by Ruth Kaufman
He looks straight at me. “No particular reason. I’m not in the mood for a premiere party tonight. Nor did I want to be alone.”
“What about Sheila? She seemed more than available.”
“You’re far better company.”
I’m not flattered. “I see. I’m your last, convenient resort on a whim when everyone else you know in town is occupied. But I’m not good enough to keep in touch with. Or make love with.”
My hand flies to cover my mouth so fast I slap my nose. I can’t believe I said that out loud. Mortification has stopped my heart. I force myself to breathe and look at Scott to gauge his reaction.
His expression hasn’t changed. “It’s not you, it’s me.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh, please. You can come up with a better line and excuse than that.”
“I can. But you wanted the truth. I will not be involved with anyone in the public eye, particularly an actress I’ve worked with. I do apologize for the many mixed signals. For I did find you attractive. And interesting to talk to, which is far more dodgy.”
Did. Past tense.
“Why no actresses?” I demand. “Because the tabloids would constantly invade your privacy as a couple? Publish topless pictures of your girlfriends? Or because relationships between famous people whose careers pull them in different directions rarely last very long?”
“All of those reasons. And because of November 9.”
“You were working on Mortgaged Moments.”
“Yes.”
“A great movie.” For the first time I suddenly wish I’d gone to law school like my dad wanted me to. Some cross-examination skills would come in handy, because he clearly isn’t going to spill otherwise. “And what happened then?”
“Marla….”
“Please. I’d really like to know.”
He stares at me more intently than ever, as if searching my soul to see if I remain worthy of his trust. The silence lasts so long I’m convinced he’s not going to tell me.
“One of the actresses and I were together for a couple of weeks,” he says, his voice low, as if the walls have ears. Maybe they do. “I didn’t really enjoy my time with her, so I told her I wanted to end things. She didn’t want to stop seeing me. So she promptly accused me of date rape and threatened to file charges.”
Who is she? Who? Who? My mind is an owl. I’m running through the actresses I remember who were in that movie. Which one would’ve enticed him? “The media would have a field day with a juicy story like that. Hard to tell who to believe.”
“Precisely. I couldn’t have chanced a trial or the bad publicity. Because my next movie wouldn’t have secured a completion bond. I’d have lost that picture and very likely others. Maybe my entire career.”
I move to his side of the loveseat and give him a big hug. He smells delicious as ever, feels as good. But I’m only here to comfort. “I’m so sorry that had to happen to you. And also honored you told me about it.”
His arms slide around me. I lean against him, savoring his warmth, his Scott scent, the comfort of being held by someone I care about despite my resolve not to. My feelings explode anew with the fiery force of lava spewing from a volcano.
“I’ve never told anyone except Sam, because he’s the one she complained to, and my attorney.” His chin rests on my head, I feel him link his fingers against my back. “You’re right, Marla. This episode with Nina Sorenson has haunted me. I told you I didn’t want to know what the tabloids or fans say, but what I meant is I want not to care.”
Well. He just gave up the name of the woman who has haunted him for seven years. Nina is an attractive redhead, but not, in my opinion, a very good actress. You never know what underhanded endeavors people are capable of. Especially those who present an earnest, goody two-shoes persona to the world. Who can you trust?
“How can you not care? It’s your life they’re writing about.” And now mine.
“Ah. What the media and social media commenters write is merely their interpretation of what they think they know of my life, and me.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “There’s a vast chasm between the truth and their often misguided version of reality. Nina lied, knowing it would be her word against mine. She betrayed me, used me. Many so-called reporters would rather exploit any outrageous aspects, rumors or possibilities they come across than make sure they’ve uncovered the truth.”
“Betrayal takes a long, long time to get over,” I say to his chest. “I’ve been there.” I don’t know if I’ll be able to truly trust a man again.
We sit on the loveseat, holding each other in the quiet. Have I ever been so comfortable, so content? I’m afraid to say anything or move and spoil our moment.
