by Christa Wick
Melanie slid her key in the lock and threw another glance at Declan, warning him to not barge past her. Opening the door, she stuck her head inside.
"Hey, Cam, I'm home with a visitor."
"What the hell?" Cammie's voice sounded from the bedroom, the tone delighted and surprised. She raced into the living room, her rechargeable curling iron in one hand and a mascara brush in the other as she prepared to head to work.
Next to Melanie but out of sight in the hall, Declan cleared his throat. She looked at him, eyes pleading for him to change his mind and leave her alone. It was late, she'd had a miserable evening with the events at the production company and a miserable, silent ride home as Declan fumed beside her.
"Stop stalling, Mel."
Shoulders sagging, she pushed the door open and gestured for him to enter. He moved past her, his entrance into the apartment marked by a squeal from Cammie.
"Girl, you're killing me!"
Melanie would have laughed at the outburst any other day—or if Declan Bain wasn't the first male she'd ever brought to their apartment.
"You're starting to smoke," Declan observed as Melanie followed behind him, her back turned to the scene as she shut and locked the door.
The wry tone and the words confused her until she smelled what he was talking about.
"Cammie, your hair!"
"Oh, shit!" Cammie yanked the iron away and ran into the bathroom. "Don't go anywhere!"
Declan turned toward Melanie, his face finally relaxing.
For half a minute—then he jabbed a finger at the wall behind her.
"What is that?"
Seeing the gossamer bit of nothing that had given her fits to sew, she felt all the blood leave her face. If Declan wasn't happy about where she lived—not that it was any of his damn business—he'd likely be even more disgruntled if he figured out what Cammie did for a living.
"I'm a costume designer, remember?" She tried to turn her tone snarky, but she practically whispered her reply so her roommate wouldn't hear.
"Whew, no real damage," Cammie chirped, coming back into the cramped living room. "That's a relief!"
Oblivious to the blonde's return, Declan stepped past Melanie to touch the outfit.
Cammie noticed his interest and wrapped her arms around Melanie's shoulders in a tight hug.
"Isn't our girl brilliant? She made that little bit of nothing for me and it triples my tips."
Declan turned, his brows shooting up as Cammie continued to speed talk. She was always high energy, Melanie mused, but the movie star's presence threatened to push Cammie into overdrive.
"I wish I could wear it every set, but it would probably lose its mojo, at least with the regulars." She squeezed Melanie again and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Her next design challenge is to quadruple my tips."
His gaze glued on Melanie's face, Declan stepped within a foot of the women.
"So, let me get this straight," he said and raised the first of too damn many fingers. "You live in probably the worst ranked neighborhood—"
"Not even the top 25 for how bad it is," Cammie huffed. A native Angelino, she'd grown up in far worse neighborhoods.
Ignoring her, Declan raised a second finger. "With a perimeter fence a toddler could climb over."
A third finger popped up to tempt Melanie into wondering what it would take to break it before he went too far in his assessment of her life and its surroundings.
"No building security, and a str—"
"Don't go there," Melanie growled as his gaze flicked toward her best friend. "You promised not to be a jerk."
"An exotic dancer," he corrected as he lifted the fourth finger. "Who probably has creeps trying to follow her home all the time."
"Hey," Cammie objected, her voice going high and thin. "I'm super careful!"
"I'm sure you are." Declan forced a polite smile in her direction before his cloudy gaze zeroed in on Melanie once more. "You’re coming home with me. You've got twenty minutes to pack your bags."
"The hell I am!" Her hands molded around her hips, her fingers digging into the fleshy curves as she stepped closer to him, her neck straining so she could meet his ridiculously determined gaze.
It didn't matter that he had rescued her from Strake that afternoon or that she lived in a dangerous part of the city. He could barely make the argument that she'd be safer with him, not after how he’d behaved on the limo ride from the private airfield to LAX.
"This is where I live," she growled as she jabbed a finger at his chest, his muscles bunched so tight in irritation she couldn't dent their surface. "This is where I pay rent. We have a system and it has kept us safe for three years without your interference or help."
She poked the towering male in front of her one last time then spun on her heel and jerked the lock on the door. A quick twist of the handle and Cammie had to scramble out of the way to avoid getting hit by the door as Melanie threw it open.
"Now walk your patronizing ass out of my apartment."
She spun as she ordered him away, turning back to find him calmly pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and dialing someone. Stunned by his demeanor and the inexplicable time out to make a call, she didn't ask him what he thought he was doing.
It only took her a few seconds to figure it out on her own.
"I need Nancy's number..." Declan paused half a second before his voice turned rough. "Just give me the number, I have no interest in talking to you now or ever."
"Does he mean our Mz. Winslow?" Cammie whispered just as Melanie realized Declan planned on telling her mom about the apartment and maybe even about her roommate's job.
She snatched for his phone but he danced away, a smirk flickering on his face before he started reciting her mother's number as Roger gave it to him.
Without saying goodbye to his uncle, Declan hung up the phone.
"Do I need to call her?"
