Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  He should’ve known he would have a problem when she’d looked at him on her front porch with those smitten eyes. She wanted him to kiss her. She was a nice-enough-looking lady, but he couldn’t take his ruse that far. It had already gone far enough.

  It seemed that in his attempt not to be a total jerk and just use the lonely woman to get into the dance, he’d been too nice and encouraged her ideas about their “relationship.” He’d danced with her and brought her punch. He even took dance photos with her under the balloon arch, although by the time they arrived in the mail from the photography company, he would be long gone.

  Despite her blowing up his phone, the night had gone fairly well, he thought. He was able to avoid the fireman who had threatened him in the diner. No one else recognized him as a reporter, most importantly not Ivy or Blake. Cheryl never seemed to notice that they danced only when Ivy and Blake danced. She would rest her head on his shoulder during the slow numbers, unable to see him slip his cell phone out of his pocket and snap a shot of the famous couple nearby.

  Thankfully, he’d only have to avoid Cheryl for a few more days. There weren’t any more public activities with Ivy until the concert on Saturday. Not being able to return to the ice cream parlor for his favorite flavor was a small price to pay for the photos he’d nabbed at the dance.

  Nash had uploaded his shots from his memory card first thing in the morning and went downstairs to shop them to a couple of sites while he ate breakfast. He sold some before he finished his second cup of coffee in Miss Twila’s breakfast room. No one could pass up the chance to plaster Ivy and her latest romance all across the Internet. Especially knowing the man she was kissing was the same man from both last week’s viral video and from that song.

  It was a far more enticing story than the horse debacle of the previous morning. Nash had several shots of that disaster playing out, but he’d opted not to shop those. Despite what most people seemed to think, he had an honor code under which he operated. Selling those photos didn’t seem right. Ivy had nearly gotten killed and several people might’ve gotten hurt if that horse had made one wrong step.

  Now, the shots he got of that sneaky little blonde with the firecracker were another matter. Nash hadn’t noticed until he went through his pictures on his laptop later, but he’d snapped two shots in the moments before Ivy’s horse reared up. In the first, on the fringe of the picture, a woman was squatting down behind the crowd. She had a lighter in one hand and she was holding something in the other hand. In the second shot, the item was more easily identified as a small firecracker. She was tossing it into the street just as Ivy and Blake were riding past her. In the next picture, as the horse panicked, the blonde was gone.

  Nash had seen the same blonde at the dance and asked Cheryl who she was. She’d said Lydia Whittaker’s name with such distaste, he’d let the subject drop. That was all he needed to start, anyway. From there, he could figure out what she had against Ivy and who would be willing to pay the most for those pictures.

  Blake had been furious after the parade, and Nash had no doubt he would be interested in the photographic proof of the guilty party. Of course, there was also the blonde herself. Lydia looked like the kind of woman who had plenty of money and would pay to keep those pictures from becoming public.

  Blackmail was a dirty word, but sometimes it paid better than the gossip blogs.

  “What are you doing?” a woman’s voice asked from over his shoulder.

  Nash turned to see Miss Twila, the older woman who owned the B and B, standing behind him with irritation twisting her face into a wrinkled frown. She seemed like a sweet old lady, but that was far from the truth. She’d tossed a couple of reporters out since he’d gotten there. Nash had kept his cameras and equipment in the trunk of his rental and tried to keep a low profile. He had only brought his computer downstairs to email out some pictures because it was the only place the Wi-Fi worked.

  “Good morning, Miss Twila,” he said with a smile, closing his laptop. Hopefully she hadn’t seen what he was doing.

  “That was a picture of Ivy and Blake kissing on your computer.” She pointed at it accusingly. “You’re not a real reporter. You’re another one of those gossipmongers, aren’t you? You should be ashamed of yourself, stalking that poor girl and putting every private moment of her life on the Internet for everyone to see. I won’t have you conducting your sleazy business in my inn. Pack up,” she said, snatching his breakfast plate away, half-eaten. “I want you out of here by checkout time.”

  “Where’s Ivy?” Grant asked, salting the eggs that Ruth had just brought him. “I haven’t seen her since the dance the other night.”

  Blake frowned into his mug and sipped his coffee. He should’ve canceled breakfast with his brother today, but they had a standing breakfast appointment every Tuesday. Now he’d be forced to discuss the Ivy situation with his brother over biscuits and gravy. It was bad enough he’d been going over it in his mind almost endlessly since he took Ivy home on Sunday afternoon. He hadn’t seen her since.

  “She’s in Birmingham with Malcolm Holt.”

  “Malcolm Holt? No shit?” Grant seemed really impressed—of course, Malcolm wasn’t off with his woman. “That superhero movie he did last year was pretty good. A better choice for Red Rhage than one of the Hemsworth brothers. Hey, didn’t they used to date?”

  “Malcolm and one of the Hemsworth brothers?” Blake asked drily.

  “No, dammit! Malcolm and Ivy. I thought I remembered reading that on a checkout-stand magazine once.”

  Blake turned to his brother on the stool beside him and punched him in the upper arm. “Thanks a lot for that terribly useful information. I feel so much better now about her being off with him instead of with me.”

