by Christa Wick
Great! The flight attendant probably thought Melanie had done something with him—something more than evading his attempt to kiss her.
Grabbing her bag, she dove into the restroom before realizing she had just made herself look ten times more culpable by trying to tidy up her appearance. He had probably anticipated the overreaction, too! Maybe what he'd said on the loveseat was just part of the setup to make her self-conscious later.
Pulling her long, auburn hair into a quick pony tail, she returned to her seat with a scowl, grabbed her stylus and iPad and tried to appear deep in concentration when the woman returned with Declan's fruit tray and Melanie's water.
She kept the scowl on her face for the rest of the flight, her tongue dancing in her mouth as she batted down swear word after swear word, all of them centered on what a jerk Declan was. She needed to focus on that, on his relation to Roger and whatever sordid mess rested in the past.
Yeah, right. Easy for the rational part of her mind to decide. That section of her brain was dry, logical and cold as a tomb. Her pussy, on the other hand, was warm, wet, and twisting with the memory of his lips on hers and his erotic threat concerning what he would do to her after he'd made her climax.
The captain's voice chirped over the intercom before Melanie's thoughts could begin to linger over the image of Declan's threat, his fingers plucking at her nipples or maybe a more delicate area made raw by him fucking her.
"We will begin our descent shortly," the captain announced. "Please put any cellular services in airplane mode and prepare for landing."
She double checked her cell phone even though she hadn't pulled it out since preparing for take off. She put her tablet and stylus away and zipped her bag up tight so she could make as quick a getaway from Declan as possible once the wheels hit the ground.
Sweating through another fifteen minutes until the plane came to a stop, Melanie had to choke down a relieved cheer when the flight attendant reappeared. Grabbing her backpack, Melanie headed straight for the woman to collect her rolling suitcase.
"Have you forgotten the ride to LAX?" Declan asked, uncoiling from his seat to stand directly behind her, his face tilted down to whisper the reminder in her ear.
Adrenaline and something else spiked through her as she checked the time on her phone. A little over an hour remained before her original flight was supposed to land. If she had a cab already waiting at the current airfield, she could have made it to baggage claim before Cammie with a good fifteen minutes to spare.
"Is there a taxi stand?" Melanie blurted as the stewardess pulled her bag out and extended the handle.
The woman stared at her like she'd sprouted a third eye before recovering and politely shaking her head. "I could see if—"
"No need, Kelly," Declan interrupted, his hand wrapping around the handle of Melanie's suitcase. "Miss Archer is forgetting I already arranged a car to pick us up."
The woman nodded absently then a look of suspicion settled over her face. She glanced from Declan to Melanie and back again.
"Right," Melanie lied in Declan's direction, her warm cheeks flaunting how badly she sucked at even the smallest falsehood. "I just didn't want to keep you tied up any longer than necessary."
She blinked at the poor choice of words but the flight attendant had already turned away, no longer willing to risk her job for someone who didn't want to be helped.
"Out we go," Declan nodded, his hand landing on her hip. "You first."
She tried to maneuver away from his touch as she reached the small staircase attached to the plane. He deftly adjusted each time, never losing contact but ending with his hand firmly molded around her ass cheek as she reached the asphalt.
"Stop it," she growled under her breath as the chauffeur finished loading Declan's bags and trotted over to retrieve her rolling case.
"This, too," Declan said, slipping her backpack off her shoulder and handing it to the man.
Smoothing a lock of hair back to expose her ear, Declan whispered into it. "Don't want anything between us on the drive."
Before she could change her mind, the chauffeur had the trunk closed and was holding the door open for her. She turned, gave Declan a hard stare that warned him against any monkey business then climbed inside the limousine. He slid in after her, graceful despite his longer frame.
Declan said nothing until the driver got behind the wheel. Right before he raised the tinted glass partition separating them from the driver, Declan told the man to proceed to the baggage terminal for JetFly at LAX.
