Protect Me (The Donovan Family Book 6)

by Margaret Watson

  He'd be leaving Mia behind. Which is exactly what they'd agreed to. Casual. Fun. Three weeks and out.

  Was that what he wanted?

  He rubbed his chest over his heart. It didn't matter. It was what had to be.

  He buried his face in her hair, listening to her hair catch on his stubble. He wanted to memorize everything about her – the steady beat of her heart against his chest. The slow in and out of her breathing. The tiny catch in her breath when he skimmed his fingers along her lower back.

  Just as he'd expected, Sean called five minutes later. He reached for his phone, holding Mia against him with one hand.

  "You're going back to LA today," the director ordered without a greeting. "Angie's already booked your ticket. This is great publicity for the film. We'll finish your scenes on a set out there. I'll call you." Sean disconnected, but it was too late.

  Mia had clearly heard Sean, because she edged back and looked at him. Her lower lip quivered, and he pulled her closer for a kiss. "I'm sorry," he said against her mouth. "I'm…I have to go."

  Mia slid out of bed without looking at him. "I know," she said softly. "It's your job." She slid her arms into her short silk robe and tied the knot around her waist. "I'm going to take a quick shower, then I'll pack and get out of here."

  Please don't. I don't want you to leave. The plea burned on his tongue, aching to get out. He clamped his lips together and held it back. They'd both known this was inevitable. He'd thought they'd have a couple more days, but it was going to be painful whenever they said goodbye.

  As he watched her walk out of the room, toward her own shower, he got to his feet, intending to join her. Then he sank down onto the bed again. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd told her he had to leave early. She'd looked devastated.

  Only an asshole would think this was the time for playful shower sex.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Mia stood at the door, her bag at her feet, her chest tight with pain as she watched Finn talk to his publicist again. He ran his fingers through his still-damp hair as he talked, making it stand up in dark blond spikes.

  She wanted to smooth her hand over his head, tame the sexy spikes into his usual waves. Feel his hair flow through her fingers one last time.

  Use her hands to tell him everything they were so carefully not saying.

  Finn glanced at her as he listened to Angie, then he said, "Got to go, Ange. I'll talk to you later." He ended the call, then turned off his phone and crossed the floor to her.

  "You want me to walk you downstairs?" he asked, taking her hands.

  God, no. Saying goodbye in the privacy of their room was hard enough. To do it on the street, in front of anyone who happened to be walking by? That would be unbearable.

  "No." Swallowing the lump in her throat, she stepped away from her bag and reached for him. "One last kiss, Finn."

  Their lips met and clung and Mia's throat swelled with tears. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she refused to let them fall as she eased away from Finn.

  Instead of letting her go, he cupped her face in his hands. "These have been the most amazing three weeks of my life, Mia." He smoothed his thumbs over her cheeks. "I thought we’d have more time." He swallowed once, then again. "I'm going to call Angie back," he said, his voice thick. "Tell her I'll come home when we originally planned."

  Swallowing twice to force back the tears, she put her fingers over his mouth. "Shh," she murmured when she could speak without sobbing. "You can't do that. And even if you could, it wouldn't change a thing." She pulled his head down and kissed him one last time, her mouth gentle on his.

  She pulled away before he could deepen the kiss. "Go, Finn." She tried to smile, but she knew it was shaky. "It's been wonderful."

  "I'll be back in Chicago," he said in a rush, pulling her tight against him. "To visit Doug. My agent was talking about another movie that might be filmed here. I'll call you."

  "No," she whispered into his neck, her fingers tightening on his back. "I can't be your hookup in Chicago. I won't be your fuck buddy." She needed to make a clean break. If he came back to Chicago for a few days or a few weeks, it would rip the scab off her healing wound, and she'd just bleed all over again when he left. "If you come to Chicago to visit Doug, I don't want to know about it."

  "You won't see me again? Even if I come back to Chicago?" Pain and temper swirled in his eyes. "Is this because I didn't tell you I loved you, too? Are you punishing me for that?"

