"But you had some influence."
He runs his tongue along his teeth. "Our chemistry stood out, apparently."
"Chemistry? I was pissed off with you in the test scene."
"Oh, come on, Myf. You know audiences lap up that kind of conflict. Maybe our situation helped you." He lowers his voice. "You haven’t given me an answer yet. I’ve waited for you to return my call for a week."
A harassed-looking guy holding a clipboard approaches us. "Don’t make Roger wait. If he gets into a bad mood, then we’re all in for pain."
"Ah, he’ll relax after a few drinks at my place," says Tate with a smile.
"What drinks?" I ask.
He flourishes a hand. "There’s one thing to sit around a table to meet and greet, far different to socialise and really get to know each other." The clipboard guy grins. "Could you excuse us? I’m discussing a few things with my new co-star."
The guy clutches his board tighter. "Oh, right. See you later."
"Sure thing, Gary."
Disappointment flickers across the young guy’s face. "Lee."
"Lee. Later."
I watch as the skinny guy strides away. "Everybody is going to your house?"
"Most people. Including you."
"If I want to."
He laughs and throws me a pitying look. "You have no choice. You’re too important, Mrs Daniels."
"Don’t call me that."
"Well, I can only presume you’ve agreed to be since I never heard from you."
A harassed young woman calls our names and beckons us over. "Didn’t Lee tell you we’re back on?"
"Oh, I’m so sorry, Julie." He places an arm on hers. Funny how he remembers the women’s names and how his smile flicks a switch in them I recognise. Charmed out of their irritation—and occasionally their underwear, I’m sure.
"After you." He gestures for me to walk ahead of him. "We can talk later, Myfanwy."
13
The Uber I catch with three excited girls who work on set design pulls into a narrow laneway, opposite the highway we’ve struggled along the last fifteen minutes. The black Lexus approaches a gatehouse where the balding, uniformed man makes a call on his two-way, and satisfied we’re allowed inside the complex, he opens the barrier.
Several houses lie behind, in the gated community, each hidden behind palm trees and hibiscus bushes. The environment has a Mediterranean theme, the surrounding features terracotta or emulating classic Italy, from the fountains to the pillars at the houses’ frontage.
I imagined Tate’s residence as a sprawling, modern Hollywood home in the hills, or one overlooking the ocean. This community is exclusive, but his home isn’t unique. Not what I expected.
The Mediterranean theme spreads through the house, and on arrival, I wrinkle my nose at the ostentatious tackiness. A marble staircase stretches upwards, cornices in the centre of the ceiling copying Renaissance pictures.
Tate earned a ludicrous figure per episode in his last show; surely he can buy somewhere bigger and secluded? I overhear a girl ask Tate the question. Apparently, he rents this house while waiting for a place he’s buying in the hills. I snort to myself, probably waiting for the biggest and best he can fit his head in.
As I stand at the edge of Tate’s sprawling lounge room with my mineral water, I watch proceedings. I haven’t touched alcohol since my wedding day. Not one drop. I don’t intend to become teetotal, but for the foreseeable future, I’m not mixing drinking with social functions. Most socialising recently has been daytime lunches and catch-ups with my closest friends. Those meetings are few and far between due to my efforts pursuing acting roles, and avoidance of any who’re mutual friends with Miles.
I congratulate myself at my teetotal wisdom, and I’m one of half a dozen cast and crew not drinking and spend time amused by the other’s antics. Most behaviour remains conservative but one group, younger executives, draw attention with their raucous antics in the corner.
How pissed off was Tate when he discovered my casting as his co-star? Impossible to tell after one conversation. Me? I alternated between floating above cloud nine that I have this opportunity and watching the ground speed towards me as this can only end in disaster.
No, the Tate issue will be his problem if he can’t handle spending time around me. Especially after my ultimatum heading his way tonight.
We’ve caught each other’s eyes a few times, but always somebody stepped in front of either of us to talk or introduce themselves. I’m an expert at remembering names, but the number involved in this show may prove tricky to memorise.
