, then I’m happy to tell you that my crush on you is most assuredly a thing of the past. I doubt very seriously that you and I will be working together much, but when we do, I’m sure that it will be no problem for us to maintain a professional attitude.”
Isabelle cringed inside at how prissy she sounded. No doubt he would think she had turned into some kind of wooden prig. Well, what did it matter what he thought of her?
Amusement flashed through his eyes for a moment, lightening them, but then it was gone, and he merely nodded. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. I—uh, guess I’ll see you around.”
Isabelle wanted to childishly retort, “Not if I see you first,” but she refrained. Instead, she nodded briefly at Michael and turned and strode off to her car. She resisted the impulse to look back and see if he was watching her. By the time she reached her car and could turn in his direction without it seeming purposeful, she saw that he had left. She sank into the driver’s seat, the adrenaline that had come to her rescue earlier now oozing out of her system and leaving her more drained than before. She leaned her forehead wearily against the steering wheel.
God, she hoped all the days weren’t going to be like this.
* * *
Jenny was riding her bike in front of the house when Isabelle turned into their driveway. With her little spaniel puppy sitting in the basket behind her seat, Jenny was intently pedaling the three-wheel cycle around and around the drive in front of the garage. It was a large cycle, with a front wheel and frame like a bicycle, but with two wide-spaced bicycle wheels across the back to give it stability. When Jenny had outgrown her tricycle, she had wanted to graduate to a bike, but she still had some difficulties with her balance, making a bicycle too dangerous. Isabelle had seen an old lady with a plastic sack of aluminum cans wheeling along a street in Hollywood on a contraption like this one day, and she had realized that it would be perfect for Jenny.
“Mommy!” Jenny cried when she saw Isabelle, and waved enthusiastically. Her eyes lit up in the way that indicated excitement and pleasure, though her mouth and face retained its usual serious expression. Jenny was not much given to smiling.
Isabelle’s daughter was small and pale. Her hair was thick and black, cut short in a practical bob. Thick dark eyebrows cut startlingly across her face, and it was this that gave her the most resemblance to Michael—that and the penetrating blue of her eyes. She wore big