She stood up and started slowly toward him, uncertain, searching his face. “Is that supposed to be your idea of an apology?”
“I wasn’t aware I have anything to apologize for.”
The arrogance of that was so typical of him that she almost laughed. “Try out the word rude and see if that touches a nerve.”
“Was I rude? I didn’t mean to be. I warned you that the discussion was going to be extremely unpleasant for me, but you wanted to have it anyway.”
He looked as if he honestly felt that he was being unjustly vilified, but she persevered anyway. “I see,” she said, stopping in front of him. “Then this is actually all my fault?”
“It must be. Whatever ‘this’ is referring to.”
“You don’t know, is that it? You are completely unaware of the fact that your tone of voice to me in there was . . .” she searched for the right words and settled for something that didn’t quite fit, “ . . . cold and callous and needlessly harsh.”
He shrugged with an indifference that Julie suspected was partially feigned: “You aren’t the first woman to accuse me of being all those things and a lot more. I’ll defer to your judgment. I am cold, callous, and—”
“Harsh,” Julie provided, bending her head, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous the whole debate sounded now. Zack had risked his life to save her and he had wanted to die when he thought he’d failed. He was anything but cold and callous. Those other women had been wrong. Her laughter faded abruptly, and she felt an aching remorse for what she had said and what they had all said.
Zack could not decide whether she’d actually intended to retaliate against him for some imagined slight by sleeping in here alone, which was what had originally angered him, or if she were innocent of that nauseating female ploy. “Harsh,” he agreed bluntly and belatedly, wishing she’d look up so he could get a good look at her face.
“Zack?” she said to his chin. “The next time a woman tells you you’re any of those things, tell her to look much closer.” She raised her eyes to his and said softly, “If she does, I think she’ll see a rare kind of nobility and an extraordinary gentleness.”
Zack slowly uncrossed his arms, completely taken aback, feeling his heart turn over exactly the way it always did when she looked at him that way.
“I don’t mean to imply that you aren’t also autocratic, dictatorial, and arrogant, you understand—” she added with a choked laugh.
“But you like me anyway,” he teased, brushing his knuckles over her cheek, disarmed, defused, and absurdly relieved. “Despite all that.”
“Add vain to my list,” she quipped, and he pulled her tightly into his arms. “Julie,” he whispered, bending his head to kiss her, “shut up.”
“And peremptory, too!” she stated against his lips.
Zack started to laugh. She was the only woman who’d ever made him feel like laughing while he was kissing her. “Remind me never again,” he said, deciding to kiss her ear instead because it couldn’t move out from under his lips, “to go near another woman with a vocabulary like yours!” He traced the curve of her ear with his tongue and she shivered, holding him close as she whispered another breathless summation of his character:
“And incredibly sensual . . . and very, very sexy . . .”
“On the other hand,” he smilingly amended, kissing her nape, “there is just no substitute for an intelligent and discerning woman.”
36
CARRYING A BOWL OF POPCORN, Julie headed into the living room, where they’d been watching a videotaped movie. They’d spent the morning and afternoon talking about everything except the one thing Julie was desperately interested in: his plans to find out who murdered his wife and clear himself. The first time she brought the subject up, he repeated what he’d said yesterday about not wanting to spoil their present with worries about the future. When she explained she wanted to help him however she could, he’d teased her about being a frustrated Nancy Drew. Rather than ruining their day by pressing the issue, she’d let the subject drop for the time being and agreed with his suggestion that they watch one of the movies in the large cabinet of videotapes. Zack had insisted she pick the movie out, and Julie had her first moment of unease when she realized there were several of his movies on the cabinet shelves. Unable to bear the thought of watching him making love to some other woman in one of those steamy love scenes for which he was justifiably famous, she’d chosen a movie she was almost certain he’d like and which he hadn’t seen.
He seemed perfectly satisfied with her choice before the movie began, but as she discovered moments afterward, the seemingly simple pastime of movie watching was something quite different to Zachary Benedict, former actor-director. To her complete discomfiture, Zack seemed to regard a movie as some sort of art form to be minutely scrutinized, analyzed, dissected, and evaluated. In fact, he’d been so critical of it, that she’d finally invented the excuse of making popcorn just to escape his derogatory comments.
She glanced at the television set’s giant-sized screen as she placed the popcorn bowl on the table and heaved a silent sigh of relief that the climactic ending was nearly over. Zack evidently didn’t think it was very climactic because he looked up at her in the middle of it and said with a grin, “I love popcorn. Did you put salt on it?”
“Yep,” Julie said.
“Butter, too, I hope?”
One look at his boyish grin and Julie forgot how exasperated she’d been with him a moment before. “It’s swimming in it,” she joked. “I’ll be right back with turkish towels and something to drink.”
