Taming Hollywood’s Ultimate Playboy

by Amalie Berlin

  “I did. I have a friend in antiques, he called around and found something nice and the right length. It has a sword hidden in it.”

  “So, if we’re set upon by bandits, I can defend you.” Liam smiled at her. She might not be trying to talk him out of his plan at every turn now, or telling him that it was stupid, but their conversation definitely hadn’t diminished her surliness over the situation.

  “I think it’s more likely that if we’re set upon by bandits, they’ll be aiming to kidnap you. Ransom you for shiny baubles.”

  And she was grumpier the closer it got to the premiere.

  “Is there any way you can do the carpet prowl thing and then come back here and skip the actual movie?”

  “We’ll skip the early movie in Virginia, go strictly red carpet, then fly back to New York,” he answered quickly, then redirected her attention back to his ankle and away from worrying about tonight. “The bandage is loose enough to feel irrelevant. Think you could wrap it again before we disembark?”

  She leaned over to look out the window. “I guess there’s no flight attendant to tell me to stay buckled in until we get to the gate. So, sure.”

  She unbuckled to head for the other side of his seat. He watched her flick the tape off and then unwrap the loose dressing. “How does it look? Think you can still tape it like before?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I should or not, but if the swelling continues to abate, we’ll tape it. I’d be happier if it were also in the splint.”

  “I think my ankle feels a little better.” He changed the subject to something that he hoped would ease her. She hadn’t smiled the whole trip. Even when he’d assured her that it certainly felt better than last night.

  It made him feel better at least. Reviews had come out that morning before the flight, and those had made him feel good too. Good enough that even if his ankle was hurting, he’d make the premieres.

  The cane would help.

  Having her there would help.

  Two separate walks would not help, but it had started to look possible that his foot wouldn’t actually fall off and leave him with that bloody stump.

  Now, if he could get any clarity on the trench-coat situation...

  * * *

  Liam’s ringing phone echoed inside the back of the car sent to fetch them on the tarmac. Miles sat in the front with the driver, leaving Hailey and Dexter behind to get the luggage from the jet and catch up, and Grace all alone with the Sexiest Man Alive.

  “You just turned it on. Does it send a homing signal for people to call you when you turn it on?” she asked. As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. Her mood had to improve. How many women would kill to be Liam Carter’s red-carpet date? But every time he looked at her she felt like he was going to bring up that night. He hadn’t, thank goodness, and he’d given her no real indication that he wanted to. Every instance when something had been said that might lead into that conversation, he’d changed the subject too.

  She should relax.

  “I think so.”

  He answered the phone and began talking. Reviews. Good reviews. Or what she’d call great, at least the ones she’d seen before they’d got into the air. And she had seen no mentions of his limp. So maybe he was right. Maybe she only noticed because it was her job to notice.

  Tonight was the last night that he’d have to be on that ankle, and then tomorrow she’d get to go home, only see him at the clinic for treatment, and soon enough that would be over too. She’d get her quiet life back.

  Today it was easier to look at him. Something had transpired between them last night when he’d held her hand to his cheek and made his soft confessions.

  The king-sized bed in his hotel suite would have comfortably slept them both, without either of them ever touching one another or even realizing that they’d been sharing a bed probably, but it was a move that Grace hadn’t been able to accept.

  Even though he’d offered.

  Even though she’d slept on the couch and had got up every two hours for twenty minutes to wake him and ice his ankle.

  Staring was bad. She forced herself to look back out the window. It was safer.

  Even though she’d undressed him. Actually, the undressing was probably a big part of why she said no. Yes, he had been in his underwear in front of her, and that was similar to the outfit she’d worn at the scene of the Big Rejection. But things had been different. He was confident in his body, because... Damn. They had him shirtless in every movie for a reason, and it wasn’t to display the dramatic black tattoo wrapping around one shoulder and crawling down the arm.

  She became aware that the pitch of his voice had changed, and then began actually listening to the conversation. “Yes. I have an injury, but it’s really not that big a deal. I twisted my ankle the other day on a run. It’s...”

  He paused and listened. When she made eye contact, his scowl communicated enough: she was wrong. They cared. They cared a lot.

  “Is that your agent?” she whispered.

  He nodded, mouthed, “Conference call.”

  So it was more than his agent. He squirmed in the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. This car was much smaller than the one they’d used in LA. He could put his leg up, but he’d have to drape it across her lap.

  Which might be uncomfortable for her, but it was better than him having it down, undoing all the good work the diuretic was trying to do. She waited to catch his eye and patted her lap, and whispered, “Put it up.”

  “I have my physical therapist with me. Actually, she’s making me put my foot up right now, and she has been icing it and giving me the necessary medications since yesterday.” As he spoke, he swiveled and put his leg across her lap. “You don’t need to speak with her. I can answer your questions.”

  Why wouldn’t he want her to talk to them?

