She pushed him onto his back. He reached out, but she shook her head, caramel hair tumbling around her face. “I’m in charge tonight.”
He hardened instantly.
She held his wrists and guided them to the iron posts at the bed head. “Hold on.”
“You going to tie me up?” He couldn’t stop grinning at the thought. Stacy’d never shown this dominant side before; he liked it.
“Not if you keep holding on. No touching, otherwise I will.” She traced a line across his chest, with light, teasing fingertips. Then she straddled him, and bent to claim his mouth.
God, he wanted to touch. Wanted to feel. Not touching was already torture.
She arched her back and flattened her chest to his, moving side to side, the hard points of her nipples brushing against him. Her inner thighs contracted, squeezing his hips. Then her hand moved lower, and her fingers curled around his cock. She murmured words explicitly saying what she wanted, where she wanted him.
“Condom.” He forced out through gritted teeth.
She sat up, and leaned over to reach the bedside table, retrieved one, and ripped the foil, then scooted down his thighs a fraction, and sheathed him.
“You’re doing very well.” She breathed in, expanding her rib cage, and forcing her beautiful breasts up. In the dim light cast by the bedside lamp, she looked like a fantasy. Like a Botticelli nude, or a playboy pinup. “I know you want to touch me.”
He did, but the game she was playing was worth not acting on his impulses.
She rocked forward, until her heat was brushing against him, then rotated her pelvis until he groaned. “You’re killing me.”
She just smiled, a wait-for-it smile, then she did some sort of shimmy and he was at her entrance. Deliciously slowly, she eased onto him, and that was it. The game was over. He gripped her hips, and rather than complain she laughed, low and throaty, and gripped onto his shoulders as he devoured her mouth.
Their tongues tangled, her hair brushed against the side of his face, surrounding him in a perfumed haze. He smoothed over the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, then flicked his fingers over her erect nipples. The desire to taste warred with reluctance to shift her position, because the way her inner muscles were clutching him was just too delicious. He palmed her breasts, loving the way she moaned into his mouth, and let her ride him.
She eased up until he was almost out of her, then slammed back down onto him, again and again, faster and faster. He held her face, then her hips again, gripping her so tightly his fingers would leave marks on her flesh.
This was no soft and gentle loving, no unhurried exploration of each other’s bodies. It was raw, primal, out of control. The sounds she was making heated his blood to boiling, focused his attention on giving her everything.
He forced a hand between their slick bodies, rubbed his thumb over her clit, and felt a surge of male pride when her body shuddered and clutched around his.
Hold on…
She cried his name, and there was no holding on any longer. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and with a couple of deep, desperate thrusts, followed her into bliss.
Chapter Twelve
As they approached the studio the following morning, the hope that perhaps the whole situation had died down was completely blown out of the water. A phalanx of cars, and even a couple of camera crews were crowded around the front door.
Adam swore. “Will we make a run for it?”
“Too late.” They’d been spotted. The crowd was already heading their direction. She’d be damned if she’d abandon her plan for the day by running and hiding. “It’ll be okay.” She breathed deep, and clutched her bag between curled fingers.
Once Adam parked she exited the car quickly.
“Miss Gold! Over here! Stacy!”
She plastered on a professional smile. Took a deep breath. Then turned to face the cameras. “Good morning.”
Someone shoved a mic under her nose. “What’s your reaction to the news that your manager is in critical condition?”
Biting back her first response, she composed her expression to neutral. “It’s terrible news. I’m afraid I don’t have any more information than you do, but I hope Lester will recover.”
“We’ve been hearing reports that he’s under investigation by the FBI for embezzlement. Have you any comment?”
They’d done their homework. “I’m afraid I can’t comment.” She blazed her camera-ready smile. “I’m sorry, but I need to get inside. I have work to do.”
There were calls for her to pose to the right and to the left, but she ignored them; the last thing that was appropriate was to be photographed smiling like an idiot above an article about her crooked manager fighting for his life. Adam curled a hand around her elbow. He stood close, forming a solid barrier between her and the throng, then quickstepped her into the building.
Sean unlocked the door as they approached. “We’ve had people sneaking in all morning.” Before the journalists could intrude, he twisted the key in the lock. Turning to them with wild eyes, he shoved a hand through his hair. “It’s crazy. I didn’t even get a chance to call you, to warn you...”
Stacy placed a hand on his arm. The poor guy looked stressed enough to have a heart attack. “Now they have my statement and have taken a few pictures, they should leave us alone.” She tried to give the impression that she wasn’t bothered, but the presence of so many people wanting access to her made her nervous and set her pulse racing. It was always like this, whenever she found herself in a situation she couldn’t control. Apollo had shielded her from most of it, his huge bulk commanded respect and kept people at bay.
She glanced back. The crowd was watching through the glass, still taking photographs. “We should move.” She walked with studied nonchalance into the safe confines of the studio.
“Thank god for the lack of windows in here.”
Christine and the director, Eamonn, hurried over. “You can’t be expected to work under these conditions,” Eamonn said. “I’m so sorry to hear about your manager.”
