Harlequin Desire February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: The King Next DoorMarriage With BenefitsA Real Cowboy (Kings of California)

by Maureen Child

  The club pulsed with a bass beat timed to strobe lights. Men and women made out with women and men everywhere, which was unnerving enough, but plenty of them were breaking their embraces to stare at him. Once, this had been his life. Hit a club, get smashed, pick up a chick, have forgettable sex. He looked back at the people staring at him. Once, he’d been one of them. Not anymore.

  “Whoa, cowboy. Name?” The beefy bouncer held him back with a hand on his chest. Already on edge, it took a lot of work to keep from snapping the man’s fingers.

  “He’s on the list, Trevor.” Thalia turned back and scrolled down the man’s tablet—clipboards had gone out of fashion, apparently. “There. Bradley.”

  At least the bouncer uniform hadn’t changed much—black pants, black T-shirt. Trevor gave J.R. the once-over, clearly amused by the crocodile-skin boots, the Stetson and the bolo tie. “Enjoy the party, Mr. Bradley.”

  Fat chance that would happen, but Thalia gave him an encouraging smile before she began to climb the stairs again.

  He wished he could hold her hand, but even he had seen the folly of public displays of affection in front of Levinson and associates. For all intents and purposes, he and Thalia were business acquaintances and nothing more.

  That became a problem, at least for him, as they reached the private party on the second floor. Women—and men—greeted Thalia with kisses on the cheeks, and J.R. felt himself getting the kind of jealous that only led to trouble. He knew the rituals but it still bugged him to watch other men touch her. She was his, as much as he was hers.

  It got worse. Everyone knew he was here, but no one knew who he was. He swore he heard whispers over the grinding music. Maybe he should have worn all black and shaved the beard. He wouldn’t have looked like himself, but he would have been almost invisible here.

  “Who’s this tall drink of water?” a woman J.R. didn’t recognize said. She was all but licking her chops as her gaze swept over him like a hungry cat.

  “Kathryn, this is James Robert Bradley.”

  J.R. knew she was going to do that—they’d game-planned out how to handle the party and the people. But it still felt almost like a physical blow below the solar plexus. Damn near knocked the wind out of him.

  “The James Robert Bradley?”

  That was part of the script he and Thalia had discussed. At this point, he was loving the script. “One and the same, ma’am.” And he tipped his hat, mostly to keep her from kissing him.

  Kathryn whoever’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God, the James Robert Bradley? I thought you were dead!”

  “Nope. Just ranching.” He wasn’t going to mention the state. Thalia had agreed that the less identifying information he gave out, the better everything would be.

  “You,” this Kathryn said, her eyes narrowing as a manicured nail flicked in his direction, “were supposed to give me my Oscar, and you bailed. They had to get Tom to give it to me. I’ve never forgiven you for that.”

  Oh, hell. He should know who this Kathryn was. Luckily, Thalia came to his rescue. “Excuse us, I see Bob,” she said with a gracious smile before she took him by the elbow and led him away. “Great job,” she added in a low voice. “Only another two hundred to go.”

  He tried to laugh, but it got stuck in his throat. “I could go for a beer right now.”

  “They might have one at the bar.” She angled him in a different direction.

  “Might?” He glanced around. Everyone else had martini glasses with fruity drinks. No one was drinking a simple beer. Man, he was out of his league here.

  Getting to the bar took some time. Word of his continual living spread like wildfire and a crowd started to form. Young guys started telling him how he had been such an inspiration, older women looked at him like hungry dogs staring at a bone, and a few men—men he’d known and partied with—slapped him on the back and told him he had on “a hell of a hat for Hollywood.”

  “Where have you been?” That question came from Eli Granger, who J.R. remembered as a young punk actor bent on self-destruction but now, according to Thalia, was a respectable agent.

  “Not here.”

  Eli snorted as he sipped his Cristal. “Was ‘not here’ good, man?”

