Lovegame

by Tracy Wolff

  Still, now that it’s out there, I can’t just leave it alone. The descriptor is way too powerful for that. “Is that what acting is?” I ask after a moment. “Masochism?”

  “If you do it right.” She takes another sip of her water, her eyes locked on mine as her tongue darts out and licks a stray drop of moisture off the perfect bow of her upper lip.

  “And do you? Do it right?”

  “I think that’s for you to say, not me, isn’t it?”

  That’s when I forget how to breathe. For one second, two.

  She’s talking about being at the mercy of the audience—a stern taskmaster, no doubt—but at this moment, that doesn’t seem to matter. Not when it feels very much like she is the one in control. Of her career, her destiny, and this interview.

  But there’s a gleam of triumph in her eyes that says she knows it and that jump-starts my brain. This interview is a two-day marathon and I’m not prepared to go down this early or this easily.

  “I’m more than happy to be the one who says it,” I answer with complete sincerity. “The emotion you brought to the Belladonna was breathtaking, and somehow totally authentic despite the subject matter.”

  “It was a brilliant role. Thank you for writing it.”

  “All I did was write the book. Derek James wrote the screenplay. And you brought her to life.”

  She shakes her head at me, tsk-tsks a little. “False modesty is so unbecoming. It’s one of the first lessons they teach you in Hollywood. Is it not the same in New York?”

  “False modesty? Yes. But a writer had better be modest if he wants to be any good. Especially a non-fiction writer.”

  “Why non-fiction specifically?”

  “I think you know the answer to that question better than anyone. Because it’s never about me. It’s always about them. Isn’t it the same for you?”

  “I’m not known for my modesty,” she says with a laugh. “Just ask my ex-lovers.”

  “I don’t need to ask anyone. I’ve seen you act.”

  “What does that mean?” For the first time, she looks wary.

  “It means you become every character you play. From the ingénue to the queen to the—”

  “Sociopath?”

  “I was going to say savior, but yes. There are times in the footage I’ve seen that I can’t distinguish you from her. And I spent hours, days, interviewing her.”

  “That’s quite a compliment.” And yet her voice says it’s anything but.

  “It was meant to be,” I try to soothe. “What’s it like, being so talented that you can be anyone you choose?”

  “I think that’s a question I should be asking you. You’ve written books on two serial killers, one mass murderer, and two of the most notorious unsolved murder cases of the last century. To write the way you do, you have to get inside the murderer and his victims. The same goes with the profiling you did early on in your career. What does that feel like?”

  Like I’m balancing on the edge of an abyss, waiting to fall in.

  Like I’m sinking in quicksand with no hope of ever being pulled out.

  Like I’m drowning.

  “Disturbing. Fascinating. Sometimes sad.”

  She tilts her head in acknowledgment. “Exactly.”

  I hope not. For her sake, I really hope not.

  Before I can say anything else, our lunch is delivered. She smiles at the waiter as he slides her salad in front of her and he gets so flustered that I nearly end up wearing my hamburger and fries. She pretends not to notice.

  Once our food is delivered, our water refilled, and extra napkins placed in a position of honor on the table, there’s no other reason for the waiter to hang around, much to his dismay and my amusement.

  I give her a couple minutes to eat undisturbed before diving back in. “So what’s that like?”

  “What?”

  “Men falling all over you everywhere you go.”

  She could pretend she doesn’t know what I’m talking about—just like she pretended not to notice how flustered our waiter was. But she doesn’t. Instead she turns the tables. “What do you think it’s like?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  She gives me a slow, thorough once-over. “I’m pretty sure women must fall all over you—”

  “When are you going to stop deflecting and actually answer what I ask you?”

  She freezes. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m here to interview you and the last few questions I’ve asked, you’ve thrown back in my lap. I already know what I think—I’d like your thoughts or this article is going to end up being an autobiography.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. I’d read your autobiography in a heartbeat.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d be the only one.” I take a bite of my burger, give her a minute to figure out that she’s not going to be able to charm her way out of this one. Then I ask again, “So, what is it like?”

