No Stopping Now

“This job is hell on couples. That’s my point. We’re on the road for days, out all night, surrounded by people looking to get laid. It gets wild.”

“It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it?”

“You got it.” His eyebrows lifted, as if she’d surprised him by making a joke. She was coming off too serious, she realized. That had to be a strike against her with a man known for humor.

“I don’t have a boyfriend, so that’s no problem. Neither is the travel or the hours. I’ll work hard. I’ll be what you need.”

“And what do you think I need?”

There was a beat of heat in his words, something sexy and intimate that caught her short.

“Me,” she blurted. “You need me.”

“Nice one,” he said, tapping his wineglass against hers before turning serious. “It’s a grind, JJ. There’s no glamour. I’m picky and demanding and a pain in the ass. Kirk has the patience of a saint. Most people would want to throw me out a window after the first shoot.”

“I’m very patient. And I’ll shoot until I get it right. That’s how I prefer to work. You can count on me. Not to brag, but I’m good.”

“I have no doubt of that. But I have to say no. It’s been nice meeting you and I appreciate your willingness to help, but I don’t think this will work out.”

“You’re saying no? Just like that?”

A buzzing sound at the table drew her eye. Brody’s cell had lit up and was vibrating against the laminate surface. He picked it up, glanced at the readout and said, “Sorry, I have to get this. My producer has issues with locations to talk about.”

“No problem,” she said, disappointment washing through her.

How could she reverse this? Be funnier, more insistent, more detailed? While she racked her brain, Brody talked to his producer about red tape in San Francisco, then something about Kirk Canter’s surgery at Santa Monica Hospital.

Abruptly, he clicked his phone shut. “I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to hit the road. They moved Kirk’s surgery up a day and I need to go wish him luck. Let me get you a cab.”

“But I—we—I mean—”

“You’re too smart for this job, JJ,” he said with a compassionate smile. “Wait for something that suits you. Never forget how good you are. Never sell yourself short.” Somehow, he got her on her feet and hustled her out the door and into a cab, handing the driver money for her fare.

“Good luck to you,” he said, leaning in the window. “I’ll watch for your next piece.”

“Wait,” she said. “Is it because Kirk’s a guy? Because it won’t matter. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Whatever Kirk would do, I’ll do.”

“Score a hooker? Would you do that for me?”

She swallowed hard. “If I had to.” The idea sounded awful, but her chance was slipping away and she couldn’t bear it.

“Don’t think I’m not tempted,” he said, taking her in, dwelling on her mouth, “but this is better for both of us.” He patted the taxi door and backed away.

Her head spun. She’d just been rejected so smoothly she hardly felt the sting. He’d teased her, poured her wine, fed her by his own hand, told her no, then paid her way home. She watched through the rear window as he climbed into a cab and left, taking her hopes and dreams with him.

2

DAMN, THAT WOMAN smelled good. Brody inhaled his fingers where he’d shaken her hand. What was the scent? Fresh laundry, a floral perfume, but also a homey spice that reminded him of something from childhood. What?

Barmbrack. Yeah. The Irish fruit bread his mother used to bake. JJ smelled like home. No wonder she’d caught his attention.

She was beautiful, too, in a way that snuck up on you. Like a young Julia Roberts with a soft mouth and big, intense eyes. Steady. Smart. Interested.

He’d liked that she didn’t flirt. All the women he knew flirted. The head tilt, the teasing smile, the light touch on the arm or the pressure of a thigh…it was as common as breathing in his world.

J. James would be direct. Straightforward. I want you.

He could go that way. Sure. You. Me. Naked. Now. That would be just fine with him. In fact, it sounded damn good.

But he had enough on his plate at the moment. He didn’t need an earnest filmmaker who smelled like childhood and looked like an actress. Even if he did have a thing for Julia Roberts.

He was sorry about the hooker remark, but he had to make the point that Jillian James was out of her league.

Maybe Brody was, too. Sometimes he believed his own hype. Worse, he feared that was all there was to him.

He was more than Doctor Nite. Jesus. He had to be.

He was weary of the role and the fame, tired of people always wanting something from him—to be with him, to be on his show or in his bed. He was actually sick of sex—or at least the one-night stands that served as his nightcap.

