Dual Image by Nora Roberts
blind and memorizing it. “I always have.”
She wanted to sigh but smiled instead. Taking his face in her hands, Ariel brought him down for a hard kiss. “I defy the intellectual.”
That made him laugh, and because he was off balance, she was able to roll him over. With her body slanted across his, she stretched and nuzzled into his shoulder. Booth felt the crinkle of paper and the rumple of cloth beneath him. “What am I lying on?”
“Mmm. This and that.”
Arching, he pulled a crumpled pamphlet from under his left hip. “Anyone ever mention that you’re sloppy?”
“From time to time.”
Absently, Booth glanced at the pamphlet about the plight of baby seals before he dropped it to the floor. He tugged at another paper stuck to his right shoulder. A halfway house for battered wives. Curiosity piqued, he twisted a bit and found another. ASPCA literature.
“Ariel, what is all this?”
She gave his shoulder a last nibble before she rested her cheek on it. He held several wrinkled leaflets. “I suppose you might call it my hobby.”
“Hobby?” He put his free hand under her chin to lift it. “Which one?”
“All of them.”
“All?” Booth looked at the leaflets in his hand again and wondered how many others were squashed beneath him. “You mean you’re actively involved in all these organizations?”
“Yeah. More or less.”
“Ariel, no one person would have the time.”
“Oh, no.” She shifted, folding her arms across his chest for support. “That’s a cop out. You make time.” She tilted her head toward the papers he held. “Those baby seals, do you know what’s done to them, how it’s done?”
“Yes, but—”
“And those abused women. Most of them come into that shelter without any self-esteem, without any emotional or financial support. Then there’s—”
“Wait a minute.” He let the papers slide to the floor so he could take her shoulders. How slim they were, he realized abruptly. And how easily she could make him forget just how delicately she was formed. “I understand all that, but how can you be involved in all these causes, run your life and pursue your career?”
She smiled. “There’re twenty-four hours in every day. I don’t like to waste any of them.”
Seeing that she was perfectly serious, Booth shook his head. “You’re a remarkable woman.”
“No.” Ariel bent her head and kissed his chin. It dipped slightly in the center—not quite a cleft. “I just have a lot of energy. I need to put it somewhere.”
“You could put all of it into furthering your career,” he pointed out. “You’d be at the top of the box office within six months. There’d be no question of your success.”
“Maybe. But I wouldn’t be happy with it.”
“Why?”
It was back; she felt it. The doubts, the distrust. With a sigh, Ariel sat up. In silence, she picked up her kimono and pulled it on. How quickly warmth could turn to chill. “Because I need more.”
Dissatisfied, Booth took her arm. “More what?”
“More everything!” she said with a sudden passion that stunned him. “I need to know I’ve done my best, and not just in one area of my life. Do you really think I’m so limited?”
The fire in her eyes intrigued him. “I believe what I said indicated your lack of limitations.”
“Professionally,” she snapped. “I’m a person first. I need to know I touched someone, helped somehow.” She dragged both hands through her hair in frustration. “I need to know I cared. Success isn’t just a little gold statue for my trophy case, Booth.” Whirling, she yanked open the door of her closet and pulled out her street clothes.
As Booth sat up, the papers beneath him rustled. “You’re angry.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” With her back to him, Ariel wriggled into her briefs. In the mirror, Booth could see the reflected temper on her face.
“Why?”
“Your favorite question.” Ariel flung the kimono to the floor, then dragged a short-sleeved sweatshirt over her head. “Well, I’ll give you the answer, and you’re not going to like it. You still equate me with her.” She flung the words at him; as they hit, he too began to dress. “Still,” she continued, “even after what just happened between us, you still measure me by her.”
“Maybe.” He rose and drew his sweater over his head. “Maybe I do.”
Ariel stared at him a moment, then stepped into her jeans. “It hurts.”
Booth stood very still as the two words sliced into him. He hadn’t expected them—their simplicity, their honesty. He hadn’t expected his own reaction to them. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Stepping closer, he touched her arm and waited for her to look up at him. The hurt was in her eyes, and he knew it was the second time he’d put it there. “I’ve never been a particularly fair man, Ariel.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it’s hard for me to believe that someone so intelligent could be so narrow-minded.”
He waited for his own anger to rise, and when it didn’t, shook his head. “Maybe it’s simplest to say you weren’t in my plans.”
“I think that’s clear.” Turning away, she began to brush her hair methodically. Hurt pulsed from her still, laced with anger. It never occurred to her to rely on pride and conceal them both. “I told you before that I tend to rush into things. I also understand that not everyone keeps the same pace. But I’d think by this time you’d see that I’m not the character you created—or the woman who inspired her.”
