by Rachel Cross
He wanted a three-hour workout, he’d get one. He may not be able to walk tomorrow, but she’d give him his money’s worth and then some.
• • •
Shane lost count of how many times he’d fallen, but he knew he’d be sporting a spectacular collection of bruises tomorrow. He staggered to his feet and met the slave driver’s eyes. Her expression registered begrudging respect—or maybe sympathy—before her features resettled themselves into bland disinterest. She held out a hand to help him to his feet. He ignored it, rising slowly, painfully. His ankles screamed in agony, his legs, limp noodles.
Four days a week, Marco, his personal trainer, put him through two hours of weights and cardio at the gym. And since he hadn’t worked in nearly a year, Shane ran, swam, or surfed when he felt like it, which was most days. For a guy in such great shape, this ice skating was kicking his butt. His life had fallen into a pattern of workouts, script reading, lunches with friends, or time at the pool or beach. He was bored and he hated the roles he was offered, the lightweight love interest, the nice guy next door. The role of Hank LaMott, washed up hockey player making a mess of his life and the lives of everyone around him was perfect for him. What’s more, it could forever change the way Hollywood viewed Shane Marx.
Now that he knew the audition was coming, he had to bulk up a bit. Twenty pounds would align his body with the role.
He’d forced himself to stay out of the clubs the last few weeks, but the abstinence was getting to him. Between the evening skating lessons and fears of another busted condom, he hadn’t been out trolling since the incident.
Horny and irritable, he watched Amy shrug and skate away, a graceful glide across the ice. He may loathe her, but he still wanted to tap that. Thirty minutes and two falls later he was ready to call it when she said, “Okay, we’re done for tonight.”
Shane closed his eyes with relief.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine,” he bit out. His second lesson and he had the forward glide down—no more of that penguin stepping bullshit. The backward skating was more difficult, but he was pleased with his progress, and judging by Amy’s encouragement, she was satisfied also.
She sat next to him on the bench, unlacing her skates.
He bit back a groan of relief as he pulled one foot out of the skate. Rubbing his left foot, he turned and met her gaze.
She slipped on her Ugg boots and pulled her hair out of its bun, giving it a shake and sending the scent of coconut and vanilla wafting over.
His groin tightened as lust thickened his blood. He needed to get laid. Well, after he pulled on his shoes.
She stood with her bag, dangling the keys to the rink in her hand.
He levered himself to his feet, his legs shaking. He reached for something to steady himself, and the nearest object was Amy, so he grabbed her shoulder. She shifted her weight to accommodate him.
God, what he wouldn’t give to bury himself in all that tropical scent. To have that head bobbing down on his throbbing cock, to be watching that shiny, golden head—
He grunted and moved his arm away, finding his balance on trembling legs.
The ice princess bit her lip.
Shane’s gaze tracked the small, perfect teeth teasing the plump, bow-shaped lip, and he moved his skate bag to cover his swelling erection. Too bad his cock hadn’t gotten the message his legs were sending. He could barely stand, let alone screw.
“Do you need help?” she asked, guilt sketched into her features.
“Nah,” he said, shuffling toward the exit.
She trailed him, locking the door behind them before she made her way to her beat-up silver Miata.
“Shane?” she called over to him.
He unlocked his car door. “What?”
“Try ibuprofen and a hot shower. A massage might help, too. Tomorrow, do a light workout to get the lactic acid out of the muscles, okay?”
“Yeah.” He groaned as he slid into the low-slung car, his legs shaking so hard his knees were practically knocking together. Muscles and bruises protested as he settled himself into the seat. If it sucked this bad now, he could only imagine how much tomorrow and the day after would blow.
Chapter Six
Amy wandered to the window where she got the best cell reception in the house and stared across the street at the forty-foot high palm trees in desperate need of trimming. She’d heard rats made nests in them when they weren’t cared for. This was the sketchier side of Westwood, and no one in this part of town would be grooming the palm trees. The neighborhood, like the tiny three-bedroom house, was run down but affordable and relatively safe. It was the kind of area that rented month-to-month houses and ugly garden apartments without pools, a temporary home for veteran skaters like her, Kyle, and Allyson between stints on the road. Not the kind of place Astors inhabited, but then she hadn’t been an Astor since she’d left that world behind at seventeen.
She’d been dreading making this call. Would he complain about how sore he was? He’d earned her begrudging respect after that skating lesson yesterday, but if she pushed him too hard, he’d injure himself. Then it would be good-bye twenty-thousand dollars and the end of her chance to be spotted before Enchanted made up their mind about casting. She’d tell him practice was canceled and suggest meeting for coffee in Brentwood—somewhere trendy where they could be seen together. This was what Kyle had been leaning on her to do. She’d tried explaining their mutual dislike to him, to no avail. “If you want Enchanted, Amy, generate some interest, the clock is ticking,” he’d said.
He answered on the first ring, his husky baritone sending a tingle down her spine.
“Hey, Shane. Listen, the rink is tied up with an event tonight. Some scheduling snafu. Frank was very apologetic. We’ll pick it up again tomorrow, okay?” Amy pressed the phone against her ear with her shoulder.
