Make Me Forget (Make Me, #1)(13)

She gave the black puppy another fond caress and set him down on the floor. She smiled as she watched his surprisingly smooth three-legged trot toward the pack of bigger dogs. It horrified her, to think of an innocent, powerless thing being tortured in that way. Who would do such a thing? It would require a degree of depravity—of evil—that her brain shied away from considering.

“It’s nice that you do it. Give shelter to the animals. Medical care. And for these, a home.”

He shrugged off her praise. An awkward silence descended. Harper was wondering if she should take her leave, but he spoke first.

“Won’t you consider asking Ellie about the film?”

She exhaled on a bark of laughter. “Why are you so dead set on doing it?” she asked incredulously.

“I told you on the beach. I’ve admired of your work in the past, but I was particularly drawn to that story. I’d like to see it reach a wider audience.”

She threw up her hands helplessly. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask Ellie about it. She’s kind of a Hollywood fanatic. She might be thrilled at the idea. I’ll call her.

“Good,” he said, stepping toward her. The dogs had scattered, several of them returning to their beds and a few ducking out the flapped opening to the backyard.

“Cyril will offer you and Ellie payment for rights to the story, of course, so there are details to work out there. I think he might ask you to help him write the screenplay, as well.”

“Really?”

“I take it from your reaction you’ve never written a screenplay before?” he asked, a small—very distracting—smile molding his lips.

“No, never.”

“Would you be interested?”

“Maybe,” she replied dubiously. It actually sounded pretty exciting . . . like the exact kind of opportunity she needed to shake up her life even more than her recent move and job change had.

Precisely the kind of thing that would help me avoid that black hole of grief.

“You’re a good writer. You’d get the hang of it, if it’s something you decide to do. But most importantly . . . if Ellie agrees, you won’t stand in the way?”

“I don’t see why I would, as long as it’s agreed upon that the story is told in a tasteful, compassionate way.”

“Cyril wouldn’t consider handling a story like this with anything but the respect it deserves. As his producer, I’d demand it.”

“You’re his money man, then?”

“He’s a good investment. Usually,” he added with a half smile.

Harper nodded. “I’m sure my father would want me to have a lawyer look over everything if the project ever progresses that far . . . I mean . . . He would have wanted it—”

She broke off abruptly, stunned at her stupidity.

“Harper?”

“Hmmm?”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Nothing.”

He reached out and grasped her upper arm. “Did something happen? To your father?”

She gave a brittle smile. “He passed last year. It just happens sometimes, that I find myself talking like he’s still alive. It happened so suddenly, it’s like part of me can’t get used to the fact, like my heart hasn’t caught up to my brain. Like it doesn’t want to.” She swallowed through a suddenly tight throat, fighting off a rush of emotion. When would it stop—damn it—the grief crashing into her unexpectedly? On this occasion, it hadn’t seemed random, however. She suspected it had something to do with Jacob Latimer’s gaze. It seemed disconcertingly all-seeing, at times. It acted like a mirror to her confused inner world. She shook her head.

“Sorry. We were very close,” she said, shrugging.

“You miss him a lot,” he said slowly, studying her face. His thumb moved, caressing the bare skin of her arm. It was a simple gesture. It should have felt casual, too. It didn’t. Pleasure rippled through her, and she felt his stroking thumb somewhere deep inside her being. “Were you two alike?” he asked quietly.

“My father? In some ways. Everyone says I was more like my mother, though,” she said, avoiding his stare. “She started out in journalism, like me, and eventually went on to write over a dozen books on international relations, national politics, and a few biographies.”

“Jane McFadden?”

She nodded, still unable to meet his stare, almost every ounce of her awareness focused on maintaining her self-control . . . and on his firm, warm hold and the pad of his thumb sliding against her skin.

“I read her essays on Afghanistan and her biography of Winston Churchill. It’s no wonder you’re such a good writer, with her as your teacher. She had the ability to humanize even the most complicated of people and situations. You got that from her. Your compassion. Was your father a writer, too?”

She fought back the knot in her throat. “He was, after a fashion. He was a psychiatrist, but he regularly published case studies in academic journals—”

Emotion pressed on her chest from the inside out. It was humiliating. She felt very exposed.

“I really should be going,” she said, drawing in a ragged breath and starting to move past him. “I have a press conference first thing in the morning,”

“Wait.” He grasped both of her shoulders, stilling her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” She was caught in his stare. “Is this what you wanted to forget, in coming to Tahoe Shores?” She could smell him, as close as he was standing: sandalwood and spice and clean skin. The ache in her throat expanded to her chest.