Or, hell, she thought recklessly, bending over to pick up her nightgown on her way back into the house, maybe she'd just take a lover. She'd had enough offers over the years. Just that afternoon, one of the young hotshot executives at Gavino Cosmetics had made it more than clear he was interested, if she was.
Maybe she'd take him up on it. Someone young, handsome and virile might just be able to keep her too busy to even think about Zeke Blackstone, let alone break her heart over him again.
Chapter 4
With her usual good taste, manic efficiency, and attention to detail, Zeke's secretary had apartment 1-G painted and cleaned and ready for him to move into two days after Jack and Faith Shannon moved out. She'd gone with vintage Mission furniture against a soothing color scheme of sand, sage green, and dusty sunset shades of peach and aqua that perfectly suited the building's mood and architecture. She'd turned the smaller of the two bedrooms into an efficient high-tech office with three phone lines, a fax machine, and a computer system, complete with laser printer. There was a Nordic Track in a corner of the bedroom for his morning workouts and the refrigerator was stocked with Evian, imported light beer, a selection of good-for-you snacks, and frozen low-fat gourmet meals. She'd had sturdy new locks installed on the doors and windows, supplemented by a sophisticated alarm system that was controlled by a keypad in the bedroom. Everything was rented—from the expensive designer furniture in the rooms, to the art on the walls, to colorful Fiesta ware in the kitchen, to the alarm system—and everything would be gone two days after Zeke moved out again.
And, yet, it felt lived in and familiar. Almost eerily so, Zeke thought, as if the former occupants had left little bits and pieces of themselves behind. Without even closing his eyes, Zeke could see flashes of his past in the apartment. Ethan Roberts was there, leaning negligently against a doorjamb with a beer in his hand, as smooth and suave as if he were posing for an ad in GQ; Eric and Jack Shannon were wrangling over something the way they often did that summer; and the women, dozens of them, beautiful, interchangeable and always available in that long-ago era of free love and uninhibited sex. He could see the little Russian makeup artist, Irina Markova, who'd lived on the first floor, fussing around in the kitchen as she fixed a pot of borscht or some of her special Azerbaijan pilaf so that he and his roommates "shouldn't starve" from their own cooking. And there, too, was Ariel, standing in the middle of the living room, just as she had been at eighteen. Lovely, fragile, innocent Ariel.
From the first time he'd seen her on the studio sound stage, something in her spoke to something in him. Stirred and provoked and challenged him somehow. He'd taken one look at her—America's sweetheart, the fresh-scrubbed princess of prime-time television—and immediately decided to see if he could outwit the dragon who protected her and scale the walls of her castle.
Part of it was that she'd irked him at first, a little, with her old-fashioned innocence and her grave good manners. It had to be a put-on. Nobody was that innocent anymore, he'd thought, not in 1970, and certainly not anyone who'd grown up in Hollywood during the turbulent sixties, where "sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll" was the rule rather than the exception.
But Ariel was.
He'd known it for sure the very first time he'd kissed her.
They'd been on the set, under the hot lights and the watchful eyes of Hans Ostfield and the rest of the crew. The cameras were rolling and she was supposed to be acting a part. But she wasn't. Her hesitation and uncertainty had been real. And so had her artless surrender. She'd gotten adorably flustered and stumbled over her lines. And he'd gotten a hard-on that almost burst the buttons on his jeans. He'd pushed her away from him the second the scene was over and said something rude to cover his own confusion and embarrassment before stalking away from the set like James Dean on a tear.
After that, she'd become less of a challenge and more of a... cause. He hadn't wanted to storm the walls of her castle anymore, he'd wanted to coax her to come down on her own. He'd wanted to free her from her prison of stifling propriety. It was, after all, 1970, the era of women's liberation and free love, and she was still trapped back in the white-gloved fifties when good girls sat on the sidelines and waited patiently to be asked.