He watched L.A. traffic crawl by. Thudding music filled the cab from cars on either side. The night air was thick with the day’s smog. This was his city, these were his hours and he loved it. But he was changing, moving on.

He was done with the show. He wanted to write. He’d started a book. The idea of it twisted him up inside. Writing alternately delighted and terrified him. When he was doing it, putting words on the screen, he felt like the Road Runner dashing over the gorge on thin air. He was good until he looked down.

His cell phone went off and he fished it out of his pocket, startled to see his parents’ number in the readout. It was midnight. God. Had his father had another heart attack?

He answered the phone, fingers shaking. “Pop? You okay?” He held his breath.

“I’m fine, son. I can’t sleep and you’re the only night owl I know.”

“Good. That’s good.” He blew out air, so relieved he wanted to laugh out loud. “So what’s keeping you awake, Pop?”

“I get restless is all. Your mother kicks me out of bed when I get the jimmy legs.”

“That’s understandable.” Brody scrambled for something to talk about. They’d only recently been having these conversations and it took a while to get a comfortable rhythm going. “How’s the work on that Mustang coming?”

“Not too bad. Carburetor’s giving me fits.” He lapsed into a description of what he’d done so far and what he planned.

“You’ll get it. I’m sure you will.”

“Got to before your mother drags me on that cruise.”

“You’ll like it, Pop. There’s bingo and dancing and the food never stops.”

“That’s no good for me, son. Gotta watch my ticker now.”

“They have heart-healthy crap, don’t worry.”

“If it makes your ma happy, what choice do I have?”

He smiled, letting his dad’s voice fill his head, listening as he talked about Ma’s plans for the garden, how good her chiles were, how hard it was to get good help at his auto shop these days, and why the hell was everything so computerized?

Brody was just glad his pop was still around to complain about cruises and carburetors and computers. It had been his pop’s heart attack six months ago that had made Brody decide to change his life.

After a bit, his father yawned.

“You getting sleepy?”

“Guess so. Good to hear your voice. Keep in touch now.”

“I will, Pop.” In fact, he’d put a reminder on his calendar so he’d make a call every two weeks.

When he’d heard the news about the heart attack, Brody had flown home and raced to the hospital, where he was startled to see his parents in a new light. He’d always thought they despised each other, but watching his mother pat Pop’s hand, promising to hide the Jameson and bake only low-fat pasties, while tears rolled down Pop’s cheeks, he knew he’d been wrong. They clearly adored each other. They’d changed or he’d been blind.

He realized something else. He wanted what they had—a life with one special someone and years and years together. The whole trip had been like that. He’d seen his old friend Cal Taylor differently, too. In his heart, a door opened to a world he’d almost missed.

His contract came due soon and he’d decided not to sign a new one. He’d been letting the idea sink in, become real. He’d made the mistake of confessing his discontent to Eve Gallen, his producer. Now she watched him like a hawk. Are you okay? Happy? What else do you need? What can I do? She’d pumped up the volume on everything, hunting up new show ideas, reminding him of the early days, poking at him constantly, driving him nuts.

With her hassling him and his plans to adjust to, he didn’t need a complication like JJ, tempting as she was. What he needed now was focus and discipline, not temptation.

He would get Kirk’s intern to fill in. Dave would slip easily into the groove of the shoot, leaving Brody’s head clear and giving him plenty of time and energy to work on his book.

The cab was closing in on the hospital, so Brody had the guy pull over to a convenience store, so he could nab two Playboys and the latest Gamer magazine. Kirk’s favorite pastimes were console games and naked women. Some of the newer games combined both, to Kirk’s delight.

Brody grinned. He would miss the hell out of Kirk this trip. The accident had been weird. Kirk falling down stairs? Hurting himself badly enough to need surgery? The man knew how to hold his booze and he kept recreational chemistry to a minimum because of the side video work he did. What a drag.

They’d bumped the operation up to tomorrow—the surgeon probably had a golf game—so tonight was Brody’s last chance to visit the guy, wish him well. He knew Kirk was superstitious about stuff like that, so he had to come. He wanted to talk to Kirk about an HBO project he’d heard about, too.