“No problem. Uh . . . would you want to grab a drink or something?” he said.
She hesitated. “I guess.” He’d beaten her to it. Why?
“Spoke?” Shane said.
“Spoke?” she echoed. Not exactly a low profile place. Or so she’d heard. She didn’t frequent ultra-hip rooftop terrace bars with fire pits and pools where a martini cost twice as much as her standard meal out.
“I’ll pick you up. How does six work for you?”
“Fine, but aren’t you concerned about . . . well, about people figuring it out?”
“Nah. My agent’s already put it out there that I’m a skater. It can’t hurt for the producers to think I’m good enough for your august company.”
“We’re still keeping quiet about our training?”
“Yeah.” There was a long pause. “I’m up for a role, and they think I know how to ice skate. It’s not a complete lie anymore. I figure since we had the time booked, I’d like to get to know you. I really appreciate your help and I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he said, smoothly.
She hung up the phone. Spoke would be the perfect place. Was he sincere about appreciating her help? She could not bring herself to like him. Initially she had wanted to keep her distance, especially given his reputation as a womanizer. The looks he gave her body could melt ice, but he wasn’t flirtatious. Far from it. Chilly professionalism best described their relationship since that first meeting.
She rifled through her closet, looking for that right combination. Here was an opportunity to dress the Amelia Astor part and hope someone noticed them at Spoke. And that someone at Enchanted was paying attention, too. Unfortunately, she didn’t have anything appropriately trendy enough for Spoke. But Allyson, her roommate, would and when it came to clothing, Allyson pulled out all the stops.
He roared up in a sports car—a red convertible one this time and only ten minutes late. She climbed in the beige leather passenger’s seat and caught his wary look. “What?”
“Used to seeing you in workout attire.”
She shrugged. “You should see me in full makeup and princess regalia.�
��
They made small talk about the latest Lee Child thriller and argued good-naturedly about casting decisions made for the movie. Twenty minutes later, Shane pulled alongside the curb of an art deco building in Santa Monica. He gave the car keys to a valet and came around to help her out of the car. They took the elevator to the rooftop, and with a nod at the sentry, they passed through the final door to the patio. It was just past seven and the sky was still bright, so they found seating on a couch near a fire pit in a little cabana area complete with tied back curtains. What did people do up here that warranted closing the curtains? Drugs? Sex?
She sat on the plush, black cushion, skirmishing with her hem for the millionth time. She never would have borrowed Allyson’s stupid dress if she’d know she’d be battling exposure every time she sat down. The ridiculous strapless thing that looked so cute on a hanger had to be either tugged up to keep her breasts covered or pulled down to keep her booty covered—but was incapable of handling both jobs simultaneously. Clearly it was not designed for someone with breasts, hips, or a skater’s full butt. She draped her wrap over her bag, tempted to use it to cover her legs, as Shane’s gaze drifted over her body again.
A waitress with a gleaming smile and a very short, navy skirt came over to take their order. Shane gave her the once over, too, and he must’ve liked what he saw because he went from distant to flirtatious in two heartbeats. He chatted with her about Spoke, and when she leaned over to point to a few items on the drink menu, Shane appeared more interested in what was coming out of her top than in the leather bound booklet. Amy watched, disgusted.
She must have been a little too obvious because the waitress cast a couple of nervous glances in her direction.
Amy hid her irritation with a frozen smile.
When the woman walked away, Shane commented, “So, something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I know you’ve probably been asked this before . . . ”
Only a million freakin’ times.
“Why did you leave competition? You were at the top of the skating world when you quit—”
“Why did you leave music for acting?”
Shane shifted on the couch, met her eyes, and shrugged.
She shrugged in return. If she didn’t need to be seen with him, she would’ve ditched him over the heavy eye contact and ogling the waitress. What kind of guy did that when out with another woman?
He’d earned a bit of respect completing her two-and-a-half-hour skating torture the other night, but knowing him, that determination was a character flaw, too—she could add stubborn and unreasonable to her litany of complaints.
She’d developed an unhealthy fascination with Shane Marx. After her first lesson she’d dug up all there was to know about the guy—that he’d been with TruAchord for five years, until the band disintegrated thanks to infighting, rehab, and egos. Some of the band members had dropped off the face of the earth, a few had gone on to do television or commercials. Shane, with his looks, had walked from one successful venture directly into another: Hollywood, with barely a misstep. That is, until the last few years, when the stories had started to come out. Vengeful ex-girlfriends who went public about infidelities, difficulties with female co-stars and crew, naked photos.
“Acting was a natural progression. Leaving a sport where you are nationally ranked on your way to Olympic glory for an ice show is whacked,” he said when she continued to ignore him.
He had no tact, not one shred.
Most thought it. No one ever said it to her face.
“Maybe the circuit was whacked?” Or my life on the circuit.
He lifted his brows. “And the shows aren’t?”