  Her shoulders tense, and suddenly it’s like a switch flips inside of her. Gone is the friendliness of the last fifteen minutes and in its place…in its place is something else entirely. “Being attractive?”

  I shoot her a look that tells her to knock off the bullshit. “Being Maxim’s sexiest woman alive seven of the last ten years. Topping Esquire magazine’s sexiest list. Making People’s Most Beautiful list every year for the last decade. Being number one on IMDB’s top one hundred sexiest actresses of all time.” I pause, take a very deliberate sip of my water. “Should I keep going?”

  “No. I think I get it.” Her voice is about ten degrees cooler than it was and as she purses her lips, narrows her eyes, I’m reminded of a children’s fairy tale. The better to see—hear—eat—you with, my darling. “It feels exactly like you’d expect it to feel.”

  The whole thing is very definitely a warning to lay off this line of questioning, but all it does is intrigue me. And solidify my belief that Veronica Romero would play the hell out of the big, bad wolf.

  Too bad I’m not cut out for the role of Little Red.

  “Gratifying?” I ask. “Claustrophobic? Unsafe?”

  This time when she laughs, it sounds nothing like tinkling bells and everything like high-end sex. I try not to respond, but it’s pretty hard not to notice the way the sound goes straight to my cock like it was designed specifically to get me hard.

  “Nothing about this business is safe,” she tells me. “I thought you’d be the last person I’d have to explain that to.”

  “All that money, all those bodyguards, and you still don’t feel secure?” It’s a direct salvo, one that hits the mark judging from the way her shoulders tense and the dimple disappears completely. For a moment I mourn its loss, but then I’m too caught up in her transformation to think about anything else.

  “Silly, Ian,” she all but purrs as she lightly traces one dark purple fingernail across the back of my hand. She’s dripping sensuality now, wearing her sex appeal like Perrault’s wolf wears its teeth and claws. “In this town, it’s not bodyguards that keep you safe.”

  Her fingertip is gliding over the inside of my wrist now, stroking back and forth in a rhythm that takes my dick from semi-aroused to fully hard in seconds. Then again, maybe that’s the way she’s looking at me, eyes hooded, lips wet and parted, cheeks just a little bit flushed.

  “So, what does?” I have to clear my throat twice before I can get the question out.

  It’s her turn to lift a brow. “I would think that was obvious.” Then she’s sucking her lower lip between her teeth, biting down oh-so gently. Her breath hitches just a little and—fuck—so does mine, though I know exactly what she’s doing. Turns out being forewarned doesn’t always mean forearmed. “I keep myself safe.”

  “Touché.” I make a concerted effort to keep my voice—and my hand—steady, even as desire pure, unadulterated lust sweeps through me. I ignore it, concentrating instead on the list of questions that I have memorized. “Before we were sidetracked, we were talking about your tenden
cy toward improvisation—”

  “But you already got your question,” she tells me, cutting me off. “Several questions, in fact. Now it’s my turn.”

  I could push, considering she’s given me a non-answer to pretty much everything I’ve asked her so far. But she’s not the only one who knows how to play games at this table. “Ask away,” I answer, smiling broadly. “I’m an open book.”

  “Why do people always say that like it’s a good thing?” she asks, and if possible, her voice is even huskier—even sexier—than it was just a few minutes ago. “An open book only shows you two random pages in the middle of the action. How is that supposed to tell you everything you want to know?”

  “I guess that depends on the pages, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps it does at that.” She looks me over, her eyes lingering on my mouth, my chest, my hands. “What two pages are you going to use to portray me?”

  “Whichever two you show me.”

  She smiles at that and this time it is the man-slayer she’s so famous for. Her hand is at her throat, her fingers deliberately toying with the amethyst pendant that rests just between her breasts.

  “That is exactly what I hoped you’d say.”

