Grabbing her heavy duffel, she trudged up four flights of steps and unlocked the array of locks on her apartment’s battered door.
No cat greeted her. “Pie?” she called, dropping the bag. Her gray rescue cat was elderly and had a myriad of health issues, so Allie worried about her. As she jogged down the hall to the living room, she heard voices and realized the television was on.
She came to an abrupt halt as an unsettling cocktail of fear and fury boiled through her. Pie had not met her at the door because the cat was curled up on Allie’s ex-husband’s lap.
“How did you get in here? You said you gave me all your keys.”
Troy had the grace to look shamefaced as he hit the “Mute” button for the television. “I found another copy I’d made when I thought I’d lost the original.”
“Do you understand what a restraining order is? You could go to jail for being here.”
Troy set Pie on the couch and stood up, his expression beseeching. “We both know that was just because I was drunk. I’m cold sober now. And I never hit you or anything like that.”
“No, but you came to my workplace twice, harassed the patients twice, and lost me my job. And you were drunk.” Allie was torn between throwing something at the gorgeous, self-centered face that she’d adored since freshman year in high school or turning on her heel and fleeing. “Leave now. Or I’ll call the police.”
But she wouldn’t call 9-1-1. She still couldn’t do that to him. It was true that he had never been physically violent, just verbally abusive. Which, in some ways, was more insidious. If he’d struck her, she would have left him a lot sooner.
“Allie, sweetie, I just wanted to share my good news with you.”
“Unless it involves winning the lottery and splitting the jackpot with me, I don’t want to hear it.” She folded her arms and jerked her head toward the door. She didn’t want him to know that her throat had gone tight with nerves. He was an expert at exploiting any weakness in her.
Evidently, the news was too good for her to ruin his sunny mood, because he smiled and walked around the coffee table. “I sort of won the lottery. I got a gig on a soap opera. Just a minor character, but I’ve been promised three episodes. And maybe more, if viewers respond to me.” His deep blue eyes lit up. “This is the break I’ve been waiting for.”
“That’s great.” The flatness of her voice contradicted her words. She’d heard this song and dance before.
He took her by the shoulders and smiled down at her, a curl of his streaked blond hair falling onto his forehead. A little tug of memory reminded her that she used to love brushing that curl back. Now she wanted to grab a pair of scissors and chop it off. “This isn’t an audition,” he said. “I have a signed contract.”
She shrugged out of his grip. “Congratulations. Best of luck.” She hated to be this way, but she’d learned that she had to protect herself from trusting her ex.
“The show films in LA, so I’m moving there.”
“Now that is good news.” Hurt clouded his eyes, and guilt gave Allie an undeserved jab, even as relief loosened the tension in her throat. “You’ve always wanted to live on the West Coast.”
“I’ll miss you,” he said, his voice ringing with sincerity and longing.
She believed him. He still didn’t take responsibility for all the ways he’d hurt her, so he didn’t understand that more than their marriage had ended. All the love she’d felt for him in the dozen years since he’d asked her out on their first date had been ripped out of her heart, leaving raw, painful wounds.
She moved a step away. “I wish I could say the same. But you have my blessing to go, if that’s what you came for.”
“I thought you’d be happy for me. We could celebrate together. I brought a bottle of champagne.” Now he was starting to get annoyed. “It’s in the refrigerator, chilling.”
“Seriously?” Astonishment gave a weird, breathless edge to her voice. “I’m supposed to celebrate with you when I have a restraining order against you?”
It was a vivid reminder of how he used to manipulate her, denying the awful things he’d said to her, shifting the blame for his problems onto her. She’d loved him, so she had believed it was somehow her fault and her obligation. Until he’d pushed it too far, and she’d found the strength to stand up to him.
“But we were married. You wanted me to do good.” When his grammar slipped, she knew he was upset.
She put a chair between them. “I don’t wish you ill, Troy, but I’m not going to celebrate with you ever again. Go to LA. Have a great life.”
“I . . . you . . .” He ran one hand through his tousled curls before he took a deep breath and pinned her with his gaze. “Is this really how you want me to remember you?”
His words took her back to the two naive kids they were when they got married and braved the callous streets of New York City. Troy was so beautiful and talented. He was going to be a star on Broadway. But his ambition was shared by thousands of other more beautiful, more talented actors. Audition after audition had passed without Troy landing a role.
Disappointment had given his beauty a ragged edge, which made it more interesting in some ways. But his ego had proven too fragile to survive the relentless rejections, and he’d taken it out on her, especially when he tried to blunt his failure with alcohol.
Those were the memories she wished she could erase.
“I don’t want you to remember me at all,” she said. “Start with a clean slate.” Maybe if he was gone, she could do the same.
“I thought you loved me.”
“I’m not going through this again.” Upset to find herself shaking, she walked into the kitchen and wrenched open the refrigerator door. She stood there for a moment, hoping the cold air wafting out would cool her rioting emotions. Picking up the champagne, she noticed it was an expensive brand. So typical of Troy to spend money he didn’t have.
Returning to the living room, she held out the bottle, her hand steady by sheer force of will. “Take it to LA. Celebrate your first television gig there.”