  She leaned back to look him in the eye. "Of course not. Did I say you had to love me back?" She'd stupidly thought the pain couldn't get worse. She took a step back. Out of reach. She couldn't bear to touch him. "I never planned on telling you how I felt, but it slipped out because I was scared. It wasn't supposed to be a trap. Or a punishment. It was a gift, freely given."

  "I don't want to let you go," he whispered.

  "I don't want you to go, either," she said, angry in her turn at his tunnel vision. "And you don't have to go. We could have figured something out. Made this work. You didn't even want to try."

  "How could we have done that?" he demanded, his face tightening. "My career is in California. Your life is here. How could we ever make this work?"

  "You're right," she said, reaching for her bag. "What's the use of trying to figure out the hard stuff when we both know this couldn't go anywhere. A cop and a movie star? Not going to happen." Reaching for the door, she said, "Goodbye, Finn. Safe trip home."

  She tried to smile, but her mouth was too wobbly. "Good luck with your career," she said softly. "I hope this film is everything you hoped for."

  Mia blinked hard, holding back her tears by the force of her will as she fumbled the door open. She refused to let Finn's last glimpse of her be tears streaming down her face.

  "Mia…"

  "Goodbye, Finn." She stepped through the door and pulled it closed behind her, then walked toward the elevator. A tiny part of her hoped the door would open. That Finn wouldn't let her leave.

  But the door to their suite stayed firmly closed as she pressed the elevator call button. She stepped inside when it arrived, turned to face the front. The peephole on the door was dark. Was Finn watching her leave? As the doors closed slowly in front of her, Mia lifted her chin and refused to wipe away the tears trickling down her cheeks.

  They clogged Mia's throat and blurred her vision as she stepped off the elevator on the ground floor, and she clutched her bag tightly as she fumbled out the door to Walton Street. Carlos the doorman smiled at her, then stopped in his tracks when he actually saw her.

  "You want a cab, Mia?" he asked gently.

  She nodded, reaching into her purse for a tip, and Carlos put his hand over hers. "Please, Mia," he said as he signaled for a cab. "Don't insult me."

  He opened the cab door, helped her inside, then closed the door gently behind her. The cab smelled of acrid cleaning solution and the faint hint of cigarette smoke.

  After she gave the driver her address, she turned and looked one last time at the Drake. Then she faced forward, refusing to watch the hotel disappear from sight.

  Chapter 27

  Three months later

  Carrying a bag of takeout Chinese food she'd have to reheat, Mia tugged her mail out of the box and tucked it under her arm as she trudged up the stairs to her apartment. As soon as she'd picked up her order from her favorite Chinese restaurant, she'd gotten a call from her training officer.

  Her promotion to detective was new enough that she didn't mind the reheated dinners. Didn't mind the long hours. She was still figuring out how to let the job go once she got home, but that would come.

  So when O'Reilly had called, she returned to the station eagerly, stashed her food in the break room refrigerator and headed out again with Kevin O'Reilly. Three hours later, she was finally home.

  Dropping the mail on the dining room table, she flipped on the lights in the kitchen, put her Kung Pao Chicken on a plate and shoved it into the microwave. Then she got
a glass of wine and retrieved her mail.

  She liked these nights when she had to work so late. By the time she fell into bed, she was so exhausted she didn't even dream.

  It was harder when she had too much time on her hands. When she got home at a reasonable hour and still semi-alert, memories and regrets weighed heavily on her shoulders. They whispered in her ear, calling up all the painful 'could haves' and 'should haves' that had marked the last few months.

  By the time the microwave dinged, she'd tossed three political ads and a coupon booklet from neighborhood stores into her recycling bin. She set two bills aside, then shoved the face-down copies of Entertainment Weekly and People to the side as she stood up to retrieve her plate.

  In a moment of weakness after Finn left, she'd subscribed to the two popular culture bibles. Now, every week, she both looked forward to and dreaded the stories she read about him.

