Night Moves. Julie Kenner
clothes, she told herself that she must have been imagining things.
No lust, no attraction, she told herself. Just dinner with your best friend. Same as you’ve done a hundred zillion times.
Ella had taken a single drama class back in high school, and the teacher had been a big fan of improvisation. For the most part, Ella had sleepwalked through the course. She had no interest in being an actress and even less in pretending to be a monkey at the zoo or a woman trapped in a subway or a little kid not picked for the kick-ball team (who thinks up those stupid scenarios anyway?). Now, though, she was wishing she’d paid a bit more attention to technique. At the very least, she was wishing she had a bit more raw dramatic ability.
The voice in her head shifted from her own to Miss McNally’s nasal lilt. Remember, Ella, you must hide everything. Close off all emotion except what you want your audience to see. Okay, go!
Ella jumped at the command in her imagined instructor’s voice, her hand turning the knob and pushing open the bathroom door before she had any more time to think. In the apartment, Shane looked up, a match in his hand.
“So what do you think?”
Candlelight? He expected them to dine by candlelight? Candlelight fueled lust. He wasn’t playing fair. He wasn’t—
She frowned. He wasn’t playing at all. Shane had no idea about the thoughts running through her head. If he wanted to set a fancy table, then great. Wonderful. What a thrill.
“Looks spectacular,” she said, taking some pride in the fact that her voice didn’t shake.
“Like I said, I wanted to go all out. Especially with your birthday in a few weeks. This will be the first time I’ve missed it in, well, forever.”
“Oh. Right.” Well, damn. She realized with a start that a tiny bit of her had actually hoped he was making some sort of romantic gesture. The mention of her birthday dinner, however, squashed that hope like a bug.
Ever since they moved to New York together, they’d taken turns treating each other to amazing birthday dinners. If one of them had an actual date on their birthday, the dinner was moved to a nearby evening, but they never failed to get together. It was fun, it was tradition and it was a chance to splurge on fabulous food guilt-free. After all, you couldn’t feel guilty about buying your best friend a birthday dinner, even if you were near your limit on your Visa card and had yet to buy textbooks. Friends came first, right?
“So, if this is my birthday dinner,” she joked, “does that mean I’ve got a present, too?”
He chuckled, then pulled out her chair for her. “Sorry, kid. I’m not that organized.” He moved to the other side of the table and took his seat, the corner of his mouth quirking in a familiar grin. “But you can tell me if there’s something in particular you want.”
Was it her imagination, or was his voice deliberately pitched low? She swallowed as the butterflies in her stomach took flight and her mind ran over all the possible “presents” he could offer. Oh my.
Her breath hitched, and it was all she could do to fight the urge to scream, “Yes, yes, I want you. I want a wild, stupid fling.” Except, of course, she didn’t want that. Couldn’t want that.
Damn. She really was a mess. And tonight—when her unexpected fantasy was so fresh on her mind—was the worst possible night to be spending with him.
Calling on intense self-control, she managed a simple shrug as she picked up her salad fork. “I’ve got one or two things in mind,” she said. And although she tried desperately to keep her tone flat and in control, she was appalled to hear the hint of heat that crept into her voice. Which probably went a long way to explaining why she’d gotten that C in drama and blown her straight-A average.
“Are you going to tell me?”
She shook her head, probably a little too vigorously. “I don’t think so.”
He perked up at that. “No? Hmm. So I have to guess. That’s okay. I’m a good guesser.” He grinned. “Besides, right now I know exactly what you want.”
She felt her eyes widen, and despite her best effort, her voice came out squeaky. “You do?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “And you can have it.”
“I—I can?” A bead of sweat trickled down between her breasts, and Ella swallowed, trying to will her body back to a place of calmness and serenity.
Not hardly.
He picked up the open bottle of champagne. “Birthday bash, remember? I figure we can go a little wild.”
Ella clenched her fists at her side, stifling an overwhelming sigh of relief. “Right. Champagne. Great.”
His eyebrows drew together, and he looked at her the way he might look at a hostile witness. “What did you think I was going to say?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry.” She waved a hand, even more seriously regretting that C. “I’m just stressed about that paper. And, you know, sad that you’re moving.”
“Just sad?”
She nodded. “I’m over being pissed off. I mean, it’s your career. That’s the one thing I truly understand.” And it was true, too. She did understand why he was going. But it still hurt all the same.
She shook her head to clear it. “So, you’ve really done it up, huh?” She took in the table, really seeing it for the first time, and not just the trappings. He’d returned the champagne to the table without pouring it, and now she saw the label. “This salad is amazing. And is that Cristal? Wow. You splurged.”
“For you? Anything.”
“Especially since you get to split the bottle.”
“There are three bottles, actually. I bought you a couple of extras.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “We can finish them off tonight, or you can keep them around to remember me by.”
“Just the thought depresses me.”
“In that case,” he said, “I really need to pour you this drink.”
“Can’t argue with that.” She started to lift her glass, then remembered her purchases. “Wait a second.” She ran to her bag and unwrapped the flutes, then held them up with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
As expected, Shane laughed. “You can never be too rich—”
“Or too thin or have too many champagne flutes,” she continued, finishing the line she’d said so many times to him—every time she’d splurged on another flute for her collection.
“So I’ve been told,” he said. “Serendipity, huh? I mean, you buy yet another pair of flutes, and I bought champagne. We’re like champagne and caviar. We go together.”
She managed a watery smile as she held up her glass. “Fill it to the brim,” she insisted. “I can use it.”
He leaned over to do just that, and as he reached toward her, she noticed him wince. Pain flashed in his eyes as he held the bottle steady, and she could see that he was fighting a grimace. When he pulled back and set the bottle on the table, his face cleared, and she could almost hear his sigh of relief.
“You want to tell me what that was about?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” he said. He rolled his right shoulder, wincing again as he did so.
“It’s not nothing,” she said, frowning. Back when she and Shane were in junior high, Shane had caught a ride home one stormy afternoon with his older brother, Marc. Marc had been driving too fast, lost control on a curve and flipped the car. Marc had been killed instantly. Shane had been banged up pretty good, the only enduring injury being a shoulder that tended to get pulled out of whack way too often.
There’d been emotional injuries, of course, and she and Shane had leaned on each other even more.