The Promise of Change - By Rebecca Heflin Page 0,86

get shots from a variety of angles.

“Okay, let’s shoot the scene from Amelia’s perspective.” Michael turned to Sarah. “I think that went well, but we’ll get a few more takes so the editor has several to choose from.”

Sarah closed her eyes and groaned. Out loud.

“Sarah, you okay?” Michael asked with concern.

Sarah could feel Alex’s eyes on her.

“Yes. It’s just a headache.” She grimaced.

“Maybe you should take something and go lie down. These lights can be brutal,” Michael said indicating the lights surrounding the set.

“No,” came her emphatic response. As much as she hated watching it, she hated not watching even more. “I’ll be fine. Maybe I just need some caffeine.”

“Could someone get Sarah a diet coke?”

With a tequila chaser, she thought. “Thanks,” she said lamely.

She scanned the room for Alex, finding him in the makeup chair. She longed to tell the make-up artist to erase the amused expression from his face.

“Ooh. I hated watching you kiss her today. The green-eyed monster almost tore through my chest to rip out Brooke’s throat.”

Sarah’s evening pursuits had changed drastically in the past week. Instead of just reading a romance novel, she lived her very own romance with Alex joining her every night after the house fell quiet. He’d even moved some of his personal items to her room, while still maintaining a plausible presence in his own.

They both agreed they should keep this to themselves, at least until the filming was completed, afraid that their relationship might provoke discord among the cast and crew.

She could think of one cast member she’d like to provoke. But the movie was more important than her immature desire to rub this in Brooke’s face.

She’d told Ann and Becca, but swore them to secrecy. She could have sworn she’d heard Ann’s shriek of elation all the way across the Atlantic.

Alex stayed with her until morning now, waiting until she gave him the all clear, via text message, before he’d quietly exit her room and saunter nonchalantly down the stairs.

“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t enjoy it one bit. Her kisses are too wet.” He shuddered.

“Maybe that’s because she drools,” Sarah said snidely.

He chuckled. “Sarah, you’ve nothing to worry about. What can I do to calm the green-eyed monster before she rears her ugly head again?”

“Take me to bed and tell me you love me.”

“Since we’re already in bed, how about I tell you how much I love you.”

“That will do . . . for now.” She snuggled closer, her face buried in his neck, breathing his wonderful spicy, citrusy scent.

“‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you simply, without problems or pride:

I love you in this way because I don’t know of any other way of loving but this,

in which there is no I or you,

so intimate that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.’”

His voice was husky with emotion.

His recitation left her breathless. She buried her face in his chest so he couldn’t see the tears welling in her eyes. “That was beautiful,” she breathed. “Did you write that?”

He laughed softly, wrapping his arms around her. “No, I only recite great lines, I don’t write them. It’s from a sonnet by Pablo Neruda, the Nobel prize-winning poet.”

“Is there more?” she asked eagerly. She never tired of listening to his silken voice.

He chuckled again. “Greedy girl. Is there no end to your thirst for words?”

She blushed. He looked down into her face, brushing her reddened cheek with the back of his hand. “Let me see,” he said, thoughtful for a moment. “Ah, this one is perfect:

‘I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.’” As he spoke the words, he acted upon them, tenderly kissing her lips, her throat, her hair.

Nuzzling her neck, he continued. “‘Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest.’” He lifted her palm to his lips.

She shuddered at his caress.

“‘. . . hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails.’” His lips brushed each fingertip, and his voice grew huskier with each word. “‘. . . I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.’” He tasted her shoulder, nibbling gently, sending shivers up her neck, raising goose flesh on her skin.

With one smooth motion, he tossed the blankets aside, revealing their naked