“Ariel.” She stiffened when he took her shoulders. He could see her fingers flex on the brush handle. “Ariel,” he said again and lowered his brow to the top of her head. Why did he want so much of what he’d cut himself off from? “I’ll hurt you again,” he said quietly. “I’m bound to hurt you if I continue to see you.”
Her body relaxed on a sigh. Why was she fighting the inevitable? “Yes, I know.”
“And knowing that, knowing what you could do to my own life, I don’t want to stop seeing you.”
She reached up to cover the hand on her shoulder with her own. “But you don’t know why.”
“No, I don’t know why.”
Ariel turned in his arms and held him. For a moment they stood close, her head on his shoulder, his hands at her waist. “Buy me dinner,” she requested, then tipped back her head and smiled at him. “I’m starving. I want to be with you. Those are two definite facts. We’ll just take the rest as it comes.”
He’d been right to call her remarkable, Booth thought. He pressed his lips to her brow. “All right. What would you like to eat?”
“Pizza with mushrooms,” she answered immediately. “And a cheap bottle of Chianti.”
“Pizza.”
“A huge one—with mushrooms.”
With a half laugh he tightened his hold. He was no longer sure he could let go. “It sounds like a good start.”
Chapter Eight
At 7:00 a.m., Ariel sat in a makeup chair, with a huge white drop cloth covering her costume, going over her lines while a short, fussy-handed man with thinning hair swiped blush over her cheekbones. She could hear, but paid no attention to, the buzz of activity around her. Someone shouted for gel for the lights. A coil of cable was dropped to the floor with a thud. Ariel continued to read.
The upcoming scene was a difficult one, with something perilously close to a soliloquy in the middle. If she didn’t get the rhythm just right, the pitch perfect, the entire mood would be spoiled.
And her own mood wasn’t helping her concentration.
She’d had another lovely Sunday with Scott, which had ended with a tense and tearful departure. Though she’d long ago resigned herself to the fact that she was a creature of emotional highs and lows, Ariel couldn’t rid herself of the despondency or the nagging sense of guilt.
Scott had clung to her, with great, silent tears running down his cheeks, when she’d returned him to the Andersons??
After she’d soothed him, Ariel had wondered all during the lengthy train ride home if she’d unconsciously brought on the scene. By wanting him so badly, was she encouraging him to want her? Did she spoil him? Was she overcompensating because of her love for his father and her pain in the loss?
She’d spent a sleepless night over it, and the questions had built and pressed on her. But there’d been no firm answers in the morning. Within a few weeks, she’d have to live with the decision of a judge who would see Scott as a minor rather than as a little boy who liked to play pretend games. Could a judge, however experienced, however fair, see the heart of a child? It was one more question that kept her awake at night.
Now, Ariel knew she had to put her personal business aside. Her part in the film was more than a job; it was a responsibility. Both the cast and the crew depended on her to do her best. Her name on the contract guaranteed she would give all her skill. And, she reminded herself as she rubbed an aching temple, worrying wasn’t going to help Scott.
“My dear, if you continue to fidget, you’ll spoil what I’ve already done.”
Bringing herself back, Ariel smiled at the makeup man. “Sorry, Harry. Am I beautiful?”
“Almost exquisite.” He pursed his lips as he touched up her brows. The natural arch, he thought with professional admiration, needed very little assistance from him. “Just a little more here. . . ” Ariel sat obediently while he brushed more color onto her lips. “And I’ll have to insist that there be no more frowning. You’ll spoil my work.”
Surprised, Ariel met his eyes. She’d been sure she’d had her expressions, if not her thoughts, under control. Foolish, she decided, then reminded herself that problems were to be left on the other side of the studio door. That was the first rule of showmanship.
“No more frowns,” she promised. “I can’t be responsible for spoiling a masterpiece.”
“Well, nothing changes. Still cramming before zero hour.”
“Stella!” Ariel glanced up and broke into the first true smile of the day. “What’re you doing here?”
“Taking a busman’s holiday.” Stella dropped into the chair beside Ariel, pulling up her legs, then folding them under her. “I used your name—and some charm,” she added with a sweep of her lashes, “to get in. You don’t mind if I watch the morning’s shooting, do you?”
“Of course not. How are things at Trader’s Bend?”
“Heating up, love, heating up.” With a wicked smile, Stella tossed her thick mane of hair behind her shoulder. “Now that Cameron’s trying to blackmail Vikki over her gambling debts, and the Ripper’s claimed his third victim, and Amanda and Griff are starting to simmer, they can’t keep up with the mail or the phone calls. Rumor is Tube wants to do a two-part spread on the cast. That’s big time.”
Ariel’s brow quirked. “Cover story?”
“That’s what I hear through the grapevine. Hey, I got stopped in the market the other day. A woman named Ethel Bitterman gave me a lecture on moral standing and family loyalty over the cucumbers.”