He was an observant young man and it hadn't taken him long to decide why Ariel was the way she was. He only had to look as far as her mother. And he didn't like what he saw.
Constance Cameron was a would-be actress with little talent of her own, who'd apparently discovered, early on, that her young fatherless daughter was talented enough for both of them. Constance had given up her own dreams of stardom and concentrated on her daughter's career. Ariel had been working steadily from the age of four, first in commercials and then in prime-time television. She'd never gone to a regular school with other children, but had been tutored by her mother between takes. Her mother was also her manager, her agent, her acting coach, wardrobe and script consultant, as well as constant companion, both on the set and off.
Until Wild Hearts.
For the first time in her career—and, perhaps, her life—Ariel was out from under her mother's watchful eye.
And smack-dab under the admiring gaze of an experienced hot-eyed young man.
And so, using all his considerable bad-boy charm and the expertise gained in twenty-two years of living, Zeke had begun a determined effort to lure the sheltered young actress into his arms—and into his bed—for real....
* * *
"It's all right, sweetheart. You can come in. None of the guys are here."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure," Zeke said, drawing Ariel into the apartment as he spoke. "They've all got day jobs now. Even Ethan," he added, knowing that Ariel didn't like him very much. "He got that part on As Time Goes By, the one he auditioned for a couple of weeks ago? He says it looks like it might develop into a regular gig."
"How wonderful for him," she said politely. "He must be pleased about it."
"Yeah, I guess..." He had no desire to talk about any of his roommates or their careers, not when he finally had Ariel alone in his apartment, away from the cast and crew on the set—and her interfering mother. "Here, why don't you take off your sunglasses and that silly scarf?" He reached out to remove the oversize sunglasses and untie the yellow-and-white print Pucci scarf from under her chin. "I don't think anybody's going to recognize you now."
"No, I guess not," Ariel agreed shyly, looking down as he removed the offending items.
"Much better," he said approvingly, and bent to press a quick kiss on her lips.
She looked up, startled, but he had already turned away to place the glasses and scarf on the coffee table.
"Let me put some music on and then I'll get us something to drink. You like Creedence Clearwater?" he asked as he thumbed through the albums stacked upright in the bookshelf. He glanced back over his shoulder when she didn't answer.
She was standing in the middle of the haphazardly decorated living room looking like a shy little daffodil in a sleeveless yellow Givenchy minidress. It had white piping on all the edges and big, oversize white buttons down the front. Her stockings were sheer white, her shoes were yellow patent leather, ankle-strapped wedgies, and she had a wide white-and-yellow polka-dot bangle on one slender wrist. Something about the way she stood and the wary expression in her big blue eyes made Zeke think of a young deer on the verge of bolting into the safety of the woods.
He put the album on and hurried back over to her, snagging an arm around her waist as he headed for the kitchen. He turned her sideways as they went through the narrow door, shouldering his way through the multicolored strands of beads that hung from the header.
"Pretty slim pickings," he said when he opened the refrigerator. "I've got Coke or orange soda." There was a bottle of wine, too, but he didn't offer that. He didn't want her to be able to say, later, that she hadn't known what she was doing. "Which will it be?"
"Coke, I guess."
"Two Cokes." He reached into the refrigerato
r and snagged the bottles by the neck. Resting first one, then the other, firmly against the edge of the counter, he rapped the neck of each bottle with the heel of his hand and popped off the caps. "Do you want a glass?"
Ariel shook her head. "The bottle's fine."
Zeke grinned. "Good choice. I don't think any of the glasses are particularly clean. Jack's on KP this week," he said, reaching past her to hold aside the strands of beads that filled the doorway. "After you."
Ariel smiled nervously and sidled past him. The beads fell back into place as he followed her into the living room. "Sit down?" he invited, gesturing toward the sagging madras-covered sofa.
"Okay," she said softly and sat down, smack-dab on the middle cushion.
