Meeting Mr. Steele

by Melanie Marchande

  I run, I jaywalk, I dart across busy intersections, I wave a lot of "sorrys" to honking drivers, but it still seems to take ages to get there. Thankfully it's what passes for "cold" here, and dry, too, so at least I'm not melting by the time I almost crash into the security guard at the studio.

  "Sorry," I pant. "I'm Landon Steele's assistant. Supposed to be here for his interview."

  The guard raises an eyebrow. "I've heard that one a couple times today already."

  "No, no!" I'm rummaging frantically in my purse. "I'm actually his assistant. For real. I've got a studio pass, I just..."

  Fuck. I have no idea where it is. Did I ever transfer it to my purse, or is it still tucked in one of my suitcases?

  Sighing, the guard looks down at me with something like pity. "Look, this is gonna be embarrassing if it turns out you're telling the truth, but what can I do? I can't just let every woman in here who claims she knows Mr. Steele. That man's got some crazy-ass stalkers."

  I look up at him, with a pleading smile. "Has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Michael Clarke Duncan?"

  "That's not going to work," he says, flatly. "And yes, yes they have. I wish they'd let the man rest in peace, to be honest with you."

  "Please, call Steve. The guy from Morning Brew. Just call him and tell him Kimberly's here. He knows me."

  "Fine." A heavy sigh. "Ma'am, if you really are her, I'm truly sorry in advance. But I'm just looking out for your boss's interests."

  "I know," I tell him, miserably. At this point, I'm sure I'm going to miss the segment. I would have been better off staying at the hotel and watching him on TV.

  "Uh huh," the guard is saying. "Uh huh." He glances at me. "Steve wants to talk to you." He hands me his phone, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  "Steve, thank God. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. Mr. Steele never leaves without me."

  Steve sounds a little confused. "Mr. Steele told us you weren't feeling well, so you wouldn't be in. I told him it was no big deal, we've got plenty of interns here to assist him with whatever he needs. You really didn't need to run over here."

  "No, it's fine. I need to be here."

  "Okay, well, give the phone back to Anthony. I'll give him the go-ahead. Sorry about all the hassle."

  "It's not your fault. Shouldn't have left my pass at the hotel."

  "Hey, it happens. See you in a minute."

  I do as he asked, and a second later, Anthony shrugs and goes to unlock the door for me. "Sorry, Ms. Tuggey."

  "It's fine, really. I know you're just doing your job. Sorry for being obnoxious."

  He laughs. "After what I've seen this morning, ma'am, you don't even rank."

  ***

  The segment's just beginning when Steve ushers me into Mr. Steele's dressing room. "You can watch it on the TV here," he says. "Or in the studio, if you're feeling up to it, but it's pretty hot and crowded in there." He shoots me a concerned look. "Especially if you're not feeling well, you should probably hang out here. You sure I can't get you anything else?"

  "No, thank you." I'm clutching the ice-cold bottle of water from the vending machine, which is all I really needed. I'm pretty sure they don't have vending machines for whatever I need to solve the rest of my problems. "I'm fine, really. Just, you know. Traveling."

  "Right." He nods. "Well, just take it easy. Call one of the PAs if you need anything."

  The Morning Brew logo pops up on the screen, and I have to swallow my heart before it leaps into my throat. This is it. This is Josh's chance to make or break my career, and I'm not even there to watch it in person. Steve's right, just not for the reason he thinks. If I walk into that studio, I'm positive I'll pass out.

  One of the aggressively cheery blonde hosts is introducing Josh. Who, by the way, looks incredible.

  Of course, that's no surprise.

  "We're here with Landon Steele, romance author."

  The crowd goes completely fucking nuts, drowning out the host's attempts to list off some of his books. My books.

  "So Mr. Steele, how did you end up writing romance novels? It's not exactly the job most people think of, when they look at a guy like you."

  He's nodding, smiling, charm basically oozing from every pore. This is probably how Dr. Frankenstein felt. "Well, you know, when you see an unfilled niche, you just have to fill it. Lots of women were writing their fantasies, so I thought I'd give them a taste of my reality."