She met his gaze, those blue eyes that missed little, a stare that had graced the covers of any number of entertainment magazines in the last decade. She hadn’t made the mistake of underestimating his intelligence or his drive. Clearly he had both in spades. She still didn’t have any clue why he’d invited her out, but it wasn’t about gratitude or interest, considering all the heavy innuendo with the damn waitress.
The woman came back, caught Amy’s stink eye, dropped off the drinks, and departed hastily.
“Not Enchanted. Others, maybe.”
“I’m sorry, what?” he said absently as he watched the waitress hustle away.
God! What an asshole.
She sucked down most of her drink in two swallows and examined the glass. That was a damned good martini. It made her regret her two-martini limit.
He turned back to face her, giving her his attention. “Why are you still doing it—the princess thing? Hasn’t it gotten old?”
“No. And it’s not like I have a gazillion career options.”
“Why not coach?”
She set her glass carefully on the table, her head swimming. That was a strong drink on an empty stomach. She needed to eat, stat, before she got really loopy. She glanced around for the waitress, knowing they’d be lucky to get her back.
“Another?” He raised an eyebrow at her glass.
“An appetizer would be good about now.”
He handed her the sheet of paper listing specials. She selected a sushi entrée, Shane flagged the woman down, and ordered food and another round.
“So, no coaching?”
Amy narrowed her eyes and shook her head. Would he just drop it already?
“Why not? Seems like something retired skaters do.”
Retired. She stifled a shudder, put her shoulders back, and re-crossed her legs. “I’m not ready to retire.”
“When do you go back out on the road?” Shane turned toward her and laid an arm on the back of the couch, his fingers close enough to brush her hair. Faded denim stretched tightly across his muscular thighs. She dragged her gaze from his lap to meet his knowing smile.
Amy smoothed her hair out of her face, the material across her breasts slipping until her nipples were nearly exposed. She sat on her hands to prevent herself from yanking it up. A hungry expression wiped the half smile from his face and darkened his eyes to navy.
Do I have your attention now?
“Not sure,” she mumbled. Now that she had his interest, she wasn’t sure she wanted it. All that intensity channeled into lust was highly arousing. Her hormones were raging and his body . . . that stupid, fucking picture she’d looked at, then looked at again.
That had been a mistake. The damn image popped into her head when they were skating, talking, last thing at night, first thing in the morning. Days they trained, days they didn’t. Is this what guys went through when they met a Playmate? Did they have trouble focusing or were they continually thinking about what the other person looked like unclothed?
Was it really him? What she wouldn’t give to know that story.
She couldn’t remember a time when she’d wanted a guy so desperately. Wanted to rip off his clothes and lick him from head to toe.
It was confusing to be hot for someone she couldn’t stand.
“Have you been picked up for this season?” he was saying.
Amy glanced around the quiet terrace. “Hmmm?” she said, with studied casualness. “Picked up? It’s not like the NFL draft. I’ve been a principal with them for years.”
He watched her intently, eyebrows raised, not buying it. “They haven’t signed you though, have they?”
“They will,” she said, giving her hair another toss. After being seen with Shane Marx. A photo or two splashed on the Internet, a renewed interest in her past would be all it took to have Enchanted begging her to re-sign for another season. They could use the press. Ticket sales had dropped off in the last few years, but the Olympics weren’t far off and someone always rehashed her story around that time—this was the first year she’d be grateful for it.
He gave a shout of laughter and she frowned at him.
“What?” she said.
“Am I being played here?”
“I’m not going to try to take naked photos, if that’s what you’re asking.” She took another sip. “That wouldn�
��t have the intended effect on my career.” This drink was dangerously smooth, lovely.
He ignored the dig. “Why did you agree to go out with me?”
“You’re hot,” she said, playing with a strand of hair, blinking up at him with her best princess smile. Her smile faltered as she moved forward imperceptibly, out of the reach of those long fingers.
“I think you’re here with me for the same reason I’m with you.”
Amy affixed her best wide-eyed, innocent expression—her face fell naturally into those lines. “Attraction?”
She resisted the urge to yank up the dress again and tried to take shallow breaths.
“Publicity,” he retorted.
She stilled. “Is that why you asked me out?” she said, almost inaudibly.
“My agent encouraged it. He’s in the throes of panic over my image,” he stated.
His Ike.
Her Kyle.
“Right. He’s the one who set up the . . . ” she glanced around furtively, “lessons.”
“I need the lessons, obviously, but he’s trying to kill two birds with one stone here.” Shane gestured between them.
So he was using her the same way she was using him. That was fair. Then why was she so disgruntled?
“Why me?”
“You have to ask? Amelia Astor, princess, New England blue-blood. Incorruptible. You’re the ideal woman to rehab my image—according to Ike—and he’s never wrong about crap like that, so here we are.”
That stung. It was the way he said it. As though he would never in a million years be seen with her otherwise.
“And here you are just in time to resuscitate my contract.” She raised her glass. “Cheers,” she said, without the slightest bit of pique reflected in her tone.
He gave her a genuine smile and clinked her glass. “Cheers.”
Amy forced a laugh. “A fictitious relationship to aid our careers? How pathetic.”
“How LA,” he responded drily.