"That needs to go back down," she protested, reaching for the remote control.
Grinning, he tucked the device behind him.
"Juvenile jackass," she hissed.
"No, sticking it down my pants would have been juvenile," he countered, lips pursing despite the smile. "This is just a little harmless teasing."
"Sure, if you get to define harmless." Throwing her arms across her chest, Melanie slid all the way down the bench seat to hug the other side of the vehicle.
"Funny how you were supposed to be out of my life by now but aren't."
The words and his tone drew her gaze to Declan. His hands were folded in his lap, his attention focused on them. He seemed to be in a confessional, thinking deep thoughts as emotion slowly leaked from the edges of his expression. His hand ticked upward to stroke a finger just once along the bridge of his nose between his gray eyes.
"Whatever improv acting you're doing right now, cut it the fuck out," she barked. "I'm not impressed."
"Improv?" His tone hardened and she flinched. "Is that what you think I was doing last night when I first saw you in the kitchen?"
The look on his face when he’d first seen her at her mother’s house had made her feel bad enough, but what he’d said to her, how he’d reacted…
He’s made the situation sound a thousand times worse specifically because it was her.
“No, that’s precisely my point. You weren't acting then. You were staring daggers at me, and you’d been even more upset specifically because it was me standing there—that was all too real. This..." she stopped and waved wildly between then. "This is the fake part. The completely crazy part. The will-you-just-quit-it part.”
"If you're so sure, then kiss me," he said, reviving his earlier challenge. "Or do you think I'm that good of an actor?"
Hands fisted in frustration, she did her best not to let him goad her into doing this.
It didn't matter if he faked the kiss. If she let him get that close, get that much into her intimate space, she'd lie to herself seven ways to Sunday about how it all felt so real that it must be genuine. With his earth-sized ego, that was likely part of his plan.
Declan slid along the seat until a foot or less of space separated them. Slowly, he reached his hand out then slid it behind her neck.
"Come on, Melalee, it'll just take a second for you to prove once and for all that I'm lying, to expose me as a liar, as a fake, as some cruel, wicked bastard—"
His throat seized on the last word, then his jaw went rigid.
She could tell that wasn’t an act. Somehow, she just knew this wasn’t a reaction he normally had to that word. Given the recent developments in his life, she imagined he was still processing and dealing with it.
For one split second, she thought he would pull away, retreat entirely. But he didn't.
Instead, his eyes locked on hers for a long second before his grip on the back of her neck tightened. He gave her another second to back away before drawing her roughly to him when she didn’t.
Just like that, his mouth became relentless in claiming the kiss he’d been trying to coax out of her.
Her arms, trapped between them, pushed upward. Her hands molded around his face as she tried to pull back. His hard mouth softened, the heat of his lips softening hers in turn. Her nails dented the skin along his hairline and at the edge of his jaw as indecision curled her hands.
She trembled against him when he took his first gentle bite
of her bottom lip then sucked it past his teeth. He released his grip on her neck, his fingers sliding up to grab hold of the pony tail she had fashioned on the airplane. He pulled at the elastic band holding it in place as his other hand snaked its way to wrap lightly around her throat.
"Fuck," he growled, pausing so they could both gulp in air. "You have no idea how hard it was being in bed with you last night, unable to touch you."
Still fighting to catch her breath, Melanie tried to turn her head so he couldn't kiss her again. Declan laughed, the sound a low, rumbling warning. He cupped the underside of her chin, his other hand thoroughly knotted in her hair.
His lips brushed against her ear. "You still think I'm acting?"
Her mouth quivered. She couldn't push an answer out. She felt exactly as she had predicted—too wrapped up in the sensation of his touch that she was willing to believe anything he said.
"Mulling it over, huh?"
His lips brushed a soft, warm line down her neck that he retraced upwards with the tip of his tongue. With the grip he had on her face, he forced her mouth to return to his but didn't kiss her again. Instead, he tormented the edges of her lips, their corners, his touch light but magnetic.
