Really Something by Shirley Jump

step forward. “What are you doing here? On my land?”
    â€œThis is yours?” Allie thought back and couldn’t remember ever hearing that Duncan had lived on a farm, or heck, even come near one. The house where he’d lived—and maybe still did—had been on the end of Washington Street, an imposing edifice that sat as the crowning glory of Tempest.
    John Henry had loved lording his wealth over people. Parking new cars in the street, flashing thousand-dollar bills at the local grocery store, knowing full well they couldn’t change it first thing in the morning, insisting on ordering his plants from other countries, his food from other states, just because he could.
    Old Man Henry had died of a heart attack nearly five years ago, according to Allie’s mother’s long, rambling annual Christmas letter. The town hadn’t seen a thousand-dollar bill since.
    Duncan looked out over the property, his gaze shaded by his palm. “Yeah, this place is mine.”
    â€œWell, serendipity brings us together twice.” She smiled. “I’d like to use this house for the movie.”
    â€œNo.”
    She leaned back, surprised. “No, just like that? You haven’t heard the offer or—”
    â€œNo,” he repeated, his eyes an unreadable storm, then he turned on his heel.
    She hurried after Duncan. Damn. What had she been thinking? Telling Jerry she had the location before she’d gotten ink on the contract? That was Film 101. Lock the deal, then tell the boss.
    And worse, she’d sent the pictures to Jerry. Undoubtedly, he was already counting his box-office chickens. If she blew it now, he’d fire her. “My employer will pay a fee for the use of the land and return it to its original state after—”
    â€œI said no.” He kept on walking.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI don’t have to give you a reason, just like you didn’t give me a reason for not having lunch with me, even though it was clear you were interested.” He paused halfway up the path to the house, then gestured behind them, to his Miata, parked behind her rental Taurus. “You’d better get back to town. A storm is coming.”
    Clouds marched across the sun, standing like sentries in front of its rays. A dark wind had sprung up, whisking at her skirt, lifting it as easily as a balloon. Allie splayed a hand along the fabric, keeping it from giving Duncan an unobstructed view of London and definite parts of France.
    â€œRain, the joy of farmers, bane of sunbathers.” His gaze swept over her, lingering on the skirt, then her legs. A breath passed between them. The tension increased, doubled. The house was forgotten. “Do you sunbathe out there in L.A.?”
    She lifted one shoulder, trying to act as though his perusal meant nothing. Didn’t affect her a bit. “Sometimes.”
    â€œHow?”
    She laughed. “I lay out in the sun like everyone else.”
    â€œNo, I meant, do you wear a swimsuit or do you sunbathe…” He paused for a breath, his gaze on hers. “In the nude?”
    Heat pooled in Allie’s gut, rushing along her veins, tightening her nipples, her stomach. She stood there for a second, Duncan’s dark eyes watching her, amusement giving them a spark.
    She wanted him, dammit.
    Oh boy. Her plan had one serious flaw—and she was looking at him.
    â€œNude,” she lied, to see his reaction, to feel her own.
    One brow arched upward, and the spark in his eyes became a flame. “Ever get burnt?”
    â€œOh yes, many times.” By more than the sun.
    Duncan took another step forward, and ran a finger down the bare skin of her arm. His touch was chased by goose bumps, then desire, a desire she willed herself not to feel, but doing that only seemed to intensify the feeling. “Such pretty skin to have it hurt like that.”
    She nodded, mute, her mission forgotten.
    â€œDoes it burn