Why Resist a Rebel - By Leah Ashton Page 0,3
down her cheek and along her jaw. She shivered.
‘A couple of times,’ he said, the words as dry as the grass they stood upon.
No, not quite like the famous Devlin Cooper. This man had dark circles beneath his eyes, and his darkest blond hair was far too long. He was too tall, surely, as well—she’d met enough leading men to know the average Hollywood star was far shorter than they looked on screen. And, she acknowledged, there was a sparseness to his width—he was muscled, but he didn’t have the bulk of the movie star. He looked like Devlin Cooper might look if turned into one of those method actors who lost bucket-loads of weight for a role. Not that Ruby could imagine that ever happening—Devlin Cooper was more generic-action-blockbuster-star than the Oscar-worthy-art-house type.
But as the man’s fingers tipped her chin upwards any thought of Devlin Cooper was obliterated. Once again it was just her, and this man, and this amazing, crazy tension that crackled between them. She’d never felt anything like it.
She was sure she’d never wanted anything more than to discover what was going to happen next.
He leant forward, closing the gap between their lips until it was almost non-existent...
Something—a voice nearby maybe—made Ruby jump, and the sound of her shoulders bouncing against the trailer was loud in the silence. A silence she was suddenly terribly aware of.
That rapidly forgotten wave of mortification crashed back over her, this time impossible to ignore. With it, other—less pleasant—sensations than his touch shoved their way to the fore. The fact she was covered in dirt and drying coffee. The fact her whole body suddenly appeared capable of a head to toe, hot, appalled blush.
She was still hanging off the man like a monkey, and she snatched her hands away from his neck.
‘Hey. You’re not going to catch anything,’ he said, a lightness in his tone as he watched her unconsciously wipe her hands almost desperately against her thighs.
She stilled the movement and met his gaze. His eyes had an unreadable glint to them, and for the first time she noticed their thin spidery lines of bloodshot red.
‘Who are you?’ she asked in a sharp whisper.
His lips curled again, but he didn’t say a word. He just watched her, steadily, calmly.
He was infuriating.
She ducked to her left, and the hand that had remained on her waist fell away. Ridiculously, she missed the warmth and weight of his touch immediately, and so she shook her head, desperate to refocus.
She put a few steps between them, taking deep, what-the-heck-just-happened breaths as she glanced to her left and right.
They were alone. No one else stood in this path amongst the trailer metropolis.
No one had seen them.
Relief swamped her. What on earth had she been thinking?
But then approaching footsteps made her freeze, as if whoever walked around the corner would immediately know what had just happened.
Of course, it was Paul.
‘Ruby!’ her producer exclaimed loudly. ‘There you are.’
‘Ruby,’ the man repeated, slowly and softly, behind her. ‘Nice name.’
She shot him a glare. Couldn’t he just disappear? Her mind raced as she tried to determine exactly how long it had been since she’d barrelled into the man. Surely not more than a few minutes?
It wasn’t like Paul to come looking for her. Fume alone in his office if she were late, yes—but come find her? Definitely not.
It must be a real emergency.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ruby managed, finally, and meant it. But how to explain? She ran a hand through her hair; the movement dislodged a few forgotten blades of grass. ‘I fell over,’ she said, more confidently, then nodded in the man’s direction. ‘He was just helping me up.’
She smoothed her hands down her shirt and its collection of dust, coffee and grass stains for further effect.
There. All sorted, the perfect explanation for why she wasn’t in Paul’s office five minutes ago.
Out of the corner of her eye, the man grinned. He’d propped himself up against the trailer, ankles crossed—as casual as you like. A normal person would surely size up the situation, realise something was up and—she didn’t know—do anything but act as if all he were missing were a box of popcorn and a choc-top.
‘Thanks for your help,’ she said, vaguely in his direction. For the first time she noticed the matching coffee-coloured marks all over the man’s grey T-shirt, but she couldn’t make herself apologise. He was just too frustratingly calm and oblivious. He could keep his smug smile and newly stained T-shirt.
She walked up to