And then he bit the fat pout of her bottom lip and sucked on it. His hand moved down, back to her throat for a few seconds before firmly cupping one of Melanie's swollen breasts. She gasped at the contact. Her nipples, already hard tipped, began to throb. Her pussy took up the same pulsing rhythm. Her mouth shaped and reshaped itself as Declan continued to almost, but never quite, kiss her.
A frustrated whimper bubbled up her throat.
"Baby," he tormented. "If I didn't know better, I'd think I had your pussy all wet and achy."
Melanie whimpered again, this time the sound one of pleasure and anguish.
She was just a game to him, someone to hurt so he felt better about whatever issues he had with his dead father and the man's family.
"Am I wrong?" he asked, chewing along the curve of her jaw and down her neck. His hand slipped from squeezing at her breast to push between her thighs and cup her mound. "Do you want me in here? Are you going to let my cock into this sweet pussy? Are you going to let my mouth taste it, let me bite and kiss and suck at your little pearl while my fingers fuck in and out of you?"
A shudder ran through Melanie. She came for the first time at Declan's touch, his dirty words and the images they provoked pushing her over the edge.
Sensing victory, he pulled back and cupped the sides of her face, his gaze searching her expression for confirmation that he had just won his little game.
"You believe me now?" he rasped.
He leaned forward, his mouth zeroing in on hers until she released a small cry and shook her head. There was no afterglow to what her body had experienced. She felt weak for having climaxed in his arms.
Weak and foolish.
Seeing the exit sign for the airport over his shoulder, she shook her head.
"No, I don't," she told him. "And now I never will."
12
"I have a private investigator who is sweet on me," Cammie said, pulling into the parking space assigned to the apartment she and Melanie shared. "I bet I can get him to do some free digging on this Roger dude for you."
"I bet you could," Melanie answered and forced a grin she wasn't feeling. "But I can't have you do that."
Rolling her lips together, she crushed the urge to tell her roommate and best friend the whole story—especially the part about Declan. But for some reason she was protecting the bastard.
Oops, wrong word, she thought as she remembered how a switch had seemed to flip inside him when he'd used the word "bastard" in the limo.
Sighing, she opened her door and climbed out of the ancient Honda.
"You said he's a businessman," Cammie protested. "If you're worrying about him noticing someone's checking up on him, I bet it happens all the time."
Melanie pulled her bags out of the backseat before answering. "You're probably right."
It wasn't Roger finding out someone was snooping on him that was the problem. Melanie worried that anyone digging into the personal side of Roger's life would discover his relationship to Declan. The chance might be slim, but a media shit storm would hit the proverbial fan if that information was then leaked.
Declan would undoubtedly be furious. Paparazzi would camp on her mother's front lawn in Denver—at least while her mom and Roger were still there. Hell, they'd probably even follow Melanie around until something juicier came up with another celebrity.
So maybe she wasn't protecting Declan at all. Maybe it was her mom and her own quiet life she was trying to preserve.
"So," Cammie said, unlocking the apartment door and holding it open for Melanie. "If I'm probably right, why don't you let me at least ask my guy?"
"I don't want to do that to my mom." A real smile tugged at the top of her lip but she kept it concealed. It was easier to tell a truth out of context than a straight up lie. She'd have to remember that little trick later. "Besides, right now I just don't like the guy as a matter of principle—the new stepdad smell isn't like a new car smell."
Cammie giggled. "Honestly, new cars stink."
Melanie rolled her eyes. "Coming from a woman whose car smells like tacos and patchouli."
"You should be so lucky to have a car that smells like tacos and patchouli," Cammie swatted back before sticking her tongue out.
"You're right." Melanie apologized with a tight hug. "Thank you for picking me up."