  "Which brings me to my next question - your main character shares your name. Are these meant to be autobiographical stories?"

  He shakes his head. "Not as such, no. Some of them are based on true events in my life, but I don't claim these are memoirs. I'd say the character of Landon Steele is more or less how I think I'd behave in a given situation - but his stories are enhanced reality. Nobody wants to read a story about me going to the store to buy milk and eggs."

  The audience makes a noise, and the hosts are all laughing. "I think you might be wrong about that, actually," one of them chuckles. "I think your fans would probably read just about anything you wrote."

  I'm starting to fade out. This is almost exactly, word-for-word what we rehearsed. He's playing the part to a T, but this isn't the guy I know. This isn't the guy I like.

  Because that's the hell of the thing. I like Josh. I do. I've never had as much fun as I have, just hanging out with him, even when we're arguing. I'm thinking about living the rest of my life without ever talking to him again, and it's a horrible thought.

  But how can I possibly mend what happened last night? He's not going to understand.

  My feet and legs are aching from my little sprint. I should've known this would happen. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Once again, I'd like to emphasize that I am an idiot.

  The segment ends in thunderous applause. I wonder if he's going straight to the signing, or if he'll stop by here first. The idea of seeing him sends my heart rocketing into my throat again. I sit in nervous misery, just waiting.

  When he walks through the door, he stops, clearly more than a little shocked to see me.

  "I was going to let you sleep in," he says, eyes shifting away from mine. "You didn't have to come."

  "Well, I did." I stand up, ignoring the sharp twinge in my leg as I do. "You were great. Thank you."

  He shrugs. "What, did you think I was going to sabotage it?"

  Okay. He's bitter. It makes sense. He still doesn't know why I freaked, why I kicked him out last night, and I still don't have the words to tell him.

  I follow him over to the mirror, limping slightly. "Let me help with the signing, at least. That way I'll be on hand in case somebody asks a question you can't answer."

  "I'll be fine." He glances at me. "Go and rest, Kimberly. You're all flushed and you look exhausted."

  He's heading for the door, and I go after him, ignoring the cries of protest in my muscles. "Wait."

  A shock of pain overtakes my ankle, and I cry out, stumbling against him. He catches me, his face twisting with concern.

  "Hey, hey. What's wrong?"

  I suck in a breath through my teeth. "It's fine. I'm fine. Just, I should know better than to wear shoes like this."

  He shakes his head, helping me over to a chair. "Why the hell did you?"

  Oddly, I feel a small rush of triumph that he's actually looking at my shoes. Even if it's only to criticize, I'm pretty sure this is the first time he's actually taken notice of all the little things I've done to be a little more appealing.

  "Why do you think?" I snap at him, before I can stop myself.

  He's kneeling, lifting my injured foot and setting it gently on another chair. "It looks swollen," he says. "On the back of your heel. Maybe you should see somebody."

  "It's fine." Except it's not. Tears are springing to my eyes, and it's not because of my foot. "It happens sometimes. It's just tendonitis."

  "I'm getting some ice." He's standing up, but I shake my head.

  "It doesn't help," I mutter.
"It's my calf muscle. When it gets too tight, the tendon..." I let out a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't have run over here. Especially in these shoes. I just wish you'd woken me up."

  "Didn't think it was really necessary for you to be here." Josh has knelt back down, and he's closing his fingers around my leg. He digs his thumbs right into where the worst knots are, and I wince, then moan softly. I can't help it.

  I let out a long breath. "You were upset."

  "That's got nothing to do with it." He's frowning a little, absorbed in his task, and the wonderful pleasure-pain of his strong fingers massaging my cramped muscles is ruining my ability to think.

  "Is it too late to just say I'm sorry?" I'm trying to look serious, but my grimace probably undermines things.

  He shrugs. "Never too late," he says, continuing to work his magic on my neglected calf. "But I don't know if I believe you."