“Thank you.” She moved away from that topic of conversation—there was no point in discussing Lester. “But I’ll be fine. I just need to catch my breath.” She swung a chair around and sat down. “They scent blood in the water. There’s no way I’ll be able to find any peace today, they’ll follow me wherever I go.” She dropped her bag onto the floor. “I want to be here. Today, I don’t want to be Stacy Gold. I want to be the squirrel.”
“You want to be the squirrel?” Eamonn’s expression matched Sean’s. “You...uh...”
“She wants to be the squirrel.” Christine crossed her arms. “What Stacy means by that is that she wants to get into character.” She arched a brow. “She’s been doing an excellent job of being the squirrel all week.”
“Right.” Relief was evident in Eamonn’s smile. “I thought you were losing it then.”
Stacy shook her head. “I just want to work.”
When the others left, she went to the corner of the room and poured a cup of coffee. Christine joined her. “How are you?” Her head tilted to the side, and the warmth of her genuine concern cut through the walls Stacy had erected to get through the day. “Whatever you want to do today, I’ll do.”
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted to work. Things are crazy, and likely to get crazier over the next few days. I want to make sure that we get the work done we need to. I don’t want to slow production of the film.”
“You won’t.” Christine patted Stacy’s back. “We have a studio in the States, so if you have to leave, you will be able to continue recording from a distance. I just needed to be here to help you until you got the hang of things. But I’m confident you can continue without me if needs be.” She handed over a sheaf of papers. “Okay, so how about we work on this scene this morning?”
It was a relief to retreat from the world outside and immerse herself into the world of a country squirrel making her way in the big city. Christine
read the alternate parts, really living the roles she portrayed, making it easy for Stacy to record her segments, and time passed quickly. Before she knew it, they had the first scene in the bag, and rather than taking a break, Stacy continued on to the next scene. When that was done, Christine suggested they look through the rest of the script at the table.
“After lunch, I’d planned on recording a scene where Bibi hears that her mother is sick, but it’s fairly intense, so maybe you want to skip that today. We could work on another fun scene instead?”.
“Let me just read through it.”
Christine passed over stapled sheets. “I’ll just go and talk to Eamonn for a couple of minutes.”
Stacy scooted back in the chair and started to read. The scene started with Bibi giving her first public performance in front of a live audience in The Nuttery, a nightclub in the big city. She’d made a couple of friends at this stage, and they sat in the audience, cheering her on. When the performance was over, a local talent scout involved with The Springtime Festival, sidled over and offered her a spot in the festival in the park that was happening the following day.
Bibi was delighted. Excited. All her plans were coming to fruition. Her friends toasted her success with acorns full of mead. Who knew squirrels drank mead?
Then, in the crowd, she saw a familiar face. A neighbor and friend from home, Benji, a rabbit from the nearby hillock hopping toward her. When he passed on the news that her mother was sick—that she’d crawled into their drey and was refusing to eat, Bibi instantly knew what she needed to do. Even though she would miss the concert the following day, even though she might be throwing away the chance she’d come to the big city to find, she had to go home.
There followed a sequence of her trekking out of the city, avoiding obstacles like people and traffic, with Benji by her side. When they made it safely into the countryside, the script reported that the visuals would be a montage of ‘fun times Bibi had with her mother’. Stacy’s lips moved as she soundlessly read the words, bringing them to life in Bibi’s voice.
Bibi’s mother tucking her into bed at night, after reading her a story. Making her breakfast, walking her to school, and being there the moment the bell rang to bring her home again. Nursing her when she was sick. Lighting the candles on her birthday cake, and singing Happy Birthday as she blew them out.
Stacy’d never had a birthday cake.
Or been walked to school.
Even a fictional squirrel had a better childhood than she had.
She tossed the script onto the table, and covered her eyes with her hand.
A year after her first album came out, she’d begged Lester to take her back. The hope was still alive that maybe they’d be proud of her. That somehow the fact that she’d managed to make something beautiful might change things.
Her mother looked smaller than she remembered. She stood in the doorway and stared at Stacy with no recognition in her blank eyes. Her name was Belle, but there was nothing beautiful about her drink reddened face and unwashed skin. When Stacy’d introduced herself, she’d shaken her head so vehemently her greasy hair swung.
“I don’t have a daughter.” She made to shut the door, but then glanced over to Lester at Stacy’s side. She blinked. “I remember you. You’re the guy who sends the money.”
Lester nodded.
“You still send the money, right?” Her eyes narrowed.
“I still send the money.” He stepped to the side, partially shielding Stacy from her mother’s sight—if her mother could be bothered to look, that is.
“I do what you say. I remember. I don’t have a daughter.” There was pride in Belle’s raspy voice. “Say, I’m running short this month, could you spare me something to tide me over?”
Lester peeled off a couple of fifties and handed them over.
Stacy never asked to be taken to see them again.
She threw the script onto the table, and cursed how unsettled she felt reliving the past. He may have stolen from her, but when Lester had taken her away from that life he’d saved her too.