  A small argument ensued and he held the phone out, his expression grave. “Craig wants to talk to you.”

  “Is that your agent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else is it?”

  He listed several names and their importance, producer, director, blah-blah-blah.

  She took the phone and answered questions. Who was she? Where did she work? What were her qualifications? It was like going to an interview for a job you already had, but once they got through the litany of questions they topped it with, “What’s the diagnosis and prognosis for Carter’s recovery?”

  “He’s got an inversion sprain. It’s not the worst or the best one I’ve ever seen. It will heal and it’s unlikely that he’ll have much trouble with it in the future. We’ll be starting actual therapy in a couple of days, once we’re back in LA. Right now, I’m taping him and keeping him mobile.”

  * * *

  Liam didn’t watch her speaking. She sounded confident but, then, she was a pretty together person. She was also the only person, besides him, as bothered by the amount of stress he was putting the injured joint through.

  Would it be better if he could hear their questions or worse?

  “Yes. We’ll return to The Hollywood Hills Clinic and start his physical therapy in a couple of days in the pool so he can start working on motion and strengthening without the need to bear weight.

  “In three months? I doubt there will be lingering effects, but in three months, if he’s having trouble, it would be as simple as taping the ankle before he does anything that might make it roll out. There are some pre-sized tape kits that come with two to three wide, sticky strips, and, when they are placed appropriately, entirely concealable.

  “Yes. Colored and those that are a medium tan color, which would blend in with his skin tone. But I expect if you really wanted to conceal them, your effects people could do a light airbrush to... Yes. Yes. He’ll be on the carpet tonight. I’m going with
him and he’s using some support in the form of a camouflage cane.” She sighed. “No, it’s not got a camouflage pattern. It’s there to look useless but be useful.”

  “A prop,” he whispered.

  “A prop,” she dutifully repeated.

  There was another break in her answering questions directly related to him, where she listed several athletes she’d worked with and fished her phone out of her bag to thumb through it. “If it will make you feel better, I can provide references. Aside from Dr. Rothsberg, I can put in a call to former clients and have them call you if you need it.”

  Another moment and she hung the phone up and handed it to him. “You owe me. They know, they are convinced it’s no big deal, and you can use your crutch at the premiere.”

  “Cane.” He took the phone back, correcting her lest she get more ideas. She’d just told them cane, and if he showed up on crutches now, they’d need more reassurance. “Why didn’t you tell them I’m the worst patient you’ve ever had?”

  “Because you’re not. You’re just the worst one that I cared enough about to yell at.”

  * * *

  Two minutes, that’s what she’d said five minutes ago.

  Liam leaned against the wall beside the elevator, all his weight shifted to his good leg.

  This was the other thing that happened whenever he took a date to a premiere: waiting.

  Just when he was about to send Miles after her, the door to the room adjoining his opened and Grace stepped out.

  Or backed out.

  There was some jostling of material and some muttering, which dispelled any doubts about who was in the gown, if he’d had any.

  Pink? Flesh? Sparkly...silvery beige? What color was that thing?

  When the gowns had shown up two hours ago, Liam hadn’t even looked at them, just sent Tom to Grace with the garment bags and boxes of shoes.

  “Are you going to come with me, Gracie?” he called. “Or are you going to stand there muttering at your skirt for the evening?”

  She moved, shifting from the low light of her doorway into a halo of golden light from above, looking over her shoulder toward him as she did. The back was modest by most standards, bare shoulders and supple golden skin to the mid-back. Sexy. Understated.

  Her eyes found his, deep and full of contradictions. Worry. Sweetness. Promises he had no business even considering.

  Liam’s heart stopped in his chest and then launched into a fast, skittering beat.

  Gathering the front of her dress, she turned fully and let it fall, hitting him with the full effect.

  Beautiful women in glamorous gowns were like Tuesdays in Liam’s life. But he’d never seen anything like this.

  “We have to go, Miss Watson,” Miles called. Herding Liam toward his obligations was part of his job but even with his ankle aching he didn’t want to hurry her. He wanted to look at her. Far away. Close-up. All the steps in between.

  She still hadn’t smiled at him, and he wanted it. The grumpiness plaguing her had been replaced by nervousness. She’d turned her lips in and chewed at the inside. He could act the fool, say something cute and meaningless, but...that wasn’t the right kind of smile. Not amusement. Happiness. He wanted her to smile at him because being there with him made her happy, everything else aside.

  “Of course. Sorry.” She reached toward Tom, and a small flat handbag of some kind was passed to her, but as she began moving toward Liam it was a conscious effort to square the knowledge that this was Grace with the Gracie he knew.

  She’d always been the girl next door. Pretty. Wholesome. Quietly unattainable. And he’d always wished he could attain her. Even during the time that he’d done his best to put her from his mind and had got on with living, anytime he’d seen that shade of sun-kissed light brown hair he’d thought of her. Every time he’d spoken to his best friend he’d thought of her, even if just to remind himself not to ask about her. He’d told himself she’d never fit into his world...but the truth was something else entirely. He was the misshapen one here.