  Her hands itched to turn those magazines over. Devour their contents. But she forced herself to eat dinner and clean up first.

  Only when those chores were done did she head into the living room with the last of her glass of wine and settle into her father's chair, the magazines on her lap, still face down.

  Taking a deep breath, she finally turned the magazines over.

  Finn's smiling face stared at her from the cover of Entertainment Weekly. The same picture was in a corner of the cover of People, next to a teaser for the article about him. According to the headline on ET, he'd been named as the host of one of the countless Hollywood award shows.

  Hating herself, wishing she could put the magazines aside and ignore them, she opened Entertainment Weekly and gobbled up the story about Finn. It included several pictures, and her fingers lingered on one of them as she turned the page.

  Finally she tossed both magazines to the floor, disgusted with herself. Why did she keep tormenting herself like this? What the hell was wrong with her?

  In the past three months, she'd tried so hard to move on with her life and forget about Finn. She'd failed completely, of course. Once a Donovan found his or her one and done, that was it. And getting these magazines once a week, reminding her of what she'd had and lost, was a stupid mistake.

  Grabbing her laptop, she went online and canceled both subscriptions. Then she stood up and strode to the window.

  She was better than this.

  She looked down on the dark, quiet street. Cars lined the curb, lights twinkled from the other buildings, but there wasn't a soul walking down the sidewalk. Where were the bros and their ragers when she needed a distraction? Arresting a bunch of irritating former frat boys would keep her busy and keep Finn out of her head.

  No. She slapped her hand on the radiator cover, hard enough to sting her palm. She was done being weak. Done pining for something she couldn't have. Cancelling the subscriptions was a good first step. Relegating Finn to a distant memory would be the next one.

  It would take time. But that was okay. She had nothing but time. It stretched ahead of her like a long, dark ribbon.

  By God, she was taking control of her life again. She'd put some color back into it. Some joy.

  She reached for her phone and texted her Aunt Helen. The best place to find joy right now was with her niece Charlotte.

  'Busy tomorrow?' she typed. 'Can I come by and see you and the munchkin?'

  She'd kick this lingering sadness to the curb, starting tomorrow.

  * * *

  "Finn, welcome to The Star Factor." Beaming, Tiffany set her hand on his arm and squeezed once. She stood just a hair too close to him, and he had to force himself not to step away.

  "Thanks, Tiffany," he said, smiling into the camera. This was his third interview since the announcement that he was hosting the Goldies, and the news had come out only yesterday. "Good to be here."

  "We've been dying to have you on Star Factor," Tiffany confided. "We're glad you could finally make it."

  He worked to keep his smile easy and affable and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Tiffany and the rest of the Star channel hadn't been so eager to have him on their shows before the mess in Chicago. Angie had tried repeatedly to book him over the past year and a half, with no success. This time, the Star Channel had come to her. "It’s good to be here," Finn answered, trying not to clench his teeth.

  Tiffany and Star were the grit he needed to endure. That grit helped form the pearl he wanted his career to be. So he'd smile at her and answer her inane questions.

  "We were so excited to hear you're going to host the Goldies this year," she gushed. "You must be thrilled."

  "I am, Tiffany. It's an honor," he said, meaning it. Sean, the director of Dark Vengeance, had lobbied for it, but he hadn't had to push too hard. Everyone in Hollywood had been fawning over him since he got back from Chicago. "I've always thought the Goldies was one of the classiest award shows."

  While the camera was on Tiffany as she chattered about the presenters, trying to guess who would be selected, Finn glanced around the studio. A swarm of young women stood off camera, watching him avidly. Some of them were reporters, some were interns and some were the office staff. At least three or four of them would press their 'cards' into his hand after the taping. Most of them would push close, trying to brush against him. One or two would proposition him.

  He was the hot commodity in Hollywood right now. Hosting the Goldies.