  “‘Not here’ was great,” he admitted, casting a glance at Thalia. He couldn’t tell in this crappy light, but she might have blushed. J.R. wondered how far down that blush went if she didn’t have on anything underneath the dress.

  Eli slapped him on the back. “I’m almost jealous.” His self-confident mask fell away, and J.R. saw a guy who was tired of running a race he was never going to win. J.R. recognized that look. He’d been tired once. It had almost killed him.

  “You should come visit ‘not here’ sometime. It’s normal there, if you like cows.” He couldn’t believe he was extending the offer to a man who was more or less a complete stranger, but once, he and Eli had been whatever passed as friends in this place.

  “Thanks, but I don’t eat red meat.” As quick as his mask had fallen off, Eli was back to sipping his expensive champagne and looking cynical.

  And so it went. Thalia got J.R. some brand of beer he’d never heard of from the bar, but hey, it was a beer and he drank it. Slowly. The four-beer limit was in effect here, too. She stayed close to him, guiding introductions and extracting him from conversations that started to spiral out of control, which happened a lot. Half the people in the room were either drunk or high. Or both.

  J.R. was able to relax enough to appreciate her skills. She knew every single person by name and had a compliment at the ready at all times without giving anything away. She flattered egos and said the right thing about projects finished or coming soon. She was good at what she did, he saw. A realization that was followed by a tinge of disappointment. She fit well here. She wouldn’t want to give this up to come live with an occasionally cranky rancher in the middle of nowhere.

  He shoved those thoughts aside and focused on surviving the evening. After what felt like several hours of meeting and greeting, they made their way back to where Bob Levinson was holding court.

  He was shorter than J.R. remembered, with a barrel chest contained by a three-piece suit. Once, J.R. remembered Levinson had been passably handsome. No more. One too many face-lifts or Botox or whatever people did to themselves here had left Levinson looking like a clownish version of himself. His hair hadn’t changed, though—shoe-polish black and slicked into an embarrassment of a ponytail. A watch chain hung out of his vest pocket, and his cuff links appeared to be gemstones. As if he needed further accessorizing, he sat in a booth with four different women wearing blond hair and spandex dresses. He looked like a pimp for the mutual fund set.

  Thalia started to introduce J.R., but Levinson cut her off. “Well, well. Look who’s back.” Levinson’s voice hadn’t aged well. He’d always had a weak spot for cigars and cocaine, which meant he both sounded and smelled old.

  “Bob,” Thalia said, apparently determined to press on. “You remember James.”

  The ladies around Levinson shifted as they appraised him. He didn’t tip his hat, but he nodded in greeting. One of them waggled her fingers at him.

  Levinson sat there, looking at him with a greedy little smile on his face. J.R. knew that look. That was the look that said J.R. wasn’t a man standing here. He was a commodity to be bought and sold.

  Damn, but he hated that feeling.

  “Ladies.” Levinson shooed them all out of the booth, then he looked at Thalia. “You, too.”

  J.R. looked at Thalia, who was about to crack that smile right off her face. She didn’t like this; he didn’t like it. But Levinson was the one calling the shots. “I’ll get you another beer,” she said before she stiffly turned and walked away.

  This wasn’t part of the script.

  “Sit down.” Levinson clearly hadn’t gotten any mor
e into the habit of social graces in the interim.

  “I’ll stand.” That was the nice thing about not caring about the part or his career or what anyone else—besides Thalia—thought of him. He could do whatever he wanted, and more than anything, he didn’t want to take orders from this slimy man.

  Levinson’s oily smile faded a little. He looked like a barracuda ready to strike. “Damn shame about your mother. She was a wonderful woman.”

  They both knew that was a bald-faced lie. J.R. knew he hadn’t forgotten what condescending compliments were like, but he hadn’t exactly remembered how freaking irritating it was. “You let me know when you’re done with the B.S.”