In the emergency driveway, Brody asked the driver to wait, then eased into the dim lobby. Eve had told him what floor Kirk was on, so he took the elevator up and sauntered to the nurse’s station to coax Kirk’s room number out of the short brunette with the stern face and tired eyes.

At the last second, he remembered to hide the Playboys behind the Gamer so as not to offend the woman, whose ID badge was hidden. He glanced at the duty board, then guessed. “Sue?”

“Yes?” She looked startled that he knew her.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m here for Kirk Canter? He’s expecting me. Brody Donegan?”

“Mr. Canter is sleeping.”

“Oh, I doubt that. They’re cutting him up at dawn.”

“Which is why he needs his rest.” She gave a prim smile.

“See, that’s where I come in. I’m his security blanket.”

“Oh, really?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, it’s a superstitious deal. For luck?”

She stared at him and he could see recognition dawning. This happened a lot. People realized they’d seen him somewhere. “You look so familiar…. Aren’t you…?”

“Doctor Nite? Guilty as charged.”

“My brother loves your show.” She smiled now, openly pleased, and stepped back, as if in the presence of someone important. He wanted to reverse that. I’m an ordinary guy, sweetheart. I put my pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. Well, except I do it on TV for all the world to see.

“I’d be happy to sign an autograph,” he said, moving his finger as if with a pen.

“Oh, he’d love that.” She seemed flustered, but handed him a square of hospital notepaper. “His name’s Jordan.”

He wrote, “Jordan, your sister is a dish,” signed it and handed it over.

She read what he’d written and blushed.

“I won’t be long, I promise,” he said. “Kirk just needs to rub my beer gut for luck.” He scrubbed his belly through his shirt. Sue’s eyes followed his movement.

“But you don’t have a gut,” she said, a nurse observing his condition, though her cheeks held color and her eyes shone.

“It’ll have to do.” He winked.

“All right, I guess.” She told him the number and pointed. “Down that hall. If he’s asleep, don’t wake him.”

“Thanks, doll.” He headed off, relieved she’d been agreeable. Women tended to like him. Of course, he liked them back. Was it a crime to use his gift to get what he wanted?

He’d begun to think so. Maybe that made things too easy, allowed him to glide, made him too lazy to work for what mattered. His pop, who’d been humbled out of his own wild ways, had always warned Brody against the easy road.

Brody had no real regrets about his life. It was just time to move on, try something different.

He tapped at the partially open door of the hospital room.

“What? Who is it?” Kirk nearly yelped.

“Just your wingman, buddy.” He moved into the room, dark but for the bluish fluorescent light over Kirk’s bed. “Relax.”

Kirk flopped against his pillow in obvious relief.

“Were you having a nightmare or something?”

“Just freaked about the operation, I guess.”

“Are you in pain? Need meds?”

“I’m okay.”

“I stopped by to wish you good drugs and small scars. Sorry it’s late. I just found out they changed your surgery.”

“Better to get it over with, I figure.”

“Here’s something to kill the time.” He handed over the magazines.

“Excellent,” Kirk said, visibly cheered by the gift. “I don’t have either one.”

“So, listen, I need Dave’s number. You have it?”

“My intern? What for?”

“To fill in for you on the shoot.”

“But Eve said you were meeting with JJ tonight.”

“I’d feel better with Dave.”

“JJ’s good, Brode.”

“Oh, I’m sure she is. Just get me Dave’s number, okay?”

“She’s pretty hot. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” That was part of the reason.

“His number’s on my cell. In my bag.” Kirk nodded at the bedside tray, grimacing, as if movement caused him pain.

Brody opened the messenger bag Eve had bought Kirk in an effort to organize the most laid-back guy on the planet.

“While you’re at it, could you do me a favor?” Kirk asked. “There’s a DVD in there I need dropped off.”

The phone in his hand, Brody picked up a generic brown plastic case. “This one?”

“Yeah. Could you drop that off to a guy who’ll be at the Xanadu? He’ll be at a conference there on Thursday—that’s your first night, right?”

He nodded. They launched each shoot with a couple nights at the Xanadu, a landmark resort popular for its proximity to LAX and its business amenities. Kicking off the run at the luxurious old place felt lucky to Brody.

“Freelance project?” Brody asked.

“More or less. I could courier it, but the guy will be at the hotel. His name’s Lars Madden. I’ll tell him to call you. I’d do it myself except for…” He raised his sling-covered arm.

