by Torrest, T.
He was smiling as he had his way with me, his free hands running over every inch of exposed skin within his reach, his hips thrusting to meet my movements, again and again and again, eventually causing the both of us to explode, leaving us sated and out of breath.
What is it about a hotel room that turns people into sex-crazed lunatics?
We settled into the heavenly mattress, our limbs tangled together under the bedsheets as I ran my hand along the soft skin on the inside of his arm.
He was staring at me, his face half-buried in the pillow. “I can’t believe you’re really going to stay here. Isn’t there anything I can say to change your mind?”
My chest was still heaving as I tried to catch my breath. I nuzzled into his neck, shivering at the brush of stubble that tickled my lips. The truth was, all I really wanted was to curl up in that man’s bed and stay there forever.
I slowly pushed myself up and straddled his lap, peering down at him while he offered me his most lethally persuasive glare with those potent blue eyes of his—eyes that I was virtually powerless to deny.
I shifted my attention to take in the room we had all but ignored in our frantic dance to make it to the bed.
My jaw dropped.
The room was ginormous. That bedroom alone was probably two times larger than my entire apartment in the city, and decorated a hundred times better. The Wilmingtons’ Beverly Hills hotel was way more relaxed and inviting than their über-hip Times Square property. Less mod; more island. Rustic wood furnishings contrasted against pale cream walls with the perfect kisses of Wilmington Blue in the patterned fabric of the upholstered furniture, pillows, and curtains. Along one wall, floor to ceiling windows showcased the Los Angeles skyline at night, a breathtaking array of bright lights in darkened skyscrapers against an almost amethyst sky.
I looked down at Trip. “I’m in L.A.,” I said in awe.
He grinned cautiously and nodded.
I glanced back up, scanned the room again, then collapsed on top of him. “Holy shit! I’m in L.A. I’m really here.”
Trip’s arms wrapped around me, his hands gently stroking up and down my back. His voice rumbled through his chest. “You’re where you’re supposed to be, Lay.”
I buried my face in his chest and fought the wave of disbelief washing over me. “A week ago, I was Layla Warren, self-employed writer, living in her childhood bedroom in Norman, New Jersey. You were nothing more than a late-night fantasy, and a crazy day was a visit from Lisa and the kids.”
I rested my chin on his chest and looked up at him. “Now I’m in the penthouse suite of the Beverly Hills TRU. Naked, mind you, in one of the most comfortable beds I’ve ever felt, with one of the biggest movie stars the world has ever seen.”
I hesitated, mentally reminding myself of my new pledge to verbally vomit, then went for it. “Also one of the world’s biggest playboys.”
His mouth opened, then closed. I squeezed my eyes shut and burrowed into him, wishing I could ignore the insecurity I had thus far managed to keep at bay.
It was impossible to avoid the numerous reports about the many, many women who had been “guests” at his home over the years. Not to mention an ex-fiancée who had actually lived there. I could only assume that Trip had seen more action in that house than Hef did in the Playboy Mansion.
Okay, maybe not more than Hef.
It had better not be more than Hef.
His arms tightened, and he whispered against my hair. “You know they meant nothing to me. You know I’ve spent the last fifteen years pining away for some infuriating chick I met back in high school.”
I smiled slightly. “But you were engaged. To a freaking Victoria’s Secret Angel, Trip. She had to mean something.”
He pressed soft kisses along my hair and jaw. “She was just a placeholder until you were finally able to figure out how awesome I was.”
I sputtered out a laugh, then slapped his chest. He grabbed my arm and slid his hand to my cheek, tilting my face to look at him. “She wasn’t you, Lay. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I stared into his blue eyes, taking in the devotion brimming from their depths. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and nodded.
He brushed a soft kiss against my lips, but I soon pulled away. “Give me a few days, okay? Let’s catch our breath. You’ve just come back from your father’s funeral. I’m twenty-five-hundred miles away from the only home I’ve ever known, with a man I never thought I’d ever see again. I just need a minute to wrap my head around all of this. A few days, and then I’ll gladly stay with you.”