So I don’t.
Chapter 18
STARIETY MAGAZINE
ILMM Wows Watchers; Only Tatiana Wobbles
by BB Beans
GS’s latest film, “I Love My Mistress,” opened last night to thunderous applause. I wasn’t the only theatergoer clutching my damp hanky after Marla Goldberg, as the wife, failed to seduce her husband in a heart-wrenching scene. What woman hasn’t known the pain of rejection by the man she loves? (Faithful Followers, your BB will track down the reprobate who hurt our Marla, enabling her to emote so clearly.)
Whoever thought to put her in that ill-fitting lingerie is a genius. Will Marla be the next Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig spokeswoman?
America’s hottest director (in both appearance and talent) arrived with Tatiana F and MG, but left with only MG in tow, substantiating substantial reports of a secret on and off set romance. A rep insists they’re just friends. Please.
A reliable source reports they remained cloistered in Scott’s hotel room until late the next morning. MG, already learning the media ropes, supposedly refused to answer questions on her way out.
Shall we dub them Scorla or Marlott?
“Marla.”
“Hmmm?” Where am I?
Sleeping on Scott on the loveseat. Very nice, very warm and cozy, except my left arm is asleep and I can’t feel my fingers. His back has squished them against the cushions. He helps me sit up. My makeup is smeared on his tuxedo shirt.
I shake my hand and wince as sensation rushes back. I will not think about what a mess I must be and don’t reach up to explore the state of my hair. He, of course, looks incredibly adorable all rumpled and sleepy, with the shadow of a beard. Very kissable.
Should I go? I want to stay.
“It’s three in the morning,” he says. “But I’m hungry. Are you? I could order room service.”
Scott smooths my hair and gently works through the tangles. He doesn’t pull away. His fingers are warm against my neck.
“Yes. Room service sounds great.” And means he wants me to stay at least another hour.
Scott reaches for the phone, then turns back. He looks hungry, but not for food.
“Marla.”
He kisses me, the sweetest kiss ever. His mouth moves on mine, lingering and searching but not demanding. He tastes of lime and restrained need.
“Marla?”
I see in his hot gaze what he’s asking. And realize I shouldn’t have been too nervous, too fearful of another rejection to tell him what I want. Despite being a famous, powerful director, the affair with Nina damaged him. She destroyed his confidence, his ability to know what’s real. Anywhere except on a movie set.
Tears fill my eyes.
He continues, “I don’t want food. Marla, I want you. To make love with you.”
Hearing the man I’ve wanted for months say he wants to make love with me is an instant aphrodisiac.
“Perhaps the vow I made is no longer as viable as I once thought,” he adds softly.
“No. Definitely not a viable vow. You can trust me, Scott. I’d never breathe a word of this or anything to the tabloids.” I slide my fingers into his hair. “I want you, too. I have for a long time.” Even before we met.
As I melt into his arms, every part of me tingling,
I can tell he’s already hard. For me.
We lay on the loveseat. He holds my hips and rubs me over his erection. Amazing. I need him inside me, to fill me and make us one at last. I’m a morass of swirling longing.
As he slides my hips down his body, he groans. “Do you feel me? Tell me.”
“Oh. Yessss,” I whisper. “Again.”
We rock together, clinging as if we’ll never let go. My sensitive center again and again strokes the length of him. The layers of fabric between us both frustrate and arouse.
“Harder,” he demands, as his hands tighten around my waist. “Push your hips into mine.”
I comply. Sensation blasts through my veins as the pressure between us increases. “That’s so good. But I’m already close. I’m going to….”
“Don’t stop. Just like that.”
One more thrust and I soar. He speeds up, grinding against me. I feel him shudder. He squeezes me tight for several seconds, then kisses me, long and hard.
Scott leans away. A chill overtakes me until he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
“This time, let’s take our time,” he says with a slow smile. “And take advantage of the bed.”