Then another memory materialized. Of school, and the teacher who had mysteriously brought too much lunch every day. An extra sandwich, which she’d handed Stacy surreptitiously. What was her name? The answer was elusive, long forgotten, even though the face of that teacher, who had also taught Stacy to play the guitar and wanted her to join the school band, could never be forgotten.
She’d be proud. Instead of her parents, she should have asked Lester to take her back to school, to show the teacher what she’d achieved, despite her start in life.
But just as she couldn’t remember that teacher’s name, the teacher probably never even learned her student’s new name. Ten years ago, Stacy had driven away in Lester’s car, never looking back. A new life, a new identity, a new beginning, all wrapped in denial of what had gone before, what had shaped her, had been the way she’d dealt with everything.
And when the woman at the door of the apartment that had been her home for fourteen years wouldn’t even acknowledge her, that last spark of hope had been snuffed out.
A lifetime of rejection had taught her to avoid the risk and run.
The door swung open, and Christine walked in. “Let’s go to lunch.” Her gaze took in the discarded script. “Have you decided what we’ll work on this afternoon?”
“Yes.” Stacy stood. “Anything but that.”
*****
Their contact at Plaxtair was unhappy. So unhappy, he’d forced himself from bed to host an urgent Skype call.
Adam and Sean sat one side of the desk while the flinty-eyed, suit-clad executive stared at them through the screen. Adam had only had a couple of meetings with Barney Meisner—both of which had been laid back get to know yous, rather than the hardball kick-assing that Barney now seemed ready to deliver.
“Management isn’t happy, guys. We don’t want the name of our corporation linked to a possible conman, and right now every time Lester Jones is mentioned, the fact that Stacy is working on our movie comes in the next sentence. You need to get a handle on this.”
“Stacy is a victim here.” Adam crossed his arms. “Her manager took a for everything she had.”
“Yet she knew this when she took on the job.” Barney’s eyes narrowed. “As did you. You knew damn well that the character’s image was important—hell, we fired the previous actress for immoral behavior—and yet you still failed to flag this as a possible problem.”
“Stacy has done nothing wrong.” Adam gritted his teeth.
“In that case, all she has to do is make a statement. Tell the world that she isn’t involved in any fraudulent dealings. That her manager cheated her. I don’t want to recast the role again, but I will if we have no choice. We can’t afford bad publicity.” His brow furrowed. “We won’t accept it. The contract between us states you comply with our conditions.” He leafed through the stapled sheaf of papers before him, then stabbed at the text with his index finger. “Here. Clause nine: neither party will bring the project into disrepute. This is a deal breaker. We’ve pumped money into this project, and I know you have too. We want to see this project made; the last thing we want to do is cancel, but if you don’t get this cleared up within thirty-six hours, it’s either a new actress or the end of our collaboration.”
Sean leaned forward. “You can’t do that to us.”
Barney stared back, resolute. “We can, and we will. You don’t seem to understand, Sean. Plaxtair isn’t just a company, it’s a juggernaut. If legal gets involved I’ll have no chance of redeeming the situation. I’ve been given thirty-six hours, no more.” He looked to his left and the sound of someone speaking could dimly be heard. “Yes.”
He returned his attention to the Skype call. “Thirty-six hours. Keep in touch.”
The screen went blank.
“We have to talk to her.” Sean’s voice was urgent, agitated. He propelled himself from the chair to stride around the conference room. “Every penny I have is invested i
n this project. If Plaxtair pulls out, we’re screwed.” His hands clenched into fists. “They’re being totally unreasonable—this whole disaster isn’t Stacy’s fault. We need to get her in here and explain the situation. She has to make a statement today.”
The record label wanted her to come to a deal with Lester and make the scandal go away. Plaxtair wanted the complete opposite, that she should expose him as a cheating crook, and distance herself. She was putting on a brave face, appearing hard, but that shell was brittle and he didn’t know how much she could take before she cracked. Bringing her in here and delivering another ultimatum wouldn’t happen if he had anything to do with it.
“She will.” Placating Sean was step one. “Right now she’s working. I don’t want to break the flow, she needs to put in the hours, even more once this drama blows over. Tomorrow is soon enough to make a statement, we don’t want to rush into this and botch it.”
He forced a smile. “My butt is on the line just as much as yours. You know I poured all my money into this movie too. It’ll get made. We need more information about what’s going on back in the States—we’re out of the action here. Stacy has been in touch with a couple of people, and they’ll be reporting back this afternoon. I’ll talk to her and we’ll put together a plan.”
Sean forced his hand through his hair, and tugged at the neck of his T-shirt. “Don’t screw up.”
“I won’t.”
Soon after Sean left, Adam’s cell chimed, with Apollo’s name showing on the screen.
“Hey.”
“Hi. I’ve been trying to call Stacy, but her cell is going to voice mail.”
“She must have turned it off.” He glanced through the open door. The light shone red over the studio door, warning people not to enter. “She’s recording in the studio. What have you got for us?”
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