He jerked the champagne out of her hand. “You used to be a nicer person.”
No, she used to be a doormat, trying to soothe his mood by letting him hurl ugly words at her. She’d thought that’s what a loving wife did, but Troy kept escalating the emotional abuse until she’d nearly lost all sense of herself as a person. Thank goodness, she’d found the gumption to file for divorce before she disappeared altogether.
Allie sucked in a deep breath. “Let’s just say good-bye like civilized people.” She held out her hand, but he stepped back, his face a mask of anger.
“Civilized people cheer each other’s successes.” He spun around and headed for the door.
“Troy! I want my key back.” She turned her palm up. She couldn’t afford to change the locks.
He rummaged in his pocket and pulled the key out, throwing it on the braided rug at her feet. “I’ll never set foot in this place again.” He stalked into the hallway.
“Nice exit line,” she called out just before the door slammed.
She raced to the door to throw the dead bolt. Tottering back into the living room, she sank onto the couch, shivering with anger and regret. The regret was for the memory of the two foolhardy kids who had said “I do” before they knew each other—or themselves—well enough to handle the pressures of failure together.
As she stared at the cracked plaster ceiling, she felt the weight of soft cat paws on her lap. “Did you come to comfort me?” she asked, stroking Pie’s satiny fur. The little cat’s purr calmed her jangling nerves. “I wish I could have just hidden under the bed like you when Troy was in one of his moods.”
Now she regretted giving her ex the champagne. Even though it was before noon, she could use a drink. After all, she had no place to go today.
Or tomorrow.
Damn Gavin Miller for refusing her help, especially when she could see that he needed it. And she needed the money.
�
��But he’s really hot, Pie. Which would be kind of a problem.”
She’d worked with actors, models, and athletes before without ever feeling a moment’s attraction. Why would she feel this tingle of awareness around the writer?
“Maybe it’s because I’m a divorced woman now. Gavin Miller is my rebound.” The idea of the rich, powerful author as a short-term fling made her smile.
She gave the purring cat a few soft strokes before lifting her off her lap. “Okay, Miss Pie, it’s time for me to send out more résumés.”
Chapter 5
Morning sun seeped through the blinds to paint stripes of light and shadow on Gavin’s blue comforter. He groaned and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Another night of tossing and turning. He gingerly rolled his head from side to side. Then he did it again.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, tilting his head to various different angles. “The stampeding ants worked.” The decrease in pain sent relief flooding through him.
He needed to get Allie Nichols and her machine back to keep the magic going.
Swiping the cell phone off his bedside table, he hit speed dial for his agent. “Jane, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You get to say, ‘I told you so.’”
She snapped out a short laugh. “I’d gloat, but I’m not sure which piece of my excellent advice you’ve decided to take.”
“The physical therapist. I attempted to throw her out, but she convinced me to try some electrical gizmo. This morning I can move my neck again.”
Jane sighed. “So you’re not going to buy out the contract.”
“No.” Gavin was definitive. “But I want the physical therapist to come back.”
“I hired her for five sessions this week.”
“Yeah, but I fired her.” Gavin allowed himself to smirk as he said, “However, I told her you’d pay her anyway.”
“So that was my punishment for presuming to know what’s good for you when you don’t.”
“I need her phone number.”
“I’ll text it to you. And now here comes payback . . . I told you so.”
He knew Jane was putting every ounce of smug satisfaction she could into her last four words. “You enjoyed that entirely too much.”
“I deserved to.” Her tone turned serious. “I’m glad you’re letting someone help you.”
“My plan is to buy one of those machines and get her to show me how to do it myself.”
“Now you’re just jerking my chain.”
“One of the many gold ones you own,” Gavin said, but he felt surprisingly buoyant at the thought of another session with the red-haired PT.
Allie practically danced up the steps to Gavin Miller’s front door, barely feeling the weight of her loaded duffel bag. She’d thrown in every therapy aid she thought might tempt the writer to sign on for more sessions.
She just had to keep her unprofessional reactions under control.
Ringing the bell, she waited for the housekeeper to open the door. The paneled mahogany swung inward to reveal Gavin Miller himself framed in the doorway, his dark hair neatly combed, his powerful shoulders outlined by charcoal wool, and his legs looking long and muscular in worn black denim. “Ms. Nichols, come into my parlor.”
He reached for her bag, but she swung it behind her legs. “No chivalry yet,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow but gestured her inside.
“Thank you for reconsidering,” she said, following him into the spacious entrance hall, her rubber soles squeaking on the deep green marble floor. The lowering February clouds had spit needles of frigid rain as she walked from the subway, so her shoes were wet. But the nasty weather couldn’t dampen her mood after she’d gotten Miller’s phone call requesting her return.
“I can tell by the bulges in your bag that you’re expecting to use all kinds of implements of torture on me.” He held out his hand for the puffy blue coat she’d shrugged out of. “But I want you to use only your magical machine.”
The teasing gleam in his eyes robbed his words of offense, but she heard the underlying truth of his intentions. However, she’d changed his mind about the stim. She could change his mind about her other methods, too.