And we do.
As morning light glows along the sides of the heavy curtains, we’re cocooned under fluffy comforters, wrapped up in each other. We haven’t slept much, but talked and touched for hours. He’s toying with one of my curls.
I’m not worried about how I look or if I have morning breath. I’m just happy. Completely happy.
Until he says, “I’m sorry to end this, but I must return to L.A. for a production meeting. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
Do I imagine his emphasis on the words ‘end this?’ My heart sinks and I feel bereft. His body may be here, but his mind is already on his next movie.
I need to claim every bit of Scott that I can and return his attention to me. I roll on top of him, melding my naked flesh to his. “Tell me, what’s your view on making love in the morning?”
Beneath me I feel him growing hard. He smiles. How I adore his smile. How I adore him.
“Marla.” He closes his eyes, as if he’s trying to resist the persistent pull of mutual desire. “I need to get to O’Hare. I stayed with you as long as I could.”
I shimmy down his body, leaving kisses to mark my path. He’s not trying to stop me or get out of bed. In fact, only one part of him has moved.
I continue my ministrations.
“Oh, Lord, Marla.” He lets out a sexy groan. “Whatever…you do, don’t…stop.”
His cell rings and he swears. I sit up. Breathing hard as if he’d just run a marathon, he grabs the phone and snaps, “What? Fabulous. Thank you.” He hangs up. “My flight was delayed. I’ve got another hour.”
I roll out of bed. “Well, I’ve got to run. Right now.” I reach for my clothes as if I mean what I say.
“Marla,” he growls. “Get back here. Now. You won’t be sorry.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve had enough,” I say, though every part of me aches for him.
“Marla?”
He looks so incredible propped in bed, sheets exposing his muscular thighs, no woman of any age, race or creed could resist him.
“Just pulling your leg.” I hop into bed and kiss him.
“Please resume pulling other body parts,” he says.
A half hour later, we’re still in bed, limbs entwined. Any minute Scott will leave me and resume his life in the public eye. I don’t want to focus on the former so I think of the latter.
“Scott, has anything else terrible happened to you because of who you are? Did you ever have a stalker?”
“No. But a few friends have. Why? Are you being stalked?”
His concern warms me. “I’m not sure. I had coffee with a guy who seemed legitimate, a dermatologist. Then he started sending me strange emails—”
“How many? How often? What did he say?”
“Three. I haven’t heard from him in a few days, though. Maybe that’s part of his game, to keep me on edge. I thought he might show up at the premiere, but I didn’t see him. There was such a crowd, who knows.” And most of the time I was too busy looking at you.
“Let me see his emails. Maybe I can tell if they’re similar to those my friends received. If not, there are people who make their living reading fan mail to determine whether it’s dangerous.”
Scott climbs out of bed, apparently unconcerned about his lack of attire or the cool air. I admire the fine muscles and curves of his back as he boots up his laptop on the desk.
After grabbing the cushy hotel robes, I hand one to him and put on the other. I sit, roll up the huge sleeves, and sign in to my email account.
He pulls a chair next to mine.
My new mail pops up. If only I’d thought to go straight to the folder in which I’d saved Frank’s messages, things might have turned out differently.
Because the first message is from Linda. The subject reads: “Re: S. Sampson Research.”
Help. I zoom the cursor toward Frank’s folder.
“Wait.” Scott clamps his hand over mine. “What’s that first message? Why is it about me? What research?”
“Scott.” If only the fire alarm would go off or his cell would ring again. “It’s not what you think. I—”
“Open that email.” His harsh tone makes me jump. His gaze could sear a steak, and the tendons on his neck might explode. “Now.”
As I direct the pointer toward Linda’s email, I brainstorm how I can get out of this. How I can explain. “I was only trying to help. My sister was trying to help me help. I thought if I knew what had happened, I could—”
“Stop. There’s nothing you can say I’d believe. Good Lord, Marla. I thought you were different. ‘You can trust me.’” Scott mimics my voice uncannily. “Fool me once….” He turns away and ties his robe, then turns back and crosses his arms over his chest.