He nodded, giving me a deep, toe-curling kiss to let me know he understood, no hard feelings. Then he shifted my body off of him and got out of the bed.
“Hey! That didn’t mean you had to leave now!”
A grin spread across his lips. “Yes, it does. Otherwise certain body parts are going to get way too happy to have a naked you against them, and then it will start all over again, and the next thing you know, it’s morning.” He gestured below his waist to my favorite body part. Sure enough, it was waking up and taking notice.
I brazenly watched him pull on his jeans and yank his T-shirt over his head, shamelessly ogling what was finally mine to ogle. He smirked, then stalked to the bed and flattened me with another searing kiss.
I gasped for breath as he pulled away and said, “See you tomorrow, babe. This is good. Now I have time to make sure there are no lingering thongs under my mattress.”
I shrieked and grabbed one of the dozens of pillows from behind my head, launching it at his retreating form.
“Kidding! You know I’m only kidding.” He flashed a huge smile, kissed the air between us, and ducked out the door.
I fell to the bed, the giggles escaping despite my efforts. About thirty seconds after he left, I passed out and slept forever.
* * *
The next day Trip had some errands to run, but he set a time to come get me later in the evening. My room was a beautiful suite that took over the entire top floor of the hotel. I thought it was a bit excessive, but I decided to shake off my misgivings and just enjoy it. How often would I ever get a chance to stay in a room like that? I didn’t date too many heirs to hotel fortunes.
I took a look out the front windows and checked out the view of Beverly Hills’ main drag. It was lively and bustling; not quite at New York City levels, but busy nonetheless. It was strange to be in such a populated city and hardly see any pedestrians. The opposite windows looked out over the pool in back. It was a known social gathering place for the young and beautiful set of Los Angeles; the place to see and be seen. And my God. Even the tourists were beautiful.
I threw on a bathing suit and decided to check out the action poolside. When I headed outside, a young man came up to me and introduced himself as Philippe. He explained that he was my personal cabana boy for the day, which almost made me crack up laughing. A personal cabana boy? What exactly was I supposed to do with him?
There were blue and white striped tents bordering one side of the property, and Philippe escorted me toward one of them, letting me know that it was reserved exclusively for me during my stay. I peeked inside briefly, took note of the pile of spare towels stacked on the white Adirondack chairs inside, but opted to head out near the pool instead. I needed some color. Not only just because my skin was practically blinding white in February, but because I especially wanted to get some sun-kissed glow before the Academy Awards the following week.
I settled into a poolside lounger, and whipped out my cell phone to call Lisa. She answered with her usual tact. “How’s the sunshine, bitch?”
I laughed. “How did you ever leave this place? It’s incredible!”
“Well, if you’d ever come out to visit during the four years we lived there, you would have known that already, dipwit.”
“You know I don’t fly. But after travelling first class, my opinion may have changed on the matter.”
“Nice, isn’t it?”
&nb
sp; “Mmm hmm. You know what else is nice?”
“What’s that?”
“This fricking hotel! I’m poolside right now on the comfiest lounge chair ever created, a cabana boy at my disposal.”
“Mmm. Cabana boy. Is he hot?”
“He’s adorable. But he’s probably nineteen. Get your head out of the gutter.”
“Can’t. Pregnant, remember?”
“Obviously. Lord knows you never let anyone forget it.”
“Shut up, you turd. Oh, hey! Make sure you get their avocado salad. It’s delicious.”
My jaw gaped open at her unwitting revelation. “Wait. You’ve eaten here? Here?”
“Uh, no. I just heard that it’s really good.”
I wasn’t buying it for a second. “You traitor! You’ve been to this hotel before, haven’t you?”
Lis finally copped to her crime. “Just once, I swear! Pick had some UCLA event and it was held at the TRU. We had to go.”
