Triple Threat. Regina Kyle

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      “I’m shooting for professional, not sexy.” Holly went to her closet and pulled out a pair of simple, low black pumps, the only pair of heels she owned. Practically new, since she barely wore them. She shoved them on. “These are more my speed.”

      “Oh, well. Can’t blame a girl for trying.” Noelle tossed the Louboutins aside, bent down and rummaged around in her Gucci carry-on, pulling out a thick black belt. “Just a couple of final touches.”

      She fastened the belt around Holly’s waist, centering the large oval buckle, then handed her a pair of garnet studs and a matching necklace from the bureau. “Now you’re ready to kick ass and take names. And if it’s—please, God—Ryan Gosling, call me and don’t let him out the door before I get there.”

      Half an hour later, Holly paced outside the Film Center Building on Ninth Avenue, hitting Redial on her cell phone again. And again. And again. “Come on, Ethan! Pick up, dammit! Where are you?”

      “Right behind you, Hollypop.”

      She jumped and spun around, teetering until Ethan grabbed her by the arms and steadied her. “Ethan, you scared me! And you’re late. And you know I hate that nickname.”

      He gave her a kiss on the forehead and released her. “Aw, don’t be mad, Holls. That frown doesn’t go with the fabulous getup you’re rocking.”

      “You know I can never stay mad at you.” She returned his kiss with a peck on the cheek.

      A trace of something like regret flashed across Ethan’s face. “Tell me that again in a few minutes,” he muttered, then changed the subject. “Nice duds. Did you take my advice and call Noelle?”

      She nodded and glanced down at the hint of cleavage just visible in the folds of her sister’s blouse. “You think it’s okay? Not too much?”

      “Better than okay. And definitely not too much.” He took her elbow and steered her to the door. “Now, let’s get this party started.”

      They whipped past the doorman, through the lobby and into the elevator. “What’s with all the mystery, Ethan? You planning on telling me who’s upstairs waiting for us?”

      “You’ll find out soon enough.” He shuffled his feet and punched the button for the fourteenth floor twice more.

      “Why so nervous? We’ve been auditioning big-name stars for weeks. Even hired one of them.”

      “Not like this.” The elevator dinged and Ethan motioned for her to precede him out. “Let’s just say if we sign this guy it’ll be the biggest news to hit the Great White Way since Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig in A Steady Rain.”

      Holly paused at the familiar door to the offices of Broadway producers Ted and Judith Aaronson. “I’d faint if it was one of them.”

      “It’s not. But you just might faint anyway.”

      “Promise you’ll catch me if I do.” She reached for the doorknob, but he stopped her with a hand on her wrist, his soft gray eyes serious.

      “Sure, if you promise me something in return.”

      “As long as it doesn’t involve anything illegal, immoral or fattening.”

      “Whatever happens in there, promise you won’t hate me.”

      “Hate you? Why would I hate you?” She shook his hand off, her stomach knotting up like a ball of yarn. “You’re freaking me out, Ethan. Who’s waiting for us in there? The pope? Jimmy Hoffa? My ex-mother-in-law?”

      Before he could answer, the door fell open with a whoosh.

      “Here they are!” Ted opened the door wider, ushering them inside. “Our esteemed writer and director.” He brought them into a conference room where Judith and several others were seated in tapestry chairs around an enormous walnut table. One man stood apart, his back to the door, apparently engrossed in one of the framed photos of the New York skyline that dotted the walls. Black hair curled over the collar of his cream-colored dress shirt, which hugged his broad shoulders and displayed strong forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves.

      No. It couldn’t be him. He was supposed to be on a movie set overseas...

      “Holly Ryan, Ethan Phelps,” Ted boomed, earning him a stern look from his wife. He either ignored or missed it and continued, not lowering his voice one decibel. “Say hello to our new star, straight from the silver screen.”

      The man turned and Holly knew from his slack-jawed expression that he was as shocked as she was.

       Nick.

      He moved toward her like a tidal wave of gorgeous in an ocean of ohmigod. “It’s been a long time, Holly.” Tall, dark and to-die-for, he held out his hand. His voice, deep and rough, made her breath catch and her nipples tighten. She crossed her arms in front of her chest to hide her unfortunate and completely involuntary reaction to the man who had starred in her erotic dreams since—well, since she’d been old enough to have erotic dreams.

      “Nick. I thought you were in Hong Kong.” She stood, feet planted, afraid if she got any nearer to him she’d dissolve into a pool of fiery, lust-ridden goo.

      “Been keeping up with me?” He dropped his hand when she didn’t move to take it, slipping it casually into the front pocket of his jeans. “I’m flattered.”

      “It’s hard not to. You’re everywhere.”

      “Ethan didn’t tell you?” Ted stepped in, smile lines further crinkling his already wrinkled face, and clapped the director on the shoulder. Ethan gave him a warning glare, but the older man, either truly oblivious or deliberately ignorant, ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and continued, “He insisted we see Nick for this role, that he’d be perfect as our modern-day Stanley Kowalski. Even convinced us to put off casting until he finished shooting.”

      “Perfect,” Holly echoed, her blood closely approaching the boiling point.

      A bead of sweat trickled down Ethan’s forehead and his Adam’s apple did a nervous dance in his throat. “Surprise.”

       3

      NICK OWED ETHAN PHELPS one hell of an expensive bottle of Scotch. He didn’t know why, but thanks to Phelps he was face-to-face with Holly Nelson. His teenage fantasy, all grown up.

      Unfortunately, his teenage fantasy didn’t seem to want anything to do with him. Instead, she dragged the director into a corner where they conversed in hushed tones. Nick caught comments like “what the hell were you thinking” and “not in this lifetime.”

      Looked as if he wasn’t the only one knocked for a loop by their little reunion. Too bad he was the only one happy about it.

      Nick took advantage of Holly’s distraction to look at her. Really look at her. She was dressed a bit more provocatively than she used to. Wearing more makeup, too. And her hair was different, all spiky and brushed to one side.

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