by M. S. Parker
“No. She’s not.” Glenn shook his head and looked away.
“Excuse me?”
Glenn shoved a hand through his hair, then caught my gaze again. “She’s doing the same thing everybody does. She got this idea in her head that we’re this perfect Hollywood golden couple, and she’s fallen in love with that idea. She doesn’t like uncertainty. She needs to have some focus in her life, and it’s not easy for her when she doesn’t have it. But that doesn’t mean she’s in love with me.”
“It doesn’t mean she’s not!” Frustrated, I planted my hands on my hips, glaring at him.
“She spends more time gazing at me and sighing than she does talking to me.”
“You probably intimidate her!” I snapped.
“I don’t intimidate anybody.” He glared back at me. Then abruptly, he took a deep breath and held up his hands. “Look, I like Florence. She’s nice. She’s sweet. She’s definitely beautiful. But I don’t love her.”
He shoved off the wall.
He came close, his eyes dropped to my mouth. “If I had to be honest, there’s only one woman I’m interested in right now. And she’s standing right in front of me.”
My heart slammed hard against my ribs, and the oxygen in my lungs had started to burn. I opened my mouth to say something, but my throat had gone tight, and I couldn’t say anything.
Just a few inches remained between us, and he closed those up in a blink, reaching up to cup my cheek.
“Nothing to say?”
“Don’t,” I whispered. My voice cracked, and I cleared my tight throat to try and make it easier to talk. It didn’t help much. “You…me…look, I’m trying to explain things to you right now. Florence is fragile. You need to be focused on her.”
“I can’t. I know she’s had some trouble, and I’m sorry for that, but I can’t give her what she wants. I’m not the guy for her.” He stroked his thumb over my lower lip, and my heart skipped a beat. “I don’t care about her like that. I just…don’t.”
And again, his gaze dipped to my mouth, ever so briefly.
“Don’t,” I whispered again.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll like it too much.” Because I could come to crave it. Because it wasn’t right. There were a hundred other reasons, but I had no luck saying anything save those few words.
“That’s kind of the plan,” he said, dipping his head and pressing his lips to my ear.
I shivered at the warmth of his breath dancing over me.
He kissed a path along my cheek, right to my lips, and that made me shiver more.
As his mouth closed over mine, I lifted my hands and pressed them between us. I told myself I was going to push him away.
I didn’t.
Curling my hands into the front of his shirt, I clung to him.
Some part of my brain was screaming at me and telling me to stop it, to stop him. To stop this madness.
The other part was giddy, prodding me on as I curled my arms around his neck and leaned against him.
The heat of him was shocking. His open shirt meant we only had the thin material of my bra and blouse separating us, and my nipples tightened into hard, aching points immediately. He slid one hand down my back, bringing my hips into fuller contact with his.
His cock was hard and when it pulsed, my pussy echoed in response.
I wanted him like I’d never wanted anything.
I could understand instant addiction when it came to him.
I could understand wanting somebody even when I knew it would be bad for me, and bad for others. I was already on a one-way road to hell, and I didn’t care—not in that moment.
His tongue licked at the seam of my lips, and I opened for him, desperate for another taste of him, a real taste. But he didn’t give it to me right away. He teased me, his tongue flirting with the entrance of my mouth, and in a moment of desperation, I sought him out.
He groaned in approval and the hand on my spine tightened, fisting in my shirt.
We moved—or rather, he did—and I just blindly followed.
A few seconds later, my back was pressed against something—the brick wall. Glenn slid both hands up my torso. The feel of his palms felt entirely too good against me, and I didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to think.
I only wanted to feel.
The necklace all but burned against my chest, a fiery reminder, and abruptly, reality crashed back into me.
I can’t do this…
The diary. My uncle’s words.
Glenn slid his mouth from mine, kissing a path down my neck and I closed my eyes—against the sensation, against what I was doing, against the memory of what my uncle had said.
“How did she die?”
“She killed herself. She was involved with this guy—another member of the Hollywood elite—Glenn Jackson. He was terribly talented, you know. One of the best. But while Glenn might have been a good-looking guy and a great actor, he was apparently something of a heart-breaker. He left a slew of ladies in his wake. Most of them were fine with his love ‘em and leave ‘em style, but there were some…Florence was one of the worst. When he left her, it destroyed her. She killed herself. And she wasn’t the only tragedy in his world—they seemed to follow him.”
Tragedy seemed to follow him.
I couldn’t be a part of that.
16
Glenn
It was, I thought, maybe thirty seconds of heaven. Maybe a bit longer, but impossible to tell, because good things never last.
I could feel the fragile, frantic beat of her pulse against my lips, and was about to catch the skin there and suck it in between my teeth when the hands she had on my shoulders stiffened.
A moment later, she shoved me away.
Her eyes snapped at me, and her mouth puckered into a frown. I wanted to kiss it away, but judging by the look on her face, Maya wasn’t going to give me a chance.
“I don’t think of you that way.”
