One of Michael’s brows arched. “Okay. Cool. So do you want to go over the stunt before we do the next take?”
He had to be insane. “No, I don’t want to go over it. I’ve been over it so many times that I can do it in my sleep.”
The other brow rose up to meet the first. “Good,” he said. “That’s what we need.” He moved as if he was going to walk away.
Leah couldn’t believe this—almost a week had gone by since the nightmare she had lived, and he had yet to say a word to her. “Michael!” she cried before he could escape.
He paused. “Yes?”
He said it as if she were a lowly production assistant, not worthy of his time. No wait, scratch that—he spent more time with the P.A.’s than anyone.
“What is it, Leah?” he asked, clearly impatient to be on his way.
It was not an easy question to answer, because it was everything. “Where is Juan Carlo?” she demanded for lack of a good jumping-off point.
Michael took a quick look around before answering. “He’s locked up. But don’t worry—there is no way he can get out.”
“And who were those guys who took him?” she asked, folding her arms.
He sighed, shoved a hand through his hair. “Leah . . . I think the less you know, the better.”
“Were they CIA?”
“Some,” he said, looking very uncomfortable. “All government.”
“Can they just do that?” she asked, both hands slicing the air now.
“Do what?”
“Do what? Jesus, Michael, do you have to be so obtuse? Weren’t you in the cabin with me, or did I just dream it? Can those men just sweep in and take someone away like that? Just take him off and lock him up?”
For some reason, that made Michael smile. “Apparently, they can.”
Leah sighed irritably, punched her hands, encased in fingerless gloves, to her waist. “Just please give me the bottom line, can you do that?” she blurted. “I don’t know what any of this means.”
“You mean when the government steps in?”
“No, no,” she said with great exasperation for his thick-headedness. “What it means for us. Assuming there was an us to begin with.”
He didn’t answer. He studied her, his eyes roaming her face and his expression—she’d seen that expression once before, a long time ago, and Leah felt her heart slip in her chest. I’m leaving . . .
“Honestly?” he said softly. “I don’t know anymore.”
Her heart plummeted, her breath left her. Whatever she thought, his response surprised her, stunned her. “So . . . ,” she said, fumbling for words, fidgeting with her fingerless gloves. “Then . . . I guess that means it was too much to hope for, is that it?”
He shrugged, looked very uncomfortable. “Maybe it was.”
Shit. As angry as she was with him, she realized immediately that was not what she wanted to hear. She glanced down at her hands, her fidgeting more frantic now. “Jesus, I don’t know what to think anymore,” she said weakly, feeling herself close to tears. “What was this all about, anyway, Michael? Were you just hoping you could finally commit, but realized you can’t do it? Or do you fear that more strange men will suddenly appear out of the clear blue to terrorize your life?” She suddenly looked up. “Don’t answer—you don’t need to answer, because the truth is, I can’t handle it. I can’t handle the uncertainty with you, Michael. I can’t handle the constant wondering, and the uncertainty and the fear—”
“I’m sure,” he cut in, his eyes dark. “Just like I can’t handle the constant need to apologize to you, or the need to prove to you that I’m not screwing around, or that every stranger who speaks to you isn’t trying to kidnap you. I can’t erase my past, Leah. It is what it is. I can’t erase what happened in New York, or on Sunlight Canyon Road. I can’t erase the fact that I have dated a lot of women. And I can’t live my life with your . . . constant . . . uncertainty.”
His response took her aback. “Are you kidding?” she asked. “Seriously, are you kidding?”