Chuckling at her quip, Zack watched her going toward the kitchen, admiring the easy, natural grace of her walk and the subtle élan with which she wore clothes. At his insistence, she’d chosen another outfit from the closet that afternoon—a simple white silk shirt with wide, blousy sleeves and a pair of black wool crepe slacks with a pleated cummerbund waistband. When he’d first seen the clothes lying on the bed, he’d been rather disappointed that she hadn’t chosen something more special for herself. When he saw her in the outfit, however, with a narrow, hammered gold belt around her slender waist, a borrowed gold bracelet at her wrist, and the collar on her shirt turned up, he’d instantly changed his mind. With her luxuriant mane of shiny hair tumbling in waves and curls about her shoulders, Julie dressed with a casual chic that suited her perfectly. He was trying to decide what sort of evening gown would most compliment that artless sophistication of hers when he realized that he’d never have an occasion to take her to the sort of social functions that required evening gowns. His days of attending Hollywood premieres, charity balls, Broadway openings, and Academy Award dinners were long past, and he couldn’t imagine how he’d forgotten that. He wasn’t going to be able to take Julie to any of those affairs. He wasn’t going to be able to take her anywhere, ever.
The realization was so amazingly depressing that he had to struggle not to let it spoil what had been another completely memorable day with her. With a supreme force of will, he made himself think only of the evening that stretched before him, and he smiled as she sat down beside him on the sofa. “Don’t you want to pick out another movie?”
The last thing Julie felt like doing was enduring another critique of a movie she selected. Since he obviously wanted to watch another one, she was willing to be present, but not accountable. Giving him a look of exaggerated horror she said, “Pleeeease don’t make me do that. Ask me to iron your socks, ask me to starch your handkerchiefs, but do not ask me to choose another movie for you to watch.”
“Why not?” he asked, looking innocent and bewildered.
“Why!” Julie sputtered, laughing. “Because you’re worse than the worst critic! You tore my movie to pieces.”
“I merely pointed out a few flaws in it. I did not tear it to pieces.”
“You did, too! You laughed so hard during that death scene that I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”
“Because it was funny,” he loftily replied.
“The writing and acting were so bad, they were hilarious. Tell you what,” he compromised good-naturedly, standing up and holding out his hand to her. “We’ll collaborate. Let’s pick out the next one together.”
Reluctantly, Julie got up and went over to the built-in cabinet that contained more than a hundred movies, from old classics to new ones.
“Do you have any preferences?” he said.
Julie scanned the titles, her gaze riveting uneasily on Zack’s own movies in the cabinet. She knew that out of politeness, if nothing else, she should suggest watching one of his, but she just couldn’t do it, especially not on a television set with a five-foot screen where she’d be able to see every sexy detail of his love scenes. “I—can’t decide,” she said after a long minute. “You pick several out and I’ll choose one from those.”
“All right. Give me an idea of what actors you like.”
“In older movies,” she said, “Paul Newman, Robert Redford, and Steve McQueen.”
Zack kept his eyes on the cabinet. He was surprised that courtesy alone hadn’t prompted her to include his name. Surprised and a little hurt. Although, as he reconsidered it, his movies didn’t really fall into the category of “older.” Completely ignoring the presence of movies by all three of those actors, he said, “These movies are mostly within the last ten years. What newer actors do you like?” He waited for her to mention his name.
“Um . . . Kevin Costner, Michael Douglas, Tom Cruise, Richard Gere, Harrison Ford, Patrick Swayze, Mel Gibson,” Julie said, rattling off the names of every actor she could think of, “—and Sylvester Stallone!”
“Swayze, Gibson, Stallone, and McQueen . . .” Zack said disdainfully, piqued now beyond all rational sense, because she hadn’t included his own name in her list of favorites. “How long have you had this peculiar obsession with short men, anyway?”
“Short?” Julie looked at him in surprise. “Are they short?”
“Petite,” Zack unfairly and inaccurately replied.
“Steve McQueen was little?” she said, rather enchanted with his inside knowledge. “I never would have guessed—I thought he was terribly macho when I was young.”
“He was macho in real life,” Zack replied brusquely, turning back to the video cabinet and feigning complete absorption in its contents. “Unfortunately, he could not act.”
Still bothered that Zack had not given any sign that he was determined to find the real killer of his wife so that he could resume his old life, it suddenly occurred to Julie that gently reminding him of the benefits of his former life might bolster his resolve. She tipped her head to the side and smiled. “I’ll bet you knew Robert Redford, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What was he like?”
“Short.”
“He is not!”
“I didn’t say he was a dwarf, I meant he isn’t particularly tall.”
Despite his unencouraging attitude, she continued, “I’ll bet all sorts of famous actors were intimate friends of yours . . . . people like Paul Newman and Kevin Costner and Harrison Ford and Michael Douglas?”
No answer.
“Were they?”
“Were they what?”
“Intimate friends.”
“We didn’t make love, if that’s what you mean.”
Julie choked on her laughter. “I can’t believe you said that! You know it isn’t what I meant at all.”
Zack pulled out movies staring Costner, Swayze, Ford, and Douglas. “Here, take your pick.”
“The top one, Dirty Dancing” Julie said, smiling her approval, though she truly hated to waste any of their time watching movies.
“I can’t believe you actually want to see this,” he said disdainfully, shoving Swayze’s movie into the videotape player.
“You picked it out.”