Zeke smiled to himself. It was a signal. If she was thinking of changing her mind, she'd have chosen one of the beanbag chairs or sat on one of the end cushions of the sofa. But the middle... well, that left him plenty of room on either side of her. He put his unwanted Coke on the coffee table, sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders.
She shot him a quick, nervous look out of the corner of her eye and then looked back down at the bottle of soda clutched between her hands. But she didn't move away.
He bent his head and kissed her bare shoulder.
She took a tiny sip of her soda and refused to look at him.
He ran his fingertip down her arm.
She shivered, tightening her grasp on the bottle, but still wouldn't look at him.
He transferred his touch to her knee, running his fingertips lightly, delicately, up the top of her white-stockinged thigh to the hem of her little yellow dress and back down again.
She gasped and closed her eyes. And didn't move.
"Ariel?"
"What?"
"Are you afraid?"
"No," she lied.
"Have you changed your mind?"
"No."
"Then would you look at me, please?"
Slowly, shyly, she turned her head against his arm and looked at him. Her blue eyes were wide and wondering and just a little bit frightened, despite what she'd said.
"You know I won't hurt you, don't you?" Zeke whispered.
"I know," she whispered back.
"We'll go slow. As slow as you want. And we'll stop whenever you say," he promised. "You don't ever have to be afraid of me."
"I'm not. Really." She smiled tremulously, trying to reassure him. "I'm just a little nervous, is all."
"So am I," Zeke admitted.
That seemed to surprise and please her. "Really? Why?"
"I've never made love to a virgin before. What if I mess it up for you? Or do something you don't like?"
"I don't know what I like yet. Except when you kiss me," she hinted, emboldened by his admission of vulnerability. "I like that."
Zeke felt something in his gut tighten. "Are you going to drink that Coke?"
In answer, Ariel leaned forward and placed it on the coffee table next to his. And then she leaned back against his arm and tilted her face up to his, inviting his kiss.
Zeke reached up, his hand trembling slightly, and brushed back the soft blond hair at her temple. "You're incredible, do you know that?" he said softly, awed by the trust she'd placed in him just by being there. He knew it couldn't have been easy for her. "Incredibly sweet." He threaded his fingers through the silken length of her hair, lifting it away from her head and letting it drift back down, a few strands at a time. "Incredibly beautiful. I think I'm falling in love with you."
"You don't have to say that." Her voice was soft and sweet, her eyes wide and serious. "I don't want you to pretend to feel something you don't."
"I'm not pretending," he said truthfully, a little stunned to hear himself say it. "I really do think I'm in love with you."
"Really?" she breathed.
"Really," he said and bent his head to kiss her.
She opened her mouth for him immediately, exactly the way she'd learned to in their stolen moments on the set. He claimed it with his tongue, gently teasing hers, trying to beguile her into making demands of her own. But she was acquiescent and shy, still unused to physical intimacy, and he couldn't wait for her to respond more emphatically. He deepened his possession of her mouth, leaning over her, pressing her head back against his encircling arm, letting his free hand drift down the side of her face and her shoulder to lightly, lightly cover her breast.
Ariel sighed against his lips and lifted her arm to encircle his neck, pulling herself closer and tacitly giving him permission to go further. Zeke took what she offered, cupping his fingers around her breast to test its weight and contour. He brushed his thumb back and forth over the tip, seeking the nipple through the thick layer of yellow cotton pique and the fabric of her bra. Finding it, he circled it gently, plucking at it with his fingertips until she moaned and arched against his hand.
"I think we found something else you like," he murmured, his voice rich with satisfaction and pleasure. He loosened his hold on her a bit, letting his fingers drift to the row of big white buttons running down the front of her dress. "You might like it even more if we opened these."
There was a moment's silence and then she said softly, "Okay," and he could feel her lips move against his neck.
He shifted against her eagerly, needing to use both hands to slip the oversize buttons from their buttonholes. "Lift your head a little, sweetheart, so I can see what I'm doing here," he instructed, using the back of one hand to brush a thick sheaf of her waist-length hair out of the way as he spoke.