  Now that the pain is starting to fade, I'm free to notice how nice this feels. The warmth that spreads from his hands is intoxicating, and in spite of my emotional turmoil - or maybe because of it - my body's responding.

  He obviously didn't intend it like this. I actually feel kind of dirty for getting excited, because he's mad and he's just trying to help un-hobble me. All that flirting, and of course our almost-but-not-quite encounter last night, have left me with all kinds of unfulfilled fantasies floating around in my head. But he doesn't want me. He can't want me. He just got caught up in the moment - that's all.

  Josh is still lost in quiet, dark thoughts, and I realize I haven't said anything in ages.

  "I don't know what to tell you." I'm having trouble focusing now. Is it my imagination, or are his fingers working their way up higher? I don't remember him being this close to my thigh, before.

  He's just working on the connective tissue right under your knee. He's being nice, Kimberly. Stop it.

  He snorts. "That's pretty obvious." After a moment, he glances up at me, his fingers slowing a little bit. It's all I can do not to moan a protest. "Don't worry. Once I do my signing, this whole thing will be over with, and you won't have to deal with me anymore."

  Deal with him? What does that mean? Is he just referring to the fact that he's all pissy because I blue-balled him, or something else?

  He's worked his way up to my quad, now, and it feels too good for me to put a stop to it. I'm biting my lip, both to keep quiet, and to keep still. I've never had such an intense massage that actually turned me on before, but there's a first time for everything. I have to concentrate hard to keep from squirming in my seat.

  He says: "Tell me to stop if it's too much."

  I'm trying not to read any additional meaning into his words.

  His hands go higher, higher. "Kimberly, did you hear me?"

  It takes me a second to find my voice.

  "Yes," I half-whisper, finally.

  "I said tell me to stop." His fingers are under my dress, now. "Tell me to stop, Kim."

  Josh's eyes meet with mine, burning, and I notice how quickly his chest rises and falls. Holy shit. He's turned on, too.

  "If you don't tell me to stop, I'm not going to," he rasps, his fingers now inches from where I need him to touch me. "Cause right now, if you'll let me have you, even just a little taste, I don't really care what you think of me."

  What does that mean? I'm too far gone to care. He said taste, and now my whole body's throbbing.

  "Please," I practically whimper. "I don't want you to stop."

  With a growl, he grabs me by the ass and jerks me forward on the chair, tilting me up and back. He looks completely feral as he grabs my panties and rips them out of the way, then bends down and buries his tongue between my folds.

  Oh, God.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm vaguely aware we are in a dressing room at a television studio. That he's expected, any moment now, to set up for a book signing that might last for hours. If we're interrupted now, I might actually die.

  He's not gentle. His tongue spears against me, hot and fast, and it's exactly what I need. I'm gripping his hair so hard it must hurt him, but that only seems to spur him on. I'm fighting to keep quiet, but it feels less and less possible with every passing moment.

  When the first shuddering waves of climax wash over me, I lose the ability to control my voice. I moan his name, loud, every part of my body rippling with ecstasy.

  More than anything, I want, no, need him to fuck me. But unless they stash these dressing rooms with condoms - wait, do they? - that's probably not a good idea. But there is a next-best thing.

  As he stands up, wiping his sleeve across his face, I kneel. I can't help thinking about the fact that he's going out to that signing with me on his clothes. I just came so hard my legs are jelly, but I'm still so horny I can hardly see straight.

  He shoots me a tortured look. "No time," he says, even as he grasps the obvious hard-on in his dress pants. He squeezes it, hard, eyes closing a little at the momentary relief before he swallows heavily and looks at me again. "No," he says, again, roughly.

  My mouth waters. "Please."

  There's a light tapping at the door.

  A voice says: "Mr. Steele, they're ready for you."

  There's an intense battle being waged from in front of me, and I know I can win. I might not be the most alluring candidate, but I'm here, and I'm willing - more than willing - and he's about to explode. He won't be able to resist me.

  "Just give me a few minutes," he snarls, unzipping. Then, to me, he whispers: "Beg."