“You wanted to see it,” Zack retorted, trying unsuccessfully to sound completely indifferent. For twelve years, women had annoyed and revolted him when they hung all over him, oozing admiration and gushing that he was their favorite actor. They’d hunted him down at parties, interrupted him in restaurants, stopped him on the street, chased his car, and slipped hotel keys into his pocket. Now, for the first time in his life, he actually wanted a woman to admire his work, and she seemed to prefer every actor in the world to him. He pushed the start button on the remote controller and in silence watched the credits begin to roll.
“Want some popcorn?”
“No, thanks.”
Julie studied him surreptitiously, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. Was he yearning for his old life now? If so, that wasn’t all bad. Although she hated to cause him any misery, she couldn’t banish the uneasy feeling that he should at least be talking about wanting to prove he didn’t kill his wife, even if he didn’t want to discuss with her how he planned to do it. The movie began in earnest. Zack stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed his feet at the ankles, folded his arms over his chest, and looked like a man who was waiting to be displeased.
“We don’t have to watch this,” she said.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
A few minutes later he let out a snort of disgust.
Julie paused with her hand in the bowl of popcorn. “Is something wrong?”
“The lighting is wrong.”
“What lighting?”
“Look at the shadow on Swayze’s face.”
She looked up at the television. “I think it’s supposed to be shadowy. It’s nighttime.”
He gave her a disgusted look that mocked her assumption and said nothing.
Dirty Dancing had always been a favorite of Julie’s. She loved the music and the dancing and the refreshing simplicity of the love story; she was just starting to enjoy all that when Zack drawled, “I think they used axle grease on Swayze’s hair.”
“Zack—” she said in a warning tone, “if you are going to start ripping this movie apart, I’m turning it off.”
“I won’t say another word. I’ll just sit here.”
“Good.”
“And watch bad editing, bad directing, and bad dialogue.”
“That does it—”
“Sit still,” Zack said when she moved to get up. Thoroughly disgusted with himself for behaving like a jealous adolescent and denigrating actors who’d been his friends as well as criticizing a movie that was very good in its category, he laid his hand on her arm and promised, “I won’t say another thing unless it’s complimentary.” In keeping with that promise, Zack did not utter another word until Swayze was dancing with the girl who played his dancing partner in the movie, and then he said, “At least she can dance. Nice casting there.”
The blonde on the screen was beautiful and talented with a gorgeous figure. Julie would have cut off a limb to look exactly like her, and she felt an absurd stab of jealousy that was harder to hide when confronted with Zack’s unprecedented moodiness. Added to that, she thought his deliberate omission of Patrick Swayze’s dancing talent was unjust. She was on the verge of remarking on the fact that the women in the films all seemed to please him when it hit her that he might have been feeling the same way when she raved about his competition. Gaping at his stony profile, she blurted, “Are you jealous of him?”
He slanted her a look of withering scorn. “How could I possibly be jealous of Patrick Swayze!”
Obviously he did like watching beautiful women, Julie thought, and it hurt her even though she knew she had absolutely no right to feel that way. He also hated this movie and it was obvious. Keeping her face scrupulously polite, she reached for the stack of videotapes on the table and said quietly, “Let’s watch Dances with Wolves instead. Kevin Costner was wonderful in that, and it’s a story that would appeal to a man.”
“I saw it in prison.”
He’d seen most of the others there too, he’d said earlier today, so she didn’t see what that had to do with anything. “Did you like it?”
“I thought it dragged in the middle.”
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“Really,” she shot back, realizing now that none of the movies except his own was going to meet his approval and that she was going to have to suffer through it or else endure his mood. “How did you like the end?”
“Kevin changed it from the book. He should have left it alone.” Without a word, Zack got up and headed for the kitchen to make some coffee, trying to get control of himself. He was so furious with his irrational and unjust remarks over both films that he mismeasured the amount of ground coffee twice and had to start over. Patrick Swayze had done a very nice job in the first film; Kevin had not only been a friend, but Dances with Wolves had earned him the acclaim he richly deserved, and Zack had been glad to see it happen.
He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t realize that Julie had switched movies until he was halfway across the living room with two cups of coffee. His steps faltered, and for a moment he stared in blank shock, then uneasiness at what she’d done. She’d not only switched movies and put in one of Zack’s, she’d fast-forwarded it to a love scene in the middle of it and was watching it without sound. Of all the love scenes he’d ever played, this one in Intimate Strangers, released over seven years ago, was the most blatantly sexual. And in the moments he stood there, adjusting to the unreality of watching himself in bed with Glenn Close, in a movie he hadn’t seen since it was released, Zack felt uncomfortable for the first time in his life over something he’d done in a picture. No, not what he’d done, he realized, but that Julie was watching him do it and with a stony blank look on her face that did not escape him. Nor did the fact that although she’d pretended not to be familiar with any of his films in the cabinet, she actually knew them well enough to know exactly where to find certain scenes in them. All in all, when he considered that cool look on her face along with the scene she’d deliberately chosen to watch, he had the distinct sensation of having been better off ten minutes ago when all he had to cope with was his own nonsensical jealousy. He put the coffee cups on the table and straightened, not certain exactly why she was suddenly so angry. “What’s the idea, Julie?”