Laughing, Ariel drew off her protective drape to reveal a frothy, raspberry-colored sundress. This was what she’d needed, she realized. That sense of camaraderie and family. “I’ve missed you, Stella.”
“Me, too. But tell me. . . .” Stella’s gaze skimmed up the dress that, while demure and feminine, reeked of sex. “How does it feel to be playing the bad girl for a change?”
Ariel’s eyes lit up. “It’s wonderful, but it’s tough. It’s the toughest part I’ve ever played.”
Stella smiled and buffed her nails on her sleeve. “You always claimed I had all the fun.”
“I might’ve been right,” Ariel countered. “And I may have oversimplified. But I don’t remember ever working harder than this.”
Stella rested her chin on her hand. “Why?”
“I guess because Rae’s always playing a part. It’s like trying to get inside half a dozen personalities and make them one person.”
“And you’re eating it up,” Stella observed.
“I guess I am.” With a quick laugh she settled back. “Yeah, I am. One day I’ll feel absolutely drained, and the next so wired . . .” She shrugged and set her script aside. If she didn’t know her lines by now, she never would. “In any case, I know if I have a choice, when this is over, I’d like to do a comedy. A Judy Holliday type. Something full of fun and wackiness.”
“What about Jack Rohrer?” Stella dug in her purse and found a lemon drop. “What’s he like to work with?”
“I like him.” Ariel smiled ruefully. “But he doesn’t make it a picnic. He’s a perfectionist—like everyone else on this film.”
“And the illustrious Booth DeWitt?”
“Watches everything,” Ariel murmured.
“Including you.” Moving only her eyes, Stella changed the focus of her attention. “At least he has been for the past ten minutes.”
Ariel didn’t have to turn her head. She already knew. In her mind’s eye she could see him, standing a bit apart from the grips and gaffers as they checked the lighting and the set. He’d remove himself from the activity so as not to interfere with the flow, but his presence would be felt by everyone. And that presence alone would make everyone just tense enough to be sharp.
She knew he’d be watching her, half-wary, half-accepting. More than anything else, she wanted to merge the two into trust. And trust into love.
Booth watched her laugh at something Stella said. He watched the animated hand movements, the slight tilt of her head that meant she was avidly interested. Then again, Ariel rarely did anything that wasn’t done avidly. Whatever had been clouding her mood when she’d come in earlier had been smoothed over. As he remembered the trouble in her eyes, Booth wondered what problem plagued her and why, when she seemed so willing to share everything, she was unwilling to share that.
Lighting a cigarette, Booth told himself he should be grateful she kept it to herself. Why should he want to be involved? He knew very well that one of the quickest ways to become vulnerable to someone else was to become concerned with their problems.
Beside him a stagehand thoroughly spritzed an elegant arrangement of fresh flowers. The lighting director called for a final check on the candlepower. A mike boom was lowered into place. Booth wondered what Ariel had done over the weekend.
He’d wanted to spend it with her, but she’d put him off and he hadn’t insisted. He wouldn’t box her in, because by doing so he set limits on himself. That was a trap he wouldn’t fall into. But he remembered the utter peace he’d felt lying with her in her dressing room after their passion was spent.
He couldn’t say she was a calming influence—too much energy crackled from her. Yet she had a talent for soothing the tension from his mind.
He wanted to talk to her again. He wanted to touch her again. He wanted to make love with her again. And he wanted to escape from his own needs.
“Places!” The assistant director called out as he paced the set, rechecking the blocking.
Booth leaned back against the wall, his thumbs hooked absently in his pockets. It never occurred to him, as it often had to Ariel, how seldom he sat.
They would shoot a section of an extensive scene that morning. The other parts would be filmed later on the lawns of a Long Island estate. The elegant lawn party they’d shoot on location was to be Rae’s first full-scale attempt at entertaining since marrying Phil. And afterward, indoors and in private, would come their first full-scale argument.
She looked like something made of spun-sugar icing. Her words were as vicious as snake venom. And all the while, with the fury and the poison oozing from her, she hadn’t a hair out of place. The fragile color in her cheeks never fluctuated. It was Ariel’s job to keep t
She knew it was all in the eyes. Rae’s gestures were a facade. Her smile was a lie. Both the ice and the fire had to come from the eyes. The scene had to be underplayed, understated from her end. It was a constant strain to keep her own emotions from bubbling out. If she were to fight with words, she’d shout them, hurl them—and fling off the ones tossed back at her. Rae drawled them, almost lazily. And Ariel ached.
This was Booth’s life, she thought. Or a mirror image of what had been his life. This was his pain, his mistakes, his misery. She was caught up in it. If she hurt, how did he feel watching?
Rae gave Phil a bored look as he grabbed both her arms.