“You just get better, my friend. I’m glad to do it.”

Kirk fell back against the bed, looking exhausted. “I’m sorry to let you down on the taping, Brode.”

“You fell. Not your fault. Just be more careful on the stairs.”

“Yeah.” A peculiar look crossed his face, then he shook it off. “I’ll be back as soon as they’ll let me.”

“No rush. And, listen, I understand they’re looking for an assistant director on that HBO project.”

“I heard about that, yeah.”

“So go for it.” He leaned in so Kirk would know he was serious. “It’d be a great opportunity for you.”

Kirk shook his head. “Too much pressure. Some good people already said no. I’d never leave you. I’m your cameraman.”

“Don’t get pigeonholed, that’s what I’m saying.”

“You know me, Brode.” Yeah, he did. And when Brody left the show, Kirk would be thrown big-time.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work with JJ,” Kirk said. “What was it? She say something wrong?”

How could he put it? She smells too good? She’s too smart, too Julia Roberts? “I didn’t get the right vibe.”

He said goodbye and backed from the room, thinking about JJ. She might have spiced up the shoot. Half his problem might be boredom. She had a great voice. Low and husky, but smooth, too. Like rough honey…

“Brody?”

He was startled to hear that rough honey voice say his name. He turned and there she was, as if he’d conjured her up. “JJ?” He was pleased to see her, no matter how strange it was. Had she told her driver, Follow that cab? “This isn’t, like, a stalking thing, is it?” he said.

“No. Not at all.” Even in the dim light, he saw she’d blushed. “You mentioned the hospital where you were going and I realized I could help with the red tape in San Francisco.” She held out a business card, her fingers shaking a little, so he knew she was nervous.

“That’s a woman in the city tourism office who’s a wizard at making things happen. Mention my name. I hope it helps.”

Her eyes moved across his face, her wavy hair quivered against her shoulders. She was breathing hard and her breasts rose and fell, appealing in a simple white blouse that looked as sexy as plunging silk.

“Thanks,” he said. He liked her green eyes, her steady gaze. Her smell, of course. Her voice. Her body, chest, legs. She met him eye-to-eye. He liked that, too.

Keep it up, Brody, and you’ll be the stalker.

“This job is really important to me.” She met his gaze, standing solid and steady, telling him what she wanted.

“It must be. You chased me all the way here.”

“There’s another thing,” she said, not even smiling at his joke. “I’m working on a documentary about…um…dating. I hoped we could fit in an interview.”

“You want to interview me?”

She nodded. “You’re something of an icon for single men.”

“I like sex and I talk about it on the air. I’m hardly statue worthy.”

“Men in bars all over the country play drinking games when you’re on the air. How does it go? Every time you say ‘The Doctor is in’ they all drink shots?”

“So you’ve seen the show?”

“Seen it? I’ve studied it.”

“I’ll give you an interview for your movie, JJ. You don’t have to work for me to get it.”

“I need to. For the perspective. We’d have more time. Please. I’m…desperate.”

“I’m not in the habit of turning down desperate women.” She’d come all this way. For a woman as no-bullshit as she was to beg meant something. He would like having her around, he realized. Maybe he needed a woman’s viewpoint—other than Eve’s, who seemed devoted to keeping everything the same. JJ was so…interesting.

He went with his gut on big decisions, but it had been his head that had insisted he not hire her. Now his heart wanted a vote. His heart wanted to see what would happen.

Maybe he could handle his plan and JJ, too. She was looking at him with her eager, steady eyes, hope shining in her face. How could he turn her down?

“You won’t bitch when I shift shots fifty times or drag you out in the rain at one in the morning or make you run footage until you want to puke?”

“I won’t. I swear.” She made an X with her fingers across her chest. And what a nice chest it was.

He sighed and dragged his eyes up where they belonged. “Anything to keep you from stalking me, I guess. You’re in.”

Her smile was so bright it lit a fire in her green eyes. “Thank you, Brody. You won’t regret this.”

He sure as hell hoped not.

“Eve will call with the details. We start Thursday at the Xanadu. First meeting’s around noon in my room.”

“Great. See you there!” She danced off to her cab.