Eleven o’clock and following an exhausting first day, plus wanting to be rested for tomorrow, I toy with calling another Uber. The increased drunkenness in the room puts me off staying any longer in case somebody approaches me. I’m not in the mood for dealing with inebriated people.
Tate’s disappeared again and irritation flares. Naomi, cast as my other FBI colleague, attached herself to Tate earlier, and he paid her more attention than many other girls who approached him. Now the pair has disappeared. Is Naomi aware she’s his second today, after Savannah? Maybe there’re more?
Images of Tate and Savannah in his trailer infiltrate my mind, and I chastise myself for caring. But I do. He could at least wait to hear what I say before returning to his old ways. His attitude sets my teeth on edge, as if the whole situation is a mere blemish he needs to wipe away.
I hear a nearby show producer make his excuses and goodbyes before leaving, and this is my cue to set down my half-empty glass and follow suit.
Uber called, I head to the bathroom.
Tate’s home is deceptively large, spanning three floors. I resist the temptation to peek into the closed doors in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. Who knows what surprises I might find behind one?
The surprise instead awaits me a few minutes later as I step back out. Tate rests against the wall opposite with a drink in his hand, below an oil painting depicting a Mediterranean coastline. Tate’s the face of the latest boutique men’s fragrance, his current pose familiar from the shoot. He rests his head against the wall, face tilted upwards and eyes down, exuding sex the way he does from magazine ads and screen. Watching. Waiting.
"Mrs Daniels. I haven’t had a chance to speak to you all evening."
I straighten in alarm. "Shush!" He laughs. "Are you drunk?"
"No more than most. Can we talk?"
"Here?"
"Or in there?" He gestures at a room next to the bathroom.
"No. I’m not walking into a room with you, alone."
"Why? Frightened what you might be tempted to do?" The sexy Tate smirk creeps across his face.
"Fine." I fling open the door and step inside. "This won’t take long."
"Won’t it? I’m not usually quick." He sidles after me, whispering the words in my ear. Hairs lift on the back of my neck.
"Drop the innuendo, Tate."
He snorts. "You’re behaving very Brit tonight. Where’s the fun-filled Myf?"
"I’m not in the mood. I’ve waited half the night to talk to you about our situation, but you’ve spent most of it cosying up to actresses."
"Actress," he corrects. "And I was being polite."
"Really? You’re already very polite to a few actresses in the show, aren’t you?"
“What can I say? I’m a nice guy.” Is he playing dumb or completely missed my double meaning?
Tate begins to close the door, and I stick my foot in the doorway. "Leave that open."
He shrugs and lets the handle go. I itch to mention Savannah, but what’s the point? We’re only married, not as if we’re in a relationship or anything. Ha ha ha.
I lean past Tate and flick the dimmer switch. My eyes accustom to the room, and relief edges in I’m not in a bedroom, but a small sitting room. Glass doors at the opposite end of the room open onto a balcony.
Tate rests against the wall again. "You know how to keep a guy hanging, don’t you? I’ve waited for your call. I need to know what y
ou’ve decided about the marriage.”
"I was busy. It was on my to-do list."
He laughs at my pointed look. "Touché. I haven’t heard from my lawyer, so I presume you’re okay with the arrangement I suggested?"
Now. Here. Who’s in control? I pause, and we eye each other the way we did as Brit and Dev—as I attempt to communicate I won’t take any of his crap. His mouth twitches in amusement.
"Myfanwy? Answer?"
I look over to the glass doors and balcony, aware I’ll possibly regret my next question. "How long do you want to stay married, Tate?"
"November?"
"That’s three months!"
"Correct." Tate sets his glass on a table close by, then crosses his arms over his chest. "You know what confuses me?" I shake my head. "There’re hundreds of girls out there who’d give everything for a piece of Tate Daniels. Why aren’t you grabbing the opportunity to get your hands on me?"
I scoff. "Seriously, Tate? Why would my lack of interest in you be different to six years ago?"