  He'd thought he wanted this – the fame, the adulation, the interviews on the celebrity television shows.

  The offers of parts in all the hot movies.

  It wasn't all he'd thought it would be. Irritating interviews with reporters like Tiffany were an almost daily occurrence.

  So were the strangers, both men and women, murmuring about the sex acts they'd like to perform on him.

  He was beginning to miss the good old days, when people crossed the street to avoid him.

  Tiffany tossed him softball questions for another five minutes, then she smiled into the camera. "There he is, folks. Finn O'Rourke. He'll be hosting the Goldies next month. Watch for The Star Channel and yours truly on the red carpet."

  When the cameras stopped filming, she leaned close to Finn, ostensibly to help him remove his mic. Instead of unclipping it, she ran her finger over his chest. "How about a drink?" she murmured. "I have some Johnny Walker Blue in my dressing room."

  "Wow, Tifffany, that's tempting," he said with a smile. He reached up to detach the mic and her hands closed over his. "But I have an appointment with my agent. A new screenplay they want me to look at."

  Tiffany released him and sat back with a tiny pout. "Another time, then, Finn." She adjusted the cuff of his shirt beneath the jacket sleeve, sliding one finger along his wrist, pressing it into his pulse. "I'd love to get to know you better."

  You and everyone else in Hollywood.

  Forcing a smile, he stood up. "Thanks, Tiffany. Let's see what we can arrange."

  Angie would string him up for not taking Tiffany up on her offer. As one of the more influential entertainment reporters in Hollywood, Tiffany was on every actor's list of must-do interviews.

  But there was no way he'd be arranging anything with the woman. Especially not an intimate meeting in her dressing room.

  As he hurried away, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away the hint of her perfume that lingered on his wrist. The come-ons happened almost daily, even from big-shot reporters like Tiffany. He'd lost count of how many times he'd had to fend one off in the past few months. It was awkward and distasteful every time.

  The only woman he wanted was Mia. Which was ridiculous. They'd been together less than three weeks. They'd both known it was short term. But he couldn't get her out of his head.

  He and Gemma had been together for two years, and he'd been secretly relieved when she'd pulled her little publicity stunt. And Mia was still in his head after only three weeks?

  He slid into his car. It was because Mia had been real. She hadn't been interested in him because he was Finn O'Rourke. She'd wanted
Finn. The ordinary guy, warts and all. It had been refreshing. Intriguing.

  He missed real. He needed to find more of it in his life.

  No matter how much he missed Mia, he hadn't had a choice about leaving. He'd needed to come home. Everyone had told him so. His career had to come first.

  He wondered now – had that really been true?

  He slid into his car, deciding to take the long route to Angie's office. He needed to clear his head and adjust his attitude before he saw her. Before he got back on the hamster wheel.

  * * *

  Finn stood in the middle of his living room a couple of weeks later, watching his guests milling around or standing in small clusters, eating his food and drinking his booze. Glasses clinked, the scent of food drifted over from the buffet, and the murmur of conversation overlaid it all. He'd nixed a live band for the party, but even without it, the noise volume in the room was deafening.

  Angie was in one of the other rooms or out by the pool, basking in his success, button-holing every Important Person she could find. And there were a lot of them here.

  The party had been her idea. She'd told him he had to act like an A-lister because now he was an A-lister. In order to stay that way, he had to take meetings. Chat up the studio decision makers. Schmooze with everyone in town who mattered.

  He should start by throwing a party. All the other A-listers would come.

  She'd been right.

  Thanks to Lars Benson's revelations, he'd gotten his life back. Gotten more than he'd had before the Gemma fiasco. He should be ecstatic.

  He'd been asked to host the Goldies. His career was soaring. Everyone who counted was at his party tonight. His agent Lisa had a stack of screenplays on her desk – every director in town wanted to work with him.

  He felt as if there was an invisible wall around him, separating him from all of his networking, chattering colleagues. Isolated in the crowd. Any other cliché he could trot out.