I’m so distraught I can’t even think what movie this reminds me of.
“Marla. Open the damn email.” Scott towers over me, radiating wrath hotter than a roaring campfire.
I feel vulnerable despite the robe. The bubble of intimacy we shared has popped, disappearing in shards of brilliant colors. And it’s mostly my fault, though my intentions were good.
“Scott, please, listen to me for just a minute. You said you trusted me. You still can. I swear to you—”
“Open it, Marla. Or I will.”
I hate myself for causing him more pain and doubt. For causing me pain and shredding his trust in me. How, how can I fix this?
Scott reads Linda’s message out loud, his voice flat. “M. Here’s the info you asked for. Hope it’s of use.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, praying he won’t want me to open the attached files, too. Who knows what dark secrets lie in them. Linda is very good at what she does.
“Damn you. How much?” Scott demands.
“What?” I wrap the robe tighter around me and stand to face him.
“Who bought you? How much did they offer? Fifty? A hundred thousand? More?” Scott storms toward the wall and pivots, sheer horror on his face. He marches so close to me I again feel the heat of his seething anger. “Good Lord. It was Sam, wasn’t it? He noticed my interest in you and thought I’d be fool enough to make the same mistake twice. And I was. He thought he could force me to do another film for him. What did Sam promise you? What’s your price for selling me out? You’re no better than a whore.”
I gasp. Tears threaten, but I can’t give in. Or sound like I’m begging. “Scott, I swear to you on everything I hold dear. This isn’t for a tabloid. Or Sam, who I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw him, which wouldn’t be very far. Or for anyone else but me. You’ve got to believe me! I thought I could help you.”
“Help me?” Scott snorts. “You? How? How?”
“I didn’t know, but I wanted to try. That’s why I needed more information, to find out what Sam has over you. To see if any stones were l
eft unturned.”
“How stupid do you think I am?” he demands, throwing up his arms. “I hired the best attorneys. They got her to sign an ironclad release. She can’t tell. And, as you well know, I’ve finished the movie I promised Sam. Game’s already over.”
“No, it’s not, because the facts that she threatened to spread lies to the media and Sam could take advantage of that fear as blackmail still affect you. Every day. Maybe even make you think others are out to get you. Like right this minute. She’s made you doubt me.” My feet regain an inch of ground.
“You make lo—have sex with me while pretending to care about me. While going behind my back to dig up reports on my private life. My past.” He takes a few deep breaths, then faces me with an expression so cold I shiver. “You are truly one of the best actresses I’ve ever met. What an extremely convincing and authentic performance.” His jaw tightens. “It’s time you leave. I will sue if one word of this gets out, no matter the impact on my career.”
“Scott, please. Let me explain….”
“I should’ve listened to my head, not my todger. For me, sleeping with actresses leads to disaster. Do not try to contact me. Ever. I will not speak to you, take your calls or your messages. We’re through.”
He strides to the bathroom and slams the door so hard the floor beneath my feet trembles.
Tears spill down my face. I collapse into a bawling, distraught heap on the carpet.
He spoke to me in the same callous tone I used with Fred, my stalker. My body tingles from Scott’s touch, I taste his kisses, while my heart aches for him and for me. While his loathing tears through my soul.
How can I clean up this mess?
Chapter 19
STARIETY MAGAZINE
The Scorla Report: Passion in Paradise?
by BB Beans
Mere minutes after Marla Goldberg (I Love My Mistress) exited Great Scott Sampson’s hotel, where she reportedly spent the night, he headed for the airport. Marla fled to her sister’s city mansion. But no one saw her leave her sister’s house. No Marla sightings have been made since in Chicago or anywhere else. Scott also seems to have disappeared…where? To share bliss with his latest amour in some romantic hideaway?