"Come on. Based on your repeated attempts to get my clothes off in Vegas, you clearly wanted the full experience." His eyes glint as he focuses on my mouth and moistens his lips. "I’m willing to oblige now you’re sober enough to remember."
I step closer. Did I behave like that, or is he lying? "Not happening."
Tate uncrosses his arms and leans into my face again, warm fingers touching my ear as he moves hair away. "One night with me, and you’ll be begging for more. And you know it."
"Wrong."
"Are you sure?" His lips brush my ear, and I focus on keeping my breath even. Here we go again, Tate turning up the intensity. “Because I’ve waited a long time and so have you.”
"Tate?” I say in a low voice.
“Yes?”
“Step away so we can discuss the issue."
He laughs as he moves back. "Step away and discuss the issue," he mimics. "Man, you’re uptight sometimes. You do realise that makes me want you more? Always did, Myfanwy." He pauses, and the grin grows. “And now we have each other, finally.”
Tate doesn’t touch me, but his proximity triggers arousal, even without his suggestions. Jesus, I hate my body sometimes.
"Why are you behaving like a jerk?" I hiss.
"Because I don’t like being jerked around." He moves his face closer to mine. "Don’t play me. You’ll lose."
I tighten my mouth and meet his challenge, ignoring my heart thumping a heady mix of lust and anger through my veins. We’ve been here before, many times, Tate attempting to wear me down and into his bed. He knows—we both know—the sexual spark between us arced the first time we performed on stage opposite each other, and it was almost acted on. What happens now we’re in the position again?
"If I agree to stay married until November, I have some conditions."
"Sure."
I don’t let go of the challenge, or succumb to him. "The marriage remains secret.”
“Suits me.”
“And you offered me money?"
Tate’s attitude lifts, eyes shining. "Cool. How much?"
"I don’t want your money."
"You’re confusing me."
"A million dollars for—"
He snaps his head back. "What the fuck? I thought you said I couldn’t buy you?"
"Let me finish!" I retort. "I’ll stay married to you if you pay a million dollars to charity."
"I don’t have a spare million dollars!"
"I bet you do. I know how much you were paid per episode for the last show you were in."
He barks a short laugh. "Try a quarter of what they rumoured."
"Have you spent it all?"
"No."
"Well, then. Didn’t you say your agent wanted, and I quote, ‘someone who does charity work and shit like that’? How much do you want me to agree to this, Tate?"
He blows air into his cheeks. Ha, that smacked away his smug. "Half a million?" he offers.
"Three-quarters."
"Half."
I don’t know what I’ll enjoy more, his reaction to this or to what I’m about to say next. "Fine, if you agree to my other condition."
"Which is?"
"I can pretty much guarantee this one will be the deal-breaker, and you’ll have the papers on my table tomorrow."
"Try me." He folds his arms.
"No sex with other girls until we’re divorced."
Tate blinks and looks at me as if I asked him to join a cult. "Okay, you can have a million dollars for your charity."
I laugh. "This is in addition to, not instead of, however much you donate."
"Seriously, Myf? I can’t do that!"
"Okay. I’ll call my lawyer tomorrow and—"
As I attempt to pass him, he curls a hand around my arm. "You cannot expect me to give up sex for three months."
"Why not?"
"Can you?"
"Easily."
"Liar."
I pull my arm away, and a smile snakes across my face at his panicked reaction. All those girls at college, all the broken hearts. "I’m only asking you to be a faithful husband since you want to stay married to me. I’m helping you clean up your image, Tate." I can’t hide the saccharin sarcasm or the fact I love I have him by the balls.
He leans forward, lips close to my ear, and my heart stutters, then starts racing three times the speed as he speaks. "Other girls? So sex with you is okay?"
The alcohol smell on his breath mingles with the spiced scent of the expensive cologne he advertises and triggers a memory.
Tripping into Tate and hanging onto his neck as lights blur above me, the casino sounds and cigar smoke surrounding us as we’re locked in the moment.