"Ooh," Cammie squeed in the middle of the embrace. "You didn't give me one at the airport. You had me seriously worried until you said your mom got married on vacation. You looked so upset I thought maybe she called you up there to tell you she was terminally ill or something."
Pulling back, Melanie studied her friend to see if she was joking. There was no hint of a tease in Cammie's features. She was absolutely serious.
"I guess I'm just being a brat about it," Melanie offered, taking her rolling case into the bedroom they shared and putting away her clothes. "Everything just happened so suddenly."
Another truth delivered out of context, she thought. Her mood at LAX was solely because of Declan—what he'd done, what she’d let him do and how her own body had betrayed her.
"Well, if I know you," Cammie said, coming up behind Melanie and resting her chin on Melanie's shoulder. "Two weeks of work on the crazy paced set of some soap opera will leave you too happy and too busy to worry about ole Dodgy Roger!"
"That," Melanie agreed. "And some discreet online snooping."
13
Phone vibrating at three a.m. Monday morning, Melanie reached under her pillow and turned her alarm off. Rolling onto her side, she stuck one leg over the edge of her mattress so she would have a harder time falling asleep.
From the opposite side of the room, she heard Cammie yawn, the bedsprings creaking as she stretched. "You sure you don't want me to drive you?"
"I'm sure," Melanie answered and sat up, her torso sagging forward. "Go back to sleep."
Cammie didn't respond, but a few seconds later, a soft whistle blew from her side of the room before being absorbed by her pillow. Smiling, Melanie slipped on her house shoes and quietly shuffled into the living room, shutting the door behind her.
Her workbag waited near the door and she'd left her clothes for the day neatly folded in the bathroom after she’d showered the night before. Stretching and releasing a monster yawn, she plodded into the kitchen and grabbed the breakfast smoothie she’d made before going to bed.
She took it with her into the bathroom, swallowing mouthfuls in between washing her face, applying her foundation and a little color to her cheeks, then getting dressed. Finished with the drink, she brushed her teeth, returned to the kitchen to rinse out the container then headed for the bus stop, the sounds of Cammie sleeping having warped from the whistle of an itty bitty choo choo train to the bone shaking rattle of an angry bear.
An hour a
nd a half later, Melanie arrived at the studio sound stage where the soap opera was filmed. After getting a visitor's badge, a security guard escorted her to the wardrobe area where her temporary supervisor, John McCabe, was waiting.
Arriving a quarter of an hour early, she didn't expect to see such a sour expression on the man's face—or for his expression to warp from sour to downright furious when the guard introduced her.
"You can walk her right back off the lot," McCabe sniped. "Miss Archer doesn't have a job here."
She wanted to protest that there was some mistake, but the look on McCabe's face made it clear he knew who she was. She didn't even need to ask him why she was being fired before she had even started.
Hollywood lived on favors. Someone had called a favor in, or offered a favor, to get her fired with such venom. That someone had to be Declan Bain. Apparently rejecting him had bruised his ego badly enough that he was willing to trade favors with a nothing little soap opera to ruin a two-week gig that Melanie badly needed.
Worse than that—word would quickly spread about her getting pushed off the show because someone far higher up the food chain was pissed off at her. The effect would snowball.
She might as well call her mom and accept Roger's offer.
"Why is she still here?" McCabe yelled at the guard as Melanie stared mutely at the floor.
"Miss?"
The guard was on the old side, with a gentle voice. She looked up at him, her gaze wet with the need to cry, and offered him a nod and a faltering smile. She turned, letting him lead her out of the building and off the lot.
Less than twenty minutes after she had arrived at her new gig, she was sitting at the bus stop, biting at her lip and waiting for the next bus on her route home to arrive.
A cross-town bus stopped and a woman got off. She wore sensible shoes and a pink maid's outfit with a sweater wrapped around her thin shoulders. Like the guard, she was already in the third act of her life.
The woman offered a friendly nod, which Melanie returned before she resumed staring blankly at the road.