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She stared. Looked him up and down and up and down and again. Put a hand out to balance herself against the wall because her legs had gone lifeless.
At her dumbfounded appraisal his grin was boyish. ‘My mother taught me to dress for the theatre.’
‘Even the eleven a.m. matinee show with all the audience aged either under ten or over sixty?’
‘It’s still the theatre,’ he said smoothly.
She took a step closer. The tuxedo was devastating. The jacket fitting so well across his broad shoulders and tapering into his lean hips it just had to have been tailor-made.
Finally her heart started beating again—loud, painful thumping. ‘What are you doing here?’ She couldn’t believe it.
‘You were great.’ He’d lost the grin and was now serious and not quite meeting her eyes.
‘What are you doing here?’ She strained to focus. She had to know.
‘You really were amazing on that stage.’
He spoke so softly, she almost wondered if he was talking to her or just himself.
‘Are you listening to me?’ What the hell was going on?
‘You have a real gift.’
She couldn’t handle any more of this madness.
‘I’m getting changed.’ She stalked straight past him, into the dressing room, and shut the door. She whipped off her costume, climbed into her usual skirt and top, and wiped off as much of the make-up as she could in thirty seconds. Then she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Had she just imagined that encounter? Was she finally going nuts?
Taking a deep, supposedly stabilising breath, she opened the door. He was leaning against the jamb right in front of her. The tux was no less magnificent. Her brain went fuzzy.
He straightened. ‘Can we go somewhere to talk?’
She searched his features, wanting him to meet her gaze. ‘Why are you here?’
He looked at her then, blue eyes blazing. ‘Why do you think?’
She expelled a sharp breath as everything inside quivered. She fought the sensation, tensing up—that look wasn’t enough. She wanted to hear it. Wanted to know—because what he was here for might not be enough for her. Anger and uncertainty and fear ripped through the delight in seeing him. ‘Are you ready to define us yet, Owen? Or are we still not applying labels?’
He glanced away, down the corridor, and she realised he too was tense all over. ‘Just give me a minute, Bella.’
‘You’re kidding,’ she snapped. ‘How much time do you need?’
‘Listen to you.’ His sharp smile flashed. ‘You really have got your act together.’
‘Don’t you patronise me.’ Frustration trammelled through her. She was ready to slam the door again—in his face.
But in a swift movement he put his hands on her hips and jerked her out of the doorway towards him. ‘Never.’
One arm snaked hard around her waist, pulling her home, while his other hand lifted, holding her head up to his as his mouth descended. Her body thudded into his as their lips connected and just like that her fight against him was gone, overtaken completely by desire and ultimately by love.
She was holding her head up all by herself and his hands were all over her, pressing, pulling her closer to his heat and strength. And still it wasn’t close enough. Shaking, she threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him, clutching at him, reaching up on tiptoe as her mouth clung to his—giving, seeking, taking, wanting more and more. Pure energy, electricity, sent sparks through her where they touched. She moaned into his mouth, feeling his response—harder, fiercer, deeper. The madness was back and she wanted it to last for ever.
He was the one who eased them out of it. His large hands taking her wrists, lowering them as he slowly lifted his head. For a second she strained up to follow. And then she heard it—the cacophony, the riot. She glanced to the side.
Oh, God, the entire cast and crew were in the corridor, watching them, catcalling and wolf-whistling and cheering.
She turned back and tried to tug free from his grip. She knew her cheeks were scarlet.
‘I did ask you to give me a minute.’ He grinned at her, but his hands were still tight, keeping her close. ‘To get us some privacy. But now I’m not letting go.’