  Levinson didn’t miss a beat. “This is going to be a big winner, James. Another Oscar for your collection.” He looked J.R. up and down with a calculating eye. “Hell, think of the money we’ll save on wardrobe alone.” He leaned forward and snorted a line of coke off the tabletop.

  Ugh, J.R. thought. Once upon a time, he might have done the same to feel like he belonged. Not anymore. He stood his ground, waiting for the B.S. to be over.

  It wasn’t. “She’s something, isn’t she?” The way he said it set the hackles up on J.R.’s neck.

  “Who?” He knew who, but he was praying that Levinson was talking about one of the bimbos.

  Levinson leaned back, clearly lost in the rush of his high. “She said she’d find you, and she said she’d bring you back—signed, sealed and delivered. What did it take?” He grinned, an ugly, leering thing that seemed three sizes too big for his small head. “Did she make it worth your while?”

  The suggestion was anything but subtle. J.R. felt his temper beginning to flare, but he fought to keep it cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Except he did. Once, he’d accused Thalia of doing just that, and she’d properly slapped him for it. Now that he knew her, he knew she wouldn’t use sex to trap him.

  “Oh, she’s amazing.” Even though J.R. could tell by the look on Levinson’s face that he was intentionally trying to get a reaction out of him, it was still working. It was all J.R. could do to keep his fist clenched as Levinson went on, “Damn shame her acting career died on the vine. She had potential. Of course, after my wife found out about us, well...” He shrugged, looking anything but apologetic. “You know Miranda and her unique talent to make things difficult.”

  Something in J.R.’s brain misfired, so he tried to turn his mental engine over what Levinson had said a second time. Had he said that he and Thalia had been an “us”? Had she seriously had an affair with this slimebag? Why hadn’t Thalia told him—at least to warn him? They’d scripted out the entire evening—and she hadn’t bothered to mention this as a conversational death trap? And if she hadn’t told him something important, like the fact that she’d been intimate with this—this—man, what else wasn’t she telling him? What else was a lie?

  “How is your wife?” This last gasp at civility was all he had to hold on to before he broke something. Or someone.

  Levinson waved off the comment. “Left me for a younger man. Good riddance.” His eyes narrowed as he wiped a thin trail of cocaine-snot off his nose. “Or did you not have her? She told me she’d do whatever it took to get you here, and,” he said, sweeping his hands across the booth, “here you are.”

  If J.R. were in Montana instead of California, he’d have already broken Levinson’s nose. And maybe a few other bones. “I haven’t signed anything yet.” Then, because he was losing the last of his self-control, he added, “I was waiting to see if I could stomach working with you again. You couldn’t pay me enough money in the world to have another conversation with you, much less do a movie. You can take your Oscars and shove them where the sun don’t shine.”

  Three things happened in quick succession. One, a hush fell over the club. Even the DJ paused the pounding beat, and J.R. got the sense that everyone—everyone—was listening to him do the unprecedented and say no to Bob Levinson. The second thing was that anything jovial or, heaven forbid, cheerful about Levinson stopped cold, and J.R. found himself looking at an ugly old man.

  The third thing was that Thalia chose that moment to reenter the conversation. The room was so quiet that he heard the click of her impressive heels as she walked up to him, a beer in one hand and a cocktail in the other.

  J.R. didn’t want to look at her. He didn’t want to see the face of the woman he thought he could trust and know that he’d been wrong. She’d slept with Levinson—he couldn’t get his head around that, and he couldn’t get past Levinson’s claim that Thalia would do anything—everything—to sign him.

  Did that include making him fall in love with her?

  Had he ever been a bigger idiot? Had he thought that she’d been different, that she’d actually cared about him? Or had it all been about the movie, the money?

  Had it all been an act?

  “You said you had him signed, sealed and delivered,” Levinson said to Thalia. He could have cut glass with his voice.

  This was the true soul of the man, the one who killed careers and destroyed people because it was easy and fun. This man was the living embodiment of why J.R. had left Hollywood in the first place. He never should have come back. Not even for a woman.