When I didn’t speak, she was forced to fill in the empty space.
“Trip hadn’t even moved out there at the time! This was back in like ’92 or ’93. I would have told you if we saw him.”
Still, I remained silent.
“Fine! I’m a traitorous whore! Happy now?”
That made me laugh. “Very. Now put one of your kids on the phone.”
Chapter 13
THE PERFECT MAN
At seven o’clock, the front desk rang my room to let me know that Mr. Bishop had arrived. I grabbed my handbag and made my way downstairs. But when the elevator doors opened, Trip wasn’t there waiting for me. I took a lap around the lobby, but I still didn’t see him. I figured he was using the bathroom or something and took a seat on one of the sofas, figuring he’d find me eventually. But after five whole minutes, he was still nowhere to be found.
I approached the front desk and asked, “I received a call that Mr. Bishop was here?”
The attendant behind the desk offered a knowing smile as he said, “Ah, yes, Mrs. Bishop. He requested that you meet him out front.”
I thanked him and headed out the front entryway.
And right there at the curb was my gorgeous boyfriend, wearing cuffed jeans, arms crossed over his chest… and leaning against a red Porsche.
Sixteen Candles! I positively melted. I put my hand over my heart and said, “Jake Ryan! You Jake Ryaned to pick me up tonight!”
The scene would have been perfect if Trip didn’t look so annoyed. “Christ! What took you so long? I’ve only been standing out here like a jackass, holding this pose for like an hour.”
I bounded down the few steps and crossed the sidewalk that separated us, sidling up to his chest and slipping a hand around his neck. His “anger” broke at that, and I watched his lips twitch, trying to contain a smile as I slid my fingers into the back of his hair and said, “Oh my God please just whisper yeah you for me. I think I’ll die.”
He lost the battle with his smile as his face cracked into a wide grin. “Yeah, you have way too big a crush on that guy. Yeah, you are really making me jealous right about now.”
I pecked him on the cheek and said, “Yeah, you are like the cutest thing ever. Even if you forgot the sweater vest.”
“I drew the line at the sweater vest.”
“Well, now my night is just completely ruined!” I joked.
He just rolled his eyes and opened the car door for me.
I slipped into the passenger seat and sank into the soft, white leather as Trip made his way to the driver’s side. I ran my hand over the dash, asking, “Is this your car?”
Trip started the engine with a glorious, retro rumble. “Nope. Borrowed it from a friend.”
I looked at him questioningly. “You happen to have a friend that just happens to own an antique Porsche?”
“Yep.” He buckled his seatbelt and slid on a pair of shades. “It’s Paul Newman’s.”
My mouth gaped open as he put the car in gear and we took off down Wilshire Boulevard.
The restaurant Trip chose was not at all what I was expecting. I’d thought we were going to go to some fancy-schmancy eatery where there’d be celebrities at every other table. Where he took me instead was an off-the-beaten-path Mexican place out in Encino. I don’t know why I was surprised. It was such a Trip thing to do.
He surrendered the keys to the valet, along with a fifty dollar bill. He saw the look I shot him at that, put his hand at the small of my back, and escorted me into the restaurant, explaining, “I’m not taking any chances with that thing,” which just made me laugh.
As soon as we were in the front door, I fell in love with the place. Every cheesy, Mexican cliché was on full display, from the sombreros hanging on the wall, to the piñatas suspended from the high ceiling, to the mariachi band playing on the small stage along the far wall.
I absolutely loved it.
Trip gauged the expression on my face, and it made a wide grin split his features. He took my hand as the hostess led us through the dining room, but when she started to put the menus down at a booth near the stage, Trip whispered something to her I couldn’t hear as he slipped a bill in her hand. She changed direction and led us to a private table in a darkened corner instead.
Once we were alone, I said, “Hey. Henry Hill. How come we didn’t come in through the kitchen?”
He got my Goodfellas reference and started to chuckle. “What am I, a clown? Do I amuse you?”