Watching her ride away, he had the feeling he’d be better off grabbing the first joker he could find with a digicam than hiring the woman, but it was too late now.

All the same, he grinned all the way home.

3

JILLIAN LET her room door close, tucked the key card into her wallet and checked her watch. Two minutes to noon. Just enough time to get to Brody’s suite, where she was to meet with him and his producer, Eve Gallen, to go over the trip and plan the night’s shoot.

She was on the twenty-fifth floor of the Xanadu, a big, bustling hotel with endless, poorly marked corridors she’d gotten lost in more than once already. Refurbished repeatedly, it was an odd mix of luxury and convenience—elegant deco furnishings with modern minioffices in spacious rooms.

She took a deep breath of the gardenia scent misting the hallways and headed for the elevator across the thick, silver-and-black, deco-style carpet, the only sound her slides slapping her bare soles.

Inside the elevator, she checked herself out in the mirrored walls. She looked decent in a red jersey top with spaghetti straps and khaki capris with plenty of stretch—she might not have time to change before they set off on the shoot and she needed to be able to bend and kneel with ease.

She couldn’t believe how late they were starting. She usually put in five hours by noon, but she was on Doctor Nite time now. She would adapt to late hours and wild nights.

She still felt queasy about how she’d gotten the job. She’d practically stalked the man, then groveled. Begged. Hell, she’d offered to hire the man a hooker. On the other hand, too much was at stake to accept no. Doggedness and total focus had earned every success so far. Those traits would help her now.

She was nervous, she had to admit. She’d doubled her usual run to calm herself, but so many butterflies packed her stomach they could barely flutter a wing.

She’d called the We Women Network and left a voice mail with May Lee, the head of acquisitions, telling her she’d gotten the job and would score the “inside scoop, the real nitty-gritty” on Doctor Nite.

The real nitty-gritty? She couldn’t believe those words had come out of her mouth, but that was how the game was played. She had to tantalize the network, get them hot for the project, then the caliber and substance of her work would make the final sale.

Outside Brody’s door, she took a couple of settling breaths, determined to be cool and calm.

She’d have to contend with that snap-crackle of attraction, but Jillian knew how to manage that. She kept sex in its place, like everything else in her life. Weeks of twelve-hour workdays limited her free time. When she did connect with a man, she kept it friendly, not making any promises or expecting any back, and she had a serviceable vibrator for the in-between times.

Any flare-ups with Brody she would douse, no problem. She would be the consummate professional and hope he’d forget about the hooker request and her groveling. Oh, and the sexual sparks.

Composed and determined, she tapped at Brody’s room. After a long pause, the door flew open to reveal Brody…in his boxers.

She took in rounded pecs, a flat belly, a thin, teasing trail of dark hair, black underwear. Silk, maybe? The fabric was shiny and slippery. Thick, almost like satin—

Whoops. She jerked her eyes up where they belonged.

“You’re early,” he said, his voice scratchy, his eyes at half-mast, leaning on the jamb, muscular arm extended upward.

“You said noon.”

“I said around noon.”

“Sorry. I just thought—”

“’Sokay. You’re eager.” He managed a slow spider-to-the-fly grin and waved her inside.

She entered the room, dim and intimate, with its unmade bed, tangled sheets, the bolsters tossed carelessly to the floor. So he was a wild sleeper. Or maybe he’d had company. Was there a woman? No, the bed was empty. Besides, that was none of her business. Again, she pulled her gaze to him.

Brody gave her his once-over, though the sleep crease in his cheeks softened the effect to sweet instead of predatory. “So you’re perky in the morning,” he said, scratching his hair with his knuckles, tousling it nicely.

“I like mornings. Is that bad?”

“And a health nut on top of it.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You’ve exercised. Your cheeks are flushed.” He rubbed his knuckles against his own cheek, then ran his eyes down her length and around her body. “A runner, right? With those calves…absolutely.”

“I do run, yes, but that doesn’t make me a nut.” He was as observant as a detective, and it made her uncomfortable. She decided to turn the tables. “You obviously exercise, too. Good pecs, flat abs, developed quads.” She swallowed over a dry throat. “So you must lift weights. But with those shoulders and that tan, you swim, too.” She stopped talking, not sure the hard-body inventory was helping her problem.