  Not even for Thalia.

  “I said that—”

  Levinson cut her off. “There are no excuses. This is what I get for taking pity on a brainless whore like you. You make promises you can’t keep.” He snorted, his eyes glittering with the kill. “Mark my words, you couldn’t screw enough people to get another job in this town. No one wants to work with a failure.”

  J.R. wasn’t sure what happened next. Either he flipped over the table and then Thalia dropped both of the drinks, or she dropped the drinks as he flipped over the table. Didn’t matter so much in the long run. The drinks were dropped and the table flipped, catching Levinson in the chin.

  J.R. was so mad he couldn’t think straight. He grabbed at Levinson with nothing but blood on his mind. Someone screamed. He got Levinson by the prissy tie, but before any satisfying punching could take place, hands were on him and he was being hauled backward.

  “Damn, man,” someone said, and J.R. realized it was Eli. “Knock it off!”

  J.R. ignored him and focused on getting his arms free. He could still land a good blow, if he could just get back to that tapeworm of a man.

  The next thing he knew, he was picked up and was bodily hauled down the stairs. When he realized that each appendage had at least one guy holding on to it, he knew his chance to kill Levinson with his bare hands had passed. The club was now entirely silent, and as he was dragged out the door, he saw a whole bunch of people holding up phones.

  He was in big-time trouble, and he knew it. The anger bailed on him as fast as it had rushed in, and was replaced by a sinking pit in his stomach. This was way worse than being kicked out of Denny’s bar for a few months. This was probably going to screw up the rest of his life.

  His vision cleared enough to see that a beautiful woman in a striking red dress was following him at a distance. She wasn’t crying, nor was she screaming or even shouting. She looked like someone had gut-shot her.

  “Put me down,” he demanded, although he couldn’t tell if he wanted to comfort Thalia or lash out at her.

  “Not happening, cowboy.” In the next moment, they were out the doors, and J.R. felt himself breathe in air that only reeked a little. Then he was unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk.

  A crowd had gathered by this point. More phones, plus some old-fashioned flashbulbs, were now going off. Eli was still by him, and Thalia wasn’t far away.

  She told you not to come, the one rational brain cell left in his head whispered to him. But J.R. was in no mood for rational. He shoved that thought aside. Hard.

  Eli was talking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that old fart look as s
cared, man!” He thwacked J.R. on the back. “Half of this town has dreamed of getting the old man on the chin, but no one else has had the balls!”

  “Move.” Thalia made it to them. “Walk.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. You lied to me.”

  “Not here,” she whispered, but it was too late. People were crowding in on them, and the name James Robert Bradley rode lead on the wind.

  The situation kept getting worse. J.R. knew he was spiraling out of control, but he was powerless to stop it. He hated the feeling of being unable to control himself, his life. But that was where he was at. Out of control. “You slept with him?”

  “Not here,” she said again. He heard the plea in her voice, but he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  “Yo, man, we gotta get you off the street.” Eli had him under the arm and was hauling him somewhere. “Everyone’s watching.”

  “His stuff is at my place,” Thalia said, her voice breaking.

  He heard the hurt, but he didn’t want to care. Caring about her had recently become a painful thing. Too painful. He couldn’t take it. He didn’t want to feel anymore. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You lied to me,” he said again.

  “J.R., please—can we talk about this anywhere else but here?” A tear spilled over, but he had no way of knowing if it was real or just another act.

  “I’ll follow you to your place,” Eli said, shoving J.R. toward an expensive-looking car.

  “No.” He stood up and shook Eli off. “No.”

  Another tear raced down her cheek. It wasn’t working. He wasn’t letting her make him feel guilty. He wasn’t going to feel a damn thing for her, even if it killed him.

  “Please, J.R. All your things.”

  He stood up straight and glared at her. He’d let himself get used, and for what? He’d destroyed everything he’d worked for, everything he’d built, because he thought he’d fallen for a woman.