Before I could tell him what a funny guy he was, he said, “I’ve learned it’s best to tip beforehand. You get better service that way.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Wiley.”
He looked at me then, frozen in the act of placing his napkin across his lap. “You know, you’ve only called me that once before.”
I took a sip of my water. “What? Mr. Wiley?”
“Yeah. During our interview. You said that exact same thing to me. You never… You never call me by that name.”
“Because it’s not your name.”
“Yeah. But even people who knew me growing up can accept that I changed it.”
“Not legally, though, right?”
He leaned back in his seat and shot me a sham dirty look. “No. Not legally. What’s your point?”
“That it’s just… all for show. Trip Wiley is all just smoke and mirrors. Trip Wilmington’s the guy I fell in love with.”
I’d never seen him smile quite so big. “And that’s why you’ll always be my rosebud.”
That was a new one. “Well, you’ll always be my… tulip… Dear.”
He cracked up at that. “Not my rosebud. My Rosebud. Citizen Kane, remember? You’re my happy thing before the fame, before the money.”
How adorable was that? I gave him a shy smile, touched that he thought of me in such an endearing way. I was sure, however, that he was just talking about who I used to be for him. After the past few days, I hoped I was coming to mean even more to him now than I did then.
Our waiter came over with some chips and salsa, asking if we’d like something to drink. I was thinking that I should probably just order a soda and was startled when Trip ordered a bottle of house wine instead. But I waited for our server to leave before making a stink about it.
I had just opened my mouth to question him when Trip put a hand up. “It’s for you, not me. You had that look.”
“What look?”
“That look like you didn’t know whether or not to order a drink. That look like you didn’t know whether or not to even ask me about it. For future reference—and trust me, you’ll encounter plenty of recovering alcoholics out here—you don’t need to curb your drinking just because we can’t control ours.”
“Is that the general consensus?”
“Pretty much. One of the first things you learn is that you can’t control other people’s behavior. You can only control your own. Even some guys at the treatment center were classified as problem drinkers, not alcoholics. They take their recovery hats off on the weekends and think just be
cause they’re only having a few beers means they’re handling the situation. They’re not. It’s a recipe for disaster.”
“There’s a difference between the two? Which one are you?”
“For me personally, it doesn’t matter. The way I see it, a problem’s a problem. If I felt like I could drink, but still had to constantly moderate every drop, I figure I shouldn’t be drinking at all, you know? Believe me. I’ve done lots of trial and error over the years. I’m not about to tempt fate. It’s easier just to avoid all of it.”
I accepted his assessment. He was a smart guy and been through hell and back. I had both trust and precedent to know that he wasn’t going to go out of his way to screw up his life again.
“Well, I don’t have to have wine, either.”
He snickered out, “Yes you do. I plan on getting you drunk tonight and taking full advantage of you.”
I reached under the table and ran my fingertips down his thigh. “You don’t need to get me drunk for that.”
He snarled at me across our bowl of chips, took a sip of his water. “You are going to be the death of me, woman.”
I was still laughing as I said, “So… I was trying to be cool about this, but I can’t just pretend I’m not blown away, here. Just exactly how do you know Paul Newman well enough that he let you borrow his car?”
“I told you I’m starting a hockey movie in the next couple of weeks. What I didn’t tell you was that it’s a remake of Slap Shot.”
“I love that movie!”
“Exactly.”
He didn’t look pleased.
“Why do I get the impression that you’re not happy about this?”
“No, I am. Now, anyway. But think about it. Everyone loves that movie. It’s awesome exactly the way it is. A remake might be a really bad idea. I’d been completely paranoid about it, and decided to consult the source before committing to do it. Paul’s doing a cameo, so I was able to finagle his info and get in touch with him.”
“Membership has its privileges.”
“That it does. Anyway, after talking to him a few times, we kind of hit it off. For all the dicky characters he plays onscreen, he’s really a great guy. And for some reason, he likes me.”