I wanted to call her on the lie.
Her cheeks were flushed, and I could still recall the stiff points of her nipples against my chest, the racing of her heart.
But I wasn’t going to do that. I was an asshole. But not that much of an asshole.
She’d said no.
“Why don’t you go kiss Florence? I know you’ve done it before. Shouldn’t be any trouble to do it again.” Her eyes slid away for a brief moment, and I knew she was avoiding something.
But I didn’t call her on that, either. I might have, but something else was at the forefront of my mind. I all but sputtered the words out, miserably uncomfortable as I demanded, “Have you two been talking about me?”
Maybe that was why she didn’t want to spend any time with me. It wasn’t like I had some crystal clean past, but most women didn’t really care about that. The ones who didn’t find it exciting thought they could ‘change me.’
“Of course,” Maya said, and she had the nerve to give me a disdainful sniff, one that clearly said, oh, you’re so naive. “That’s what girls do.”
Yet despite the female amusement I could see in her eyes, I again had the weirdest feeling she was hiding something. I wanted to know what it was.
I took a step toward her, but she lifted her hands in a staying gesture. “Don’t.” There was a sadness in her voice, but steel too. She shook her head. “I’m not kidding. I don’t want…this.” She waved a hand back and forth between us, and again, I had to fight not to call her on the lie.
But her next words just about knocked the wind out of me.
She pulled her shoulders back, taking a deep breath before she met my eyes dead on.
“I’m not anybody’s plaything. I won’t be anybody’s plaything. And you shouldn’t treat Florence like one, either.” She clenched her jaw, looking frustrated and miserable and out of sorts.
I could empathize with that, at least.
I wanted to tell her she was seeing things wrong, but it wasn’t like I could really argue. How many wom
en had I been with in the past few months? There were five or six that I could recall off the top of my head—and those were the women I’d been with while I was sober. There could have been more that I didn’t remember. If I had a drink or two too many, things tended to blur.
Still, I’d told Florence from the start I wasn’t interested in anything serious. She’d told me she understood, said she still wanted to continue seeing me.
That was her choice.
I was just about to explain all of that to Maya when she spoke again. “You have something with Florence if you’re feeling…amorous. Go see her. You need to be with her anyway.”
“Hold up,” I said, cutting her off. “I’m not required to be with anybody. I didn’t sign my life away to anyone, and I’ve told her, more than once, that I’m not interested in marriage. You don’t believe me, go ask her.” I was getting pissed off—and it didn’t help that I was more turned-on than I’d ever been and less likely than ever to get laid. At least by the woman responsible for my current state.
That really sucked.
“So you don’t care what happens to her?” Maya planted her hands on her hips, giving me an indignant look.
“I never said that!” Why in the hell was I being made to feel like I’d done something wrong? “She’s a friend. I care about her plenty. I just don’t want to marry her or settle down and have 3.2 kids with her!”
But Maya didn’t seem to hear the last part. She only heard I care about her…
Pointing a finger in my direction, she said, “Then you better show that you care. I’m not kidding when I say she’s fragile. She’s got some serious issues going on, and I don’t like to think about what she might do if she thought you were spending time with anybody, least of all me. I’m supposed to be her assistant, her friend, making things easier for her, not harder.”
“I’ve already told you. I’m not interested in Florence.”
“You sure as hell haven’t given her that impression. She’s in love with you!” Maya said.
I wanted to argue with her and tell her how wrong she was. Florence was so lost about who she was, she couldn’t possibly know who I was, or how she felt about me. Sometimes, I didn’t even know if she knew how she felt about herself. It was one of the few things that we had in common.
But before I could try, again, to explain any of that to Maya, she turned on her heel and stormed away.
“Wait a minute,” I shouted to her back.
To my surprise, she turned and flipped me off. She actually shot me the bird. In all my life, no woman had ever done that to me.
Plenty of men had.
I’d had women tell me—in not so polite ways—to leave them alone. But I never had a woman give me the silent gesture for fuck you.
It stunned me enough that I was left gaping at her as she stomped back into the studio.
For a moment I thought that I should have responded with, Is that an offer?
But she was already gone. So I stood there, brooding and fuming—and hard as iron. And it wasn’t just because I’d been kissing Maya or stroking that soft skin. It wasn’t just because I’d felt the soft plane of her belly against my cock, or her breasts pressed flat against my chest.
It had everything to do it had to do with…everything. From kissing her, to touching her, to arguing with her.
Women didn’t argue with me. They might yell at me, or cry when I refused to get serious with them, but they didn’t argue.
Yet another thing about her that made her different.
Narrowing my eyes, I studied the door, almost able to see her, straight through that barrier.
Her skin was most certainly flushed, and I’d bet money that her eyes were still flashing with irritation…and desire.
She did want me. She didn’t like it, but she wanted me. I could sympathize.
I didn’t want to want her, either.
Life would be so much easier for me if I could want Florence the way I wanted Maya. My career would skyrocket. I’d probably feel better about life in general. Things would settle down.