  But in that dress she was the best of Old Hollywood—flowing lines and glittering, silken elegance.

  Her light brown wavy tresses had been braided somehow around her head, so the blonde highlights stood out. A style she could wear to the beach or on a picnic... He could imagine her poking daisies into the woven crown. More sweetness, and at odds with the gown and the glittering jewelry, but somehow on Grace it worked. This was how Grace would fit into his world, taking the best parts from both.

  As she got closer, he felt an overwhelming desire to straighten. Stand taller. Say something to let her know, make sure she knew... If this were a movie, a writer would have given him a great line, something that would let her know just how gorgeous she was.

  “You look...” He paused, completely at a loss. Oh, was he in so much trouble...

  “Do my scars show?”

  “Scars?” The word fit nowhere in his mind right now. “What scars?”

  She held up one of her arms and turned it so that he could see the inside.

  The pain in his ankle faded as he stepped forward, tucking the cane under his arm, and reached for her elbow so he could angle her toward the light better.

  A blast of cold shot into his chest as his eyes found what she referred to. A thin puckered line led from the inside of her arm back, around her triceps.

  Suddenly, his hands were the ones shaking. It had come from a large injury of some kind, or had it been a surgery? Something big enough he should’ve damned well known. “What the hell is that from?”

  “You’re going to get makeup on your hands. I don’t want you to have tan handprints on your tux. Believe me, makeup stands out on black material about as badly as it does on white.”

  “It won’t smudge,” Tom said from behind her, interrupting Liam’s questioning.

  And she’d said scars. Not scar. “There are more?”

  “Other arm too, but the rest are covered. Dress...”

  More? He peeled his hands off her before he lost control, and took a step backward, still not using the cane but putting her outside of the reach of his hands so he didn’t shake her until she answered him.

  “What happened? What happened to give you scars?”

  “They’re from my accident.”

  “What accident?”

  The elevator doors opened with a ding and Miles interrupted them. “The car is here, Liam. If we don’t go down now, it’s going to cut into your carpet time.”

  Confusion flashed in her eyes, and behind it regret. He didn’t know about her accident. She might as well have said the words for how clearly he could read it in her expression. Another reminder of their time apart. Or was it memories of this accident when he hadn’t come to visit her as she’d recovered?

  Stepping toward him, she pulled his cane from under his arm and put it into the appropriate hand. “We’ll talk about it later. Don’t want to be late, right? We’d better go before you have to do something sensible like spend less time walking on your injured ankle.”

  A moment later the elevator whisked them downward, leaving him with too many questions to think about. But she was right. If they didn’t go now, he’d have to move faster than his ankle would appreciate. Something else to talk about at dinner.

  “Do I match you?”

  “Match?”

  He shuffled a little back so he could see her again.

  “Like complement? Does my dress complement your tux? It’s got kind of an old-fashioned cut...”

  “It’s made to look like something from the era.” He confirmed the cut of his tux, but the nervous light that had replaced the regret in her eyes made him add, “I think it does, but really anything complements a black tie.” Her nervousness redirected his teeth-gritting focus. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m
the one complementing you tonight.”

  “No,” she said, reaching up to smooth his jacket at the shoulders and down the sleeves. “That’s silly. You’re the star of the movie, which I’m looking forward to seeing.” She stopped smoothing, her hand resting on his chest where she’d fluffed the silk kerchief in his pocket. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  Fretting. Fussing. Focusing attention away from herself. Away from the scars...which he hadn’t even assured her barely showed. Later. He couldn’t bring them up again right now.

  “I’m up to it.” He’d keep her hand resting on his chest all evening, keep her there in that small space in front of him, looking up in that way that made him feel...something he didn’t want to feel. Possessive. And destructive.

  But he recognized his chance to start evening things out between them. “Even if I wasn’t up to it, I’d be up to it...just to have you on my arm tonight.”

  For a moment the worry disappeared from her eyes, a kind of wonder replacing it.

  Those were good words. Maybe not the perfect thing to say but it was close.

  He shifted her hand from his chest to his elbow as the elevator stopped and opened on the ground floor, then planted the cane and used it to lead her out.

  As they walked, she was still looking up at him, the wonder turning to shock. They passed through the lobby of red marble and dark walnut, and when they made it to the car she still looked shocked. He lifted a finger to her chin. “You’re beautiful, Grace.”

  The urge to kiss her nearly overwhelmed him. If she were his, he would’ve.

  Instead, he closed her mouth and let his hand fall to the small of her back to steer her into the car.

  Did no one ever tell this golden angel how magnificent she was?

  God help him, he was in so much trouble.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ON THE FLIGHT down to Virginia, Grace once more had Liam with his foot propped up, shoe off and a cold pack placed over those injured ligaments.