Melanie blinked, the threat of frustrated and hurt tears making her vision swim. What in the hell was Declan doing? He couldn't possibly care what happened to her. She was just the over-plumped daughter of the woman his estranged uncle had married. Keeping Melanie safe wouldn't make Roger miserable or otherwise put out.
"Melanie Lee," he said, his tone unrelenting. "Do I need to call her?"
She couldn't get her mouth to work. Didn't he understand? The system needed two people—check-ins, two a.m. escorts from the parking lot to the apartment, a second adult in the unit as a deterrent against someone kicking down the door.
Melanie felt safe in the apartment when she was alone. When it was Cammie who was home on her own, she worried.
"It takes two people," she whispered as he pressed to summon the keypad on his phone. "Two people to safely live here."
His brows pinched together then his gaze flashed once on Cammie as Melanie's concern finally penetrated his thick skull.
"Fine," he sighed then nodded at the two women. "Both of you pack your bags."
18
Two hours later, Melanie sat in the bedroom of Declan Bain's guesthouse as Cammie unloaded a trunk of clothes and costumes. Melanie's luggage was in the main house after a failed protest that she should be allowed to stay with Cammie despite the guesthouse having only one bed.
Maintaining her best friend status, Cammie had supported Melanie's arguments, all while mouthing questions of whether Melanie had gone insane whenever Declan had his back turned to the dancer.
"There!" Cammie whooped, filling the last drawer. "Now, unless you fake a heart attack or a seizure, there's nothing left for you to procrastinate over."
Descending onto the bed where Melanie sat, Cammie nudged her with an elbow.
"Now, tell me what is going on between you and Bain before I pass out in anticipation."
Eyes averted, Melanie scraped at the underside of her nails. "Some production executive got all grabby with me today."
From the moment Cammie had let out a delighted squeal over the opportunity to room at Declan's estate fo
r any amount of time until she put the last piece of clothing up, Melanie had been trying to fashion a reasonable story—one that Declan would be able to back up without even thinking about it. She settled on a truth out of context, hopefully one that would distract her roommate enough that she wouldn't poke at the inconsistencies or illogical parts.
"What?" Cammie threw her arms around Melanie. "Are you serious? What happened?"
Pushing up her sleeves, Melanie showed Cammie the bruises around both wrists.
"Did you call the cops?"
Lead filled Melanie's chest and she realized her error in parceling out this part of the truth to Cammie, who had her own history of men who didn't recognize a woman's right to say "no."
"I'm sorry," Melanie apologized, snaking her arms around Cammie's waist and burying her head against the blonde's shoulder. "I know I should have, I know he's likely done things like this before and will again."
"Shhh, baby," Cammie soothed, patting at Melanie's back. "You do what's right for you. Guy like that is going to have money for the worst kind of vulture attorney—if the cops even listen to you."
Cammie pulled back, tears glistening in her brown gaze. "But...well...do you think you should see a doctor?"
Shaking her head, Melanie brushed a tear from Cammie's cheek. "Declan came in before anything really awful happened."
Cammie's eyes went wide and a smile fought back the quiver in her lips. "I noticed some of his knuckles were bloody and some dark spots on his shirt."
"Yeah, that happened after he made me wait out in the limo. Before that, he had the dude in a chokehold. I thought he was going to kill him."
"He likes you—Declan, I mean."
"No." Melanie shook her head, the motion on repeat as she pushed against the idea that the actor could genuinely be interested in her. "I mean maybe like a—"
Her jaws clamped shut, her tongue too slow in retreating behind her teeth. Tasting a little blood, she swallowed it down then wiggled her tongue inside her mouth to make sure she hadn't lost a piece.
Crossing her legs and tucking her feet under them, Cammie stared at Melanie, head tilted off to one side in open speculation.
Lord help me, Melanie prayed. Anyone who thought all strippers were stupid had never met Camryn Goddard. She was sharp as a tack, especially when it came to reading people and situations. She also had a memory that went on forever.
She should have been in college, earning an MBA or a law degree, but she had three younger siblings, one just starting the first grade, and a mortgage in central California for the house they lived in while she danced any shift she could get and shared a room with Melanie in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods Los Angeles had to offer.
"I should unpa—"
"Nope, don't even try to sneak out of here."
Bringing her hand up near her mouth, Cammie tapped out a few rough calculations against her cheek and then her eyebrows went up like a light bulb turning on over her head. "Who did Declan call to get your mother's number? He was a bit of an ass to whomever it was, particularly his tone."
Melanie shook her head, playing dumb.
"Why would he even think to call your mom? You're a grown up. She doesn't pay your bills."
Melanie wanted to shrug, but even the simple gesture felt like a huge lie.
"Please, I..." Melanie stopped before she could whip out the victim card. She couldn't do that, not with Cammie.
"You were supposed to start on the soap opera this week, then you said you'd gotten pre-production, but you didn't mention that the star of your last film is also the star for your current film. Did he get you the job?"
Melanie's throat seized. She couldn't lie, but she couldn't tell the truth. Once she started talking, she'd spill too much. The marriage, Roger being Declan's uncle, how Declan's father had abandoned him, and—worst of all—that she'd orgasmed in the movie star's limo, his mouth on her neck and his hand cupping her pussy over the thin fabric of her slacks.