And Ariel obediently lifted her head, making it easier for him to get at her buttons. "I think I'm in love with you, too," she blurted.
Zeke looked up, arrested in midmotion, his hands still busy with her buttons. "You don't have to say that, either, you know," he told her. "It isn't required."
"No, I mean it," Ariel said. "I think I... that is, I've never felt this way before. My heart's pounding so hard and it hurts to breathe and..."
He smiled. "It might not be love, you know, sweetheart," he warned her. "It might just be sex." And a little bit of fear mixed in, he thought.
Ariel blushed and looked away.
Zeke put his hand under her chin, turning her face back to his. "Sex is okay, Ariel. No matter what anyone's told you before. Sex is healthy and natural."
"Even without love?"
"Sure, even without love. I'm not saying you should do this with just anyone," he added quickly, just in case she misunderstood and thought he was giving her free rein. "You should care about the person. A lot. A whole lot," he emphasized. "But you don't have to be in love." He leaned forward and kissed her, then let her go to finish with the buttons. "I've heard it's better when you're in love but I wouldn't know from personal experience." He looked up suddenly and grinned. "Maybe I'll find out today, huh?"
"Maybe we'll both—" she began but he was no longer listening.
The buttons down the front of her dress were all undone and he pushed the two halves of the yellow pique fabric aside to reveal what lay beneath. She was long and lean and exquisite under her expensive, fashionable clothes. Her breasts were small and conical beneath her white lace bra. Her hips were narrow, the rounded bones on either side prominent beneath the sheer white fabric of her panty hose. The downy mound at the juncture of her thighs was covered by a swatch of white lace no bigger than a handkerchief. He cupped his hands around her small breasts, lifting them, and bent his head to kiss the cleavage he'd created. Ariel stiffened and lifted her hands to his hair, sinking her fingers into the thick, shaggy curls to hold him there.
They stayed like that for a sweet endless moment—Zeke with his mouth pressed against the fragile skin between her breasts, and Ariel with her hands fisted in his hair and her eyes closed. Then he raised his head and she opened her eyes and they smiled at each other.
"I think we'd better take this into the bedroom," Zeke suggested softly. He stood and held out his hand to her. "We'll be more comfortable in there."
She put her hand trustingly in his and let him pull her to her feet. Then, one hand holding the front of her dress closed, she walked with him into the bedroom.
There were two double beds, one pushed against each wall, with a folding Chinese paper screen partially opened between them. The side of the room Zeke led her to was at least nominally neat. The bed was made, with a plain navy blue blanket and white percale cases on the pillows. A pierced-brass Indian drum table sat beside it, holding a single lamp and a paperback book. Two framed vintage movie posters graced the otherwise bare walls above the bed.
Letting go of her hand, Zeke hurriedly grabbed up the rumpled clothes lying in a heap on the floor and tossed them into the wicker chest at the foot of his bed, then pulled the paper screen out to its full length, hiding the messy other half of the room from view. The textured paper screen filtered the light coming in through the single uncurtained window, softening it to a gentle dappled glow, like sunlight shining through water.
While Zeke tidied the room, Ariel sat down on the edge of his bed and removed her shoes. Setting them neatly aside, she stood and reached for the waistband of her panty hose. She stopped suddenly, pausing with the fabric pushed down around her hips, and looked up at him with a shy smile. "Don't watch," she said.
Zeke tore his fascinated gaze away and turned around, giving her his back. He could hear her rustling around behind him and imagined each garment slipping from her body; the gossamer sheer panty hose as she pushed them down her long legs; the expensive designer dress as she slipped it off her shoulders; the white lace bra as she reached behind her to unfasten it; the delicate swatch of fabric that shielded her woman's secrets. And then he heard the quick flurry of her bare feet against the hardwood floor and the squeak of the bed-springs.
Seduced and Betrayed Page 5