  I'm quivering all over, and every sensible part of my brain says fuck off, fuck you, but there's nothing sensible about this. Nothing at all.

  "Please," I whisper, unsure if the PA is still lurking outside the door. "Please let me..."

  He's pulling it out. It's magnificent. A benevolent deity trying to create the perfect romance novel hero couldn't have done better.

  "Make me believe it," he murmurs.

  "Please," I'm almost moaning, hardly caring anymore if somebody hears me. "Please, please..."

  I don't know if I have it in me to use the words he probably wants to hear, but it doesn't matter. He snaps. He shoves it in my face, hips jerking towards me, and I should probably be offended at his roughness as he grabs the back of my head and urges me forward, but this is exactly what I want from him. Exactly what I need. He knows, and he's going to give it to me.

  His taste is sharp and masculine and I'm instantly addicted. I relax my throat for him, doing something I've never been able to do for another man, and let him overwhelm absolutely every part of my senses. He's pure lust and pure anger, claiming me, not even about to let me control this situation.

  I hate him. I hate that he's perfect as Landon Steele, and I hate that he's perfect just the way he is. I hate that he's mad at me and I hate that he's so sexy I can't let myself want him. Because I know how it will end. I hate that I know. I want to forget, to pretend there's some kind of future for us that doesn't end in tears.

  A future? With Josh? Is that what I really want? This is hardly the time to be thinking about it, but I can't help it. My jaw aches and I can feel tears starting to leak out of the corners of my eyes. All the same, I feel like I could do this all day. But if his harsh breaths and tightly-closed eyes are any indication, I won't be doing it for much longer.

  When he floods my mouth, I moan around him, swallowing eagerly and savoring the burn of his fingers gripping my hair tighter. I won. Just for one moment, I own him.

  There's another knock at the door.

  "Mr. Steele, everyone's waiting."

  "I said give me a minute," he exclaims back, heatedly. "Jesus."

  He glances down at me with an expression I can't quite read, and tucks himself back in his pants with a rough gesture. "I have to go," he mutters, before turning to the mirror to smooth down his hair. He looks completely debauched, and I probably do too. I don't even want to find out.

  "Might want to get off your knees before I open the door," he says. "They're right outs
ide."

  I do, on shaky legs, turning my back just in case everything will show on my face.

  "Is your assistant not joining you?" one of the PAs asks.

  "She'll be along in a moment," he says, in perfect, smooth, overly-formal Steele. Something deep inside my chest aches.

  He's been gone for half a second, and I already miss him.

  ***

  The signing is utter insanity. I'm there to fetch Josh water, to keep the line orderly, and to make sure everyone has their books ready. Without asking him, I set the rule of "no body parts," and spread the warning down to anyone I notice standing there empty-handed. Those glossy 8x10s are going to come in handy.

  Somehow, it's both the longest and shortest two hours of my life. After the scheduled time is over, there's still a line out the door, but the station staff can't spend any more of their time dealing with our fans. His fans. So they send everyone home, and usher us out the back door and right into a car to the hotel.

  Josh doesn't say anything, and neither do I. When I get to my door, and he keeps walking, I almost do. It's on the tip of my tongue, just to turn around and say something.

  Wait.

  But I don't.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I have to talk to Josh.

  I can't stand the thought of another cab ride, another interminable flight, this time in stony silence. I have to figure out what's going on, and clear the air between us. Even if it's the most awkward thing I've ever done, even if it means the trip home will be even worse because of it.

  Pacing my room for a while, I debate this for ages, until I finally realize I'll never forgive myself if I don't try.

  Tentatively, I go and knock on his door.

  At first, I really think he's not going to come. I can vaguely hear the murmur of the TV, so I know he's there, but he clearly doesn't want to talk to me.

  Finally, he yanks the door open. He's half Landon and half Josh, still in his suit but with the jacket gone and sleeves rolled up, the promise of wickedness that's painted on his arms in full display. His hair, carefully styled for the show, is mussed and misbehaving.