Another image flashes: Tate’s lips on mine, his hands in my hair as we spin together. Or was that the room spinning? I can’t remember that or how his lips felt on mine. I have no recollection how I reacted when Tate kissed me.
And he can’t realise in this current moment I want to know. "No, and I’m not interested."
"You’re lying again." Jesus, I wish he’d move his mouth away from mine.
"I have no intention to get into your bed."
"Too late, you spent the night with me already."
"Unconscious."
He bites down on his lip, pissing me off when I shiver. "Did you know what you were doing when you passed out?”
"Lying on the bathroom floor?"
"That was the second time. The first time you were trying to undo my pants and—"
"I was not!"
"How do you know? You don’t remember anything." He throws me a sly smile in return. "You were very insistent."
"Bullshit. I could hardly stand. No way would I do that. Not my style."
"Keep telling yourself that," he bats back. "Now you’re sober, I’ll show you exactly what you wanted to see and take part in anything you wanted to do, just say the word.”
I struggle for a smart comeback, but the flashback won’t leave my head.
“I bet you’d like my mouth on you,” he continues, rubbing fingers across his bottom lip. “Doing dirty things I’m positive you’ve thought about. My hands stroking between—"
"Stop there!" Gathering what little strength I have against the effect he’s having, I break his hold on me. "The only betting I do is playing poker in Vegas."
"Yeah, badly. Your poker face sucked. Still does."
I run my tongue along my teeth. "You want to bet on something? I bet you can’t lay off sex for three months."
"Correct. But I bet that sex will be with my wife before three months is up."
His words stir my imagination. The images flashing into my head have never happened, but could well be clairvoyant. No, won’t happen.
"Your breathing’s funny, Myf. Is something wrong?" he teases, voice low.
"I bet you I bloody won’t!"
Tate’s silence ramps up the energy building between us, and I swear if he could, he’d prove his point, hold me against t
he wall and screw me, right here and right now.
I bite inside my cheek, ignoring the arousal dampening me. Subject change. Now. "One question. Did you persuade the network to give me the role?"
The question’s nagged at me, but why would he if he wanted to avoid me? A sick feeling lingers that this is a ploy to keep me under his scrutiny and control, to build me up and have me removed from the role if I don’t agree to his wishes. Audrey told me to ignore the reason and be bloody happy. Besides, as she pointed out, I deserve a break.
What kind of person does this make me if I agree to his demand to remain married because I’m desperate to keep the part I could lose if I say no. This decision isn’t just about the money, but the success.
After years, is Tate happy he has me in the position he wants? Is this about more than his fear of bad publicity?
He makes a pfft sound. "I told you, they liked our chemistry."
"We’ll see how long that lasts," I mutter.
"Chemistry doesn’t evaporate, Myf." His voice lowers again. "Tension makes for fun."
"Sometimes."
"Well, be aware that’s one of the reasons you landed the role. I’m sure you’ve studied Brit’s character, how you’re supposed to act around me... Dev."
"And I will remain professional, as I hope will you."
Tate shakes his head and finally moves away from me. "So formal and stiff. Do I threaten your resolve not to fuck me that much?"
Ugh. Seriously? "You don’t make me feel threatened by your imagined superiority." I make a small scoff noise in my throat. "My issue is I’m not sure I’m making the right decision about the annulment."
"But you agree, yes?"
"Do you agree to my conditions?"
"Sure. But the same applies to you as to me. No sex with anybody either." He runs a finger across my lips. "Apart from me."
I snatch his hand as the sensation vibrates across my face. "I don’t need your drunken propositions right now. We need to play roles opposite each other and stay professional. We can’t stay away from each other, but I’m not interested in you. Take the deal or leave it."
"Deal." He wraps his long fingers around mine and tugs me closer. "Like I said, Myf, your poker face is crap." The intensity between us spiralled in the few minutes since we walked into this room, and each time we touch, my desire ramps higher. Brit is going to be one tough role. "I look forward to the next few months and seeing who wins our bet."
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