  I try to ignore the sudden sensation of bite marks on my ass, but it’s not easy. Especially when it hits me that I’ve just lost the first battle of whatever game we’re playing.

  Chapter 2

  There’s a knock on the door, followed by a young, female voice calling, “We’re ready anytime you are, Ms. Romero.”

  “Thanks, Juliet,” I call back, hoping that I get her name right. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Take your time,” she answers after a brief hesitation that tells me no, I did not get her name right. Damn. There are so many photo shoots in my life, so many eager, young assistants waiting for their big break, that I have trouble keeping track of all the names.

  Faces, I remember forever. But names…names are harder. Most days I’m lucky if I remember my own. Then again, if I don’t, there’s always someone around to remind me.

  Still, I’ll have to ask somebody else what her name is and make a point of apologizing. No one deserves to feel like their identity doesn’t matter. Especially in this business where there’s always someone waiting around to remind you of just how unimportant who you are really is.

  I go to put my tablet in my bag, and as I do I catch a glimpse of myself in the huge, full-length mirror that takes up nearly one whole wall of this room nobody ever uses. I freeze for a second—for several seconds—then bend over slightly and brace my hands on my thighs as I try desperately to catch my breath.

  Try desperately to fight back this latest iteration of the panic attacks that are becoming more and more common.

  Breathe in through the nose, I tell myself a little frantically. Hold it for seven counts then out through the mouth.

  In through the nose, hold for seven, out through the mouth.

  I do this several times, all with my eyes closed. All with my brain focused on the words, on the actions, on anything and everything but what set the attack off in the first place.

  It’s enough to have my hands stop shaking and my heartbeat slowing down. Thank God. The last thing I need is anyone on the shoot gossiping about how Veronica Romero is losing it. My agent would kill me—even if it were true. Most particularly, if it were true. I’m not allowed to do that in public. Not allowed to do anything in public, really, except smile and sign autographs.

  Oh, and fuck. Cole would totally love it if I got caught fucking in public. It would play right into the reputation he’s worked so hard to build for me. The reputation the public so loves to pull out and oh-so-carefully examine.

  When I can finally breathe normally again, I open my eyes. Stand up straight. And find myself once again staring straight into the ice-cold eyes of the Belladonna.

  This time, I don’t panic. Instead, I slip my feet into the five-inch designer heels that are standing at attention a few inches from my chair. Heels that not-Juliet had brought in to me a little while ago, claiming the stylist wanted me to wear them with the red 1950s Chanel suit he currently has me in.

  As I do, I try not to notice how they’re half a size too small. Or how they pinch my toes and rub painfully against my heels.

  It’s just for a little while, I remind myself. I can wear the shoes, wear the suit, keep the smile on for that long.

  And still, even with the pain shooting through me, I take small, mincing steps toward the mirror. Once I’m in front of it, I study my reflection from every angle. Turning to the right, the left, even facing away from the mirror and then glancing back over my shoulder. I study this version of Veronica Romero, this version of me. No, not me. The Belladonna.

  Sergio, the stylist, has done such a good job preparing me for this Vanity Fair vintage shoot that even I can’t tell where I leave off and she begins.

  The panic starts to come back, but this time I’m ready for it and I tamp it down. Ruthlessly.

  Then I reach out to the mirror, to the woman who is and isn’t me. I trace the elaborate pinned-up curls. The red, red lips. The double strand of pearls.

  And wonder how beauty can be so cold. And evil so perfect.

  It’s the role of a lifetime. No one can argue with that—certainly not me, considering I would have done anything to land this role. Would have, I think, even sold my soul for the chance to play the woman whose name over the last decade had become synonymous with revenge, a woman scorned, a high-profile murder.

  It seems crazy to look back on it now, four months after filming has wrapped. Crazy to think about how badly I had wanted the Belladonna, from the moment I heard they were making a movie from Ian’s first book.