Instead, I was left wanting a woman who was making it clear she didn’t want anything to do with me, save for…well, lusting for me.
As I stood there, my thoughts pensive, something slowly started to occur to me.
All of her arguments seemed dependent on Florence being convinced she was in love with me. Typically, I tried to behave around Florence. She didn’t handle confrontations or my rougher behavior. That fight I’d just had with Maya would have sent her away in tears.
Even seeing other people argue upset her.
Maybe what I needed to do was show both of them how wrong they were…about me. About me and Florence together.
An inner voice whispered to me, That’s not very nice. Florence doesn’t need that.
But the rest of me wondered if maybe that wasn’t exactly what I needed to do: show Florence just what she would get into if she were in a relationship with me.
She needed a nicer man—a better man. She didn’t need a bastard like me, who would run roughshod over her. She shouldn’t be with a guy who had to walk on eggshells whenever they were together, worried he’d make her cry at the drop of a hat. One who spent more time during sex focusing on being gentle with her than letting go.
She needed to figure that out, and maybe this was the best way to show her.
And at the same time, I could show Maya just what would happen if I did turn my attentions toward Florence.
I had a feeling it would eat her alive.
I spent that afternoon doing what Maya had insisted I do; I paid more attention to Florence.
Florence didn’t seem to know what to think, and neither did half the people in the studio.
While I was taking a break, I asked her to go get me some coffee. After a moment’s hesitation, she went and did just that. I could tell she wasn’t happy about it—nor did she want to do it, either.
She was used to having people bring her things. She’d worked her way up the rungs of the Hollywood ladder. Back then, she’d ran and fetched coffee, missing things from wardrobe, the works. Now it was her turn to be catered to.
Except us guys could be assholes. Typically, this was one area where I actually tried not to be—show business could be brutal to the women in the industry, something I’d learned from an early age, thanks to having both parents connected, in one way or the other, to film. Eventually, it had destroyed my mother.
I was an asshole outside the studio though. I was grouchy and surly and self-centered. I rarely thought about what others wanted, and was more concerned about what I wanted.
So I was going to make Florence see that.
Thus, I’d ask her to bring me coffee every damn break if that was what it would take. I’d kick the ass of anybody else who tried it, though. I, at least, had reasons.
I could imagine what Maya would have said if I’d asked her, though: Go get it yourself.
As a matter of fact, she had said that very thing to more than a few men during the time she had been here.
They didn’t like it, either. When they responded with irritation—and most of them did—she would point out that she was Florence’s assistant, and if Florence suggested she go get everybody on the set coffee, then she would happily do so. But none of the studio employees were going to approach the star of the show and ask her to tell her assistant to go fetch coffee.
I was a different beast altogether, though. I was Florence’s costar, and I was also much more established in Hollywood.
Part of me was tempted to ask Maya to get me some coffee.
I thought about doing it, just to see the fire in her eyes.
I didn’t though.
I kept my attention on Florence, and when she brought me the coffee, I tugged her down onto my lap.
She was stiff, clearly annoyed and probably a bit hurt, and it bothered me more than I’d thought it would. Her cheeks were flushed and after a stroke of my hand down her back, I nudged her ba
ck to her feet.
“Thanks for the coffee, sweetheart,” I said, offering what I hoped was an apologetic smile.
I wouldn’t do that again.
Still, I could tell it had the desired effect. She was both aggravated and confused.
And Maya was pissed off.
Tomorrow, I was going to start on the next part of the plan. I just had to figure out exactly what that was.
I was up an hour earlier than normal.
I was clear-headed and sober, and still crankier than a son of a bitch.
Or maybe the fact that I was clear-headed and sober was why I was crankier than a son of a bitch. Also, being awake earlier than normal wasn’t helping with my mood.
But I didn’t roll over and go back to bed, and when Mrs. Blanchard knocked on my door to let me know I had breakfast waiting downstairs, I didn’t bite her head off.
“Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute,” I shouted through the door.
I heard a distinct—and disbelieving—muttered, “I just bet you will,” through the door and it was enough to make me grin.
I’d show her.
I had things to accomplish today.
Peter had put things in motion last night, which meant I had to get my ass in gear.
That wasn’t going to happen without massive amounts of coffee and food. Hot food. Preferably the bacon and eggs and pancakes kind.
Apparently, Mrs. Blanchard had known exactly what I’d need to get my motor going this morning. The air was redolent with the scents of bacon and coffee, and when I walked into the kitchen, I saw the pristine white table was already set.
There were two places.
Mrs. Blanchard had long since figured out I didn’t like to eat alone. Neither did she.
Her husband had died four years earlier and since then, she’d moved from the gatehouse into one of the guest suites in the lower level of my home. I had more than enough room, and sometimes, I slept better just knowing I wasn’t the only one in the big, old place.
She sniffed as she caught sight of my bare chest. “What would you parents think of you walking around half-naked?”