Cammie frowned and her eyes went all hurt. "When was the last time you heard me gossip?"
"Never," Melanie answered. She knew her friend was tight with a secret. But this was a big secret as far as Hollywood went. Not as big as some. But it was important to Declan.
"Is he the reason you were so upset when you got home Saturday—why you moped around all day Sunday?"
Her brows shot up again as another possibility occurred to her.
"Did you even go to see your mom in Colorado?"
"Yes and yes," Melanie admitted, still searching for a way to twist a lie into a truth and keep Declan's secret. "I got bounced off my flight and I saw Declan at the airport. He had a charter he let me ride back on."
Cammie lifted one perfectly sculpted brow. "And barely a day later, he hands you the kind of job you've been chasing after for three years."
Pouting after several seconds passed with Melanie remaining mute, Cammie untucked her legs and grabbed her bedtime bag. She had called in sick to the club she was scheduled to dance at, explaining in technicolor detail how she had come down with food poisoning and "explosive diarrhea."
"I'm tired," she said. "I think I'm going to wash up and turn in."
Drowning in guilt, Melanie gently caught her friend's hand and looked up at her, eyes pleading for forgiveness. "It's not my secret to tell."
Cammie shook her head, a melancholy smile scarring her face.
"Now you're really lying to me, Melanie Archer."
19
Returning to the main house, Melanie slipped in through the back patio, slunk up the side stairwell, then tiptoed down the long second floor hall to reach the princess suite with its own bath that Declan had put her in.
Opening the door, she found the room not quite as she had left it.
Her empty backpack was still atop the dresser, her phone, laptop and tablet next to it. Similarly, the wheeled carry-on and its larger rolling companion remained where she had placed them against the wall by the closet door after putting away her clothes.
But the bed, which had been pristine and unoccupied when she left with Cammie for the guesthouse, now had Declan's long frame stretched out on it, the quilt beneath him. He had also changed into running pants and a short sleeve compression shirt that gripped every line and curve of his many muscles. White athletic socks covered his feet, the running shoes he must have worn into the room neatly resting on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Realizing by the relaxed jaw and closed eyes that he’d fallen asleep, she stood just inside the room and stared at him. The pure, masculine beauty that included a day's scruff along his chin and cheeks was almost painful to look at.
She moved closer, inch by quiet inch. Seeing him in a bed, one that was supposed to be hers for the night, made her flash back to her room in Colorado, waking up next to him, and, most deliciously, the hard cock that had been pressing against his silk boxers.
Timidly, certain he would pick that moment to wake up, she lowered her gaze to the waistband on his running pants.
Yep, there it was, the thick outline that, even after the terrifying encounter with Strake, made her wet looking at it.
Tiptoeing again, she turned and headed for the bedroom door, Declan's voice drowsy as he woke and called her back.
"Hey, don't run away on me."
She stopped, but didn't look at him, just stared down the hall at her intended escape route.
"You said we would talk after Cammie was settled in."
She didn't need the reminder. She'd only agreed to it so he would stop following her around. Shoulders sagging, she turned to find that he had propped himself up against the headboard and was wiping tiredly at his eyes.
Catching her looking at him, he laughed, the sound as rough as the stubble on his cheek. "I hope you've had as hard a time sleeping since Saturday as I have. If I'm going to be honest, you've been keeping me up for the last two months."
Her spine straightened, all the defeat in her shoulders gone at his outrageous claim.
Reality slammed into her like a pile of lead bricks. This was going to be her life in Los Angeles if she tried to stay and work in film. Declan would keep playing games with her—even after what had happened with Strake!
There was no way she could have been keeping him up for the last two months because Roger hadn't met, let alone married, her mother until five weeks ago. So his statement was a big fat lie unless Declan had been having nightmares about getting stuck under her on set and being smothered to death.
Enough was enough. It was time to put herself far out of his reach by putting herself someplace he would refuse to go.
"I'm calling the production company's office in the morning and quitting," she said, folding her arms across her chest and bracing for whatever argument he was going to throw at her.
"I understand," he said, swinging his feet off the bed.
Melanie took a step back and glanced over her shoulder to make sure the door was still open.
Declan held up his hands and remained sitting. "I just think you should consider that Strake is off the film. He agreed to leave and I agreed not to break every bone in his body."
A small thrill shot through her, but she forced it down. This man, she reminded herself, was not her knight in shining armor. He had, arguably, acted on instinct to protect her from Strake, but he’d been acting on a different instinct when he’d decided to start pushing her around like a pawn in a chess game with his estranged family.
Well, the pawn was packing up and going to Worcester—assuming she could get her new stepfather to agree to cover in advance her half of the rent on the Normandie Avenue apartment for another three months while Cammie found someone new.
"I'm quitting regardless." She sprinkled a layer of ice over her words, even though it made her sad to tell him what she was going to do. She didn't want to start over, didn't want to move away from her best friend or the city that had brought them together.
She swallowed roughly, the knot lodged in her throat refusing to budge.
"I'm good with that," he said, her intent still not clear to him. "You can take time off or I'll find you another gig. Either way, you won't need to worry about expenses."