  I sent Cole to Universal before the ink was even dry on the contracts—before there was a screenplay or a director or even a guaranteed green light for the project. Read Ian’s book cover to cover at least a dozen times. Scoured the Internet for everything I could find about the Belladonna. About her husband and his mistress. About who she was and what she’d (allegedly) done.

  That’s how much I’d wanted it.

  It really was too bad that before it was all over, I’d come to hate the role more than I’d ever wanted it. To fear it—to fear her—even more.

  My whole career, I’ve immersed myself in the characters I portray. I burrow under their skin, play around inside of them, try to figure out what makes them tick so I can understand them. So that I can become them.

  FBI agent.

  Ingénue.

  Superhero.

  Car thief.

  Princess.

  Corrupt politician.

  Whore.

  I’ve been them all.

  How could I have known that this was the role that would burrow back? The one that would get under my skin, that would play around inside of me and leave me with nothing but nightmares and cold sweats and a feeling of dirtiness I couldn’t wash off for weeks. Months.

  When we’d wrapped filming, when I’d taken off the last gorgeous 1950s-era costume and pulled out the last of the pinned-up curls, I’d sworn that that was it. Sworn that I would never be her again.

  And yet, here I am. All dressed up with nowhere to go but crazy.

  Another knock sounds at the door and this time not-Juliet calls, “Is everything okay, Ms. Romero? Can I get you something?”

  How about an evacuation plan?

  The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back like I do so many other things. Funny, isn’t it, how being famous takes away your voice instead of giving you one? How it makes you mute just as it gives you a gigantic platform to scream from…

  “Actually, I am just about ready,” I say, striding to the door with shoulders squared and my best smile. As I open it and see not-Juliet’s face, her name suddenly comes back to me. Thank God.

  “Thanks so much for all your help today, Jules,” I tell her, pulling her in for a quick one-armed hug. “And I’m sorry about t
he name confusion earlier. This diet I’m on has me off coffee and I swear the no-caffeine thing has addled my brain.”

  “Oh, no problem at all, Ms. Romero.” But she’s grinning hugely, a sure sign that my apology makes her feel a little less erased. I’m glad, because this town does enough of that for the both of us. “I can’t imagine going without my daily espresso.”

  “That’s because you’re gorgeous and you don’t have to. For the rest of us mere mortals—” I give an exaggerated shudder. “It’s terrible.”

  She’s laughing full-out now. “Somehow, I think you manage all right, Ms. Romero.”

  “Call me Veronica. Please.” I give her another quick hug, then turn toward the front parlor, where the photographer, Marc Benneton, has his cameras set up.

  Originally, Vanity Fair had wanted Annie Leibovitz for this shoot, but I’d talked them out of it. Annie’s shot me twice before and while the images were astonishing in their lush beauty, I wanted something different—something grittier—for this photo shoot. Something that would contrast with the Belladonna’s beautifully coiffed perfection. Thankfully, the editors had agreed with my vision.

  As I walk toward the first location for the shoot, I stop every few steps to introduce myself to a member of the crew and thank them for being here. From the surprised looks on their faces as I do, I get the impression that they aren’t used to that happening.

  Sometimes I really hate this town and every power player in it.

  Once I’m in my mother’s front parlor—as I’ll always think of it, even though this house and everything in it has been mine for several years now—Marc wastes no time in directing me to where he wants me. In this case, it’s the long, white French Provincial fainting couch my mother picked up in Paris on one of her many whirlwind European shopping trips. I perch on the edge of it, legs crossed and hands clasped in my lap.

  Someone rolls in a tea cart with a full service on it and I spend a few minutes dropping sugar cubes in a cup and pouring tea from a gorgeous Royal Copenhagen pot. I pose like the perfect lady I’m not and never will be, looking demure and ladylike and oh-so-precious. At least until Marc shoves his hands in my perfectly coiffed hair and spreads me backward on the divan, with my skirt hiked up, my legs splayed and my hair hanging off the end of the couch, the ends trailing on the floor.