“No torture, I promise,” she said. “But we might want to combine some different elements to make the stim even more effective.”
He gave her a wary look. “You remind me of my agent. And that’s not a compliment.”
“Ms. Dreyer has been nothing but courteous to me.”
“Don’t be fooled. Jane is an apex predator.”
Miller started toward the parlor.
Allie stayed where she was, her grip tight on her duffel’s handles. “Mr. Miller, I’d like to work where you could lie down and be more comfortable. Ms. Dreyer said you have a fully equipped gym with a massage table.”
He halted. “There are probably giant cobwebs hanging from the treadmill. No, I shouldn’t insult Ludmilla that way. I’m sure she’s kept the gym spotless, despite its disuse. By all means, let’s descend into the dungeon.” He waved her down the hallway. “And since you’re going to be sticking electrical wires to my bare skin, I think you should call me Gavin.”
Bad idea. She needed the distance of formality.
As it was, she could feel his presence behind her, sending tingles up and down her back. His long stride brought him up beside her, so now a sideways glance caught the way the light picked out auburn glints in his dark hair. And threw shadows below his sharp cheekbones.
Allie turned her gaze resolutely forward just as Gavin swung open a door set in the paneling. Pewter wall sconces flashed on without human intervention, illuminating a set of gray-carpeted stairs leading downward.
“The torture chamber awaits,” Gavin said, indicating that she should precede him.
As she hit the bottom step, Allie let out a gasp of delight. She spotted a high-end massage table in one corner. Mirrors covered two walls, while a third held a rack of polished stainless steel and black rubber free weights. Various exercise machines were arrayed around the spacious room. She stepped onto the gym floor and bounced to savor the elasticity of the thick rubber floor covering.
“There’s a resistance pool through there.” Gavin pointed to a brushed metal door.
“Is it heated?” He could exercise in the pool, using the heat to loosen up the muscles.
“I see you’re getting ideas that go well beyond electric current.” He seemed amused rather than annoyed. “The temperature is adjustable, so I can do a polar bear plunge or steam in a hot tub. Or use the sauna.”
Allie took in the amount and quality of the equipment and shook her head. This gym cost more than she could make in twenty years. “Let’s get started. Come over to the massage table, and I’ll set up the stim unit. I brought a bigger one this time so it can cover more muscles and run longer.”
She’d bought the high-end stim unit with her first bonus check from Havilland. Troy had wanted to blow it on dinner at an ultra-posh restaurant, but she had reined him in. Instead, they went to a great Italian place in SoHo and got sloshed on red wine. Which left enough bonus to start stocking her duffel bag.
“How long can you use it?” He watched her lift the bag onto the table and unzip it.
“A couple of hours, but we’ll start with thirty minutes and see how you feel.” A flush climbed her cheeks as she said, “I thought we might try some massage, too.”
She shouldn’t be blushing over that. It was her job. She was a trained professional.
“I won’t raise any objections to that.” Gavin gave her a wicked smile, which fanned the heat in her face higher. “Maybe you could even walk on my back.”
Allie snorted. “That would not help your problem.”
She felt Gavin’s attention as she set up the stim machine, plugging it into the outlet and laying out the wires and pads on a side table.
“Could a layman use one of those on himself?” he asked.
“Trying to get rid of me?” she countered.
/>
“I’m just thinking ahead. I don’t wish to monopolize your services.”
She almost snorted again. She could work here twenty-four/seven and only her cat would feel deprived. “A layman could try. It would be difficult to attach the pads to your back without help.”
“You could show Ludmilla how to do it.”
She turned to face him full-on. “On my business card I have a bunch of initials after my name because it takes some expertise to safely administer electrical stimulation.”
Surprise flashed across his face and she thought she’d gone too far. But one corner of his mouth curled up in a self-mocking smile. “Unlike writing a book, which anyone can do.”
“Not me,” she said, relaxing again. “I am firmly in the reader camp.”
“Ah, but I bet you could tell some interesting stories about your clients.”
Was he testing her? “Nope. It’s all confidential.” She fitted a cloth cover over the table’s padded top. “Why don’t you hop up here?”
He braced his hands on the edge and levered himself onto the cushion with fluid grace. “I imagine I need to remove my sweater,” he said, crossing his arms and seizing the hem before he ripped it up over his head.
Her gaze skimmed over the bare chest dusted with dark hair. His muscles were so well defined that she could have used his torso to illustrate a lesson on male anatomy. He might be avoiding the gym now, but he must have been using it regularly not too long ago. She lifted her gaze to find his longish hair mussed as though he’d just gotten out of bed. She winced inwardly at the dangerous image.
“Lie down on your stomach, please, and put your face in the headrest. Let me know if the angle is good.”
Kicking off his well-shined loafers, he spun on the table, settling himself facedown, his arms by his sides, with the ease of someone who’d done it before.
Now that he couldn’t see her, she felt less self-conscious. However, being presented with the broad, muscular—and bare—expanse of his back sent the tentacles of desire snaking through her again. She closed her eyes for a moment to reset her brain.
The VIP Doubles Down (Wager of Hearts Book 3) Page 4