  Grant winced and rubbed his arm. “Sorry. I thought you knew. It’s been a while, if that helps. A few years, actually. Well before People magazine named him Sexiest Man Alive. He’s probably taken. Do you want me to look on my phone and see who Malcolm is dating now?”

  “No,” Blake snapped. “She says they’re friends, so that’s all it is. And even if they’re humping like rabbits as we speak”—he winced as he said the words—“it’s not really my business. We’re hardly exclusive.”

  Blake was the one who’d made a big deal about how their relationship was just casual fun for old times’ sake. He’d only said it because Ivy seemed nervous he would think otherwise. It was a nice idea that something real might develop between them, but he wasn’t stupid. He would take what he could get while he could get it. But he couldn’t very well turn around and complain about her being with another guy, even a “friend,” after saying something like that.

  “Besides, what’s the point? Soon she’ll be back in LA, where he lives. It might make more sense for them to be together in the long run.”

  Grant narrowed his eyes at his brother. “What the hell?”

  “What?” Blake asked.

  “Where’s my supercompetitive brother? The one who wouldn’t let me win at anything growing up? That Blake wouldn’t just step aside and let the movie star win. It . . .” He hesitated, studying Blake’s expression. “It seems like you’re into Ivy again. Are you?”

  Blake shrugged. “Well, yeah. I mean, we slept together, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No,” Grant said with a sharp shake of his head. “I sleep with a lot of women and you’ll never see that moony look on my face.”

  Blake snorted at his brother’s rude assessment. “That’s because you’re a man whore.”

  “I’m uncomplicated,” Grant argued, without the slightest hint of offense in his voice. “There’s a difference. Anyway, you’re not exactly president of the Chastity Club yourself.”

  Blake focused on his omelet, adding some ketchup to his plate for his hash browns. He didn’t want to talk about this any longer. His brother was crazy, looking for things that weren’t really there and meddling in affairs that weren’t any of his concern.

  “So did you guys
do it with the lights on or off?”

  Blake turned to his brother with a warning glance, and then looked around the diner to see if anyone else was near enough to hear. Fortunately, it was a slow morning at Ellen’s. Grant had never been very good with social volume control.

  “Say it a little louder, jackass,” Blake hissed. It made him miss his brother Mitchell. Mitchell was a year younger than Blake. He was always more focused on his studies than the ladies, unlike Grant, but he was easier to talk to. He was quiet, serious. When you went to him with a problem, Mitchell would give you a reasonable and well-thought-out answer.

  Unfortunately, Mitchell was at Vanderbilt finishing medical school. It would be years before his residency was completed and he could return to Rosewood for more than a few days at a time around the holidays.

  That just left Grant, unless Blake wanted to confide in his youngest brother, and he most certainly did not. Just the sight of Ivy at the dance had made Simon blush like he was smitten. Talking about his sex life with Simon seemed very, very wrong. Hell, he wasn’t sure if his brother had even slept with a woman yet.

  “Well?” Grant pressed.

  “Technically the lights were off, but there was plenty of moonlight coming through the windows.”

  His brother knew how self-conscious Blake was about his leg. He didn’t like people looking at his scars. He never wore shorts, even out on the field in the summer. In his sexual encounters since the accident, he’d found ways around exposing his injury. Dim lighting helped. Undressing himself at the last moment did, too. Grant seemed to think that until Blake was screwing in broad daylight, he was disguising his issues.

  “Before you get all preachy with me about my leg, you should know I’d already shown it to her when we were out on my deck.”

  “That’s certainly progress. Is Ivy the first person you’ve shown that wasn’t family or one of your many doctors and therapists?”

  He shrugged. “I guess. At least that I’ve shown on purpose. I don’t want my injury to be the constant topic of discussion. Everyone knows what happened to me. The scars just bring it to the forefront of their minds, making them forget about what I’ve achieved and focus on feeling bad for me. When I’m seducing a woman, the last thing I want is her pity. Or worse, for her to be thinking about my leg and how it might . . . impact my performance.”

  “That’s not really good for the mood,” Grant admitted. “Although some women might eat that up. Plenty of women dig a man that’s ‘damaged.’ They get off on healing you with their bodies or something.”

  Blake groaned. He wasn’t going to use his leg to pick up chicks. He’d rather just get to the point where it wasn’t a big deal anymore. When the scars faded and he had a state championship under his belt, maybe people would think about something else.

  “So, how’d it go with you two?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, how’d it go with your leg,” Grant clarified. “Please don’t give me details about anything else.”

  “It was fine. It held up much better than the last time, so I can see an improvement. We were able to go several rounds without a problem. I paid for it in the morning, though. I woke up hurting, even after taking a couple of pills before falling asleep. And after I took her home that afternoon, I spent the rest of the day alternating between the whirlpool and sitting on the couch icing my knee.”

  “Sounds pretty rough, but congratulations on going all night with a rock star. Next time, maybe she can be on top and make it easier on you,” Grant suggested with a devious wiggle of his brow.

  “You’re a pervert.”

  “I’m practical. Again, there is a difference.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” Blake focused on his breakfast. He needed to finish and get to the high school. A reporter from the Birmingham newspaper was calling to interview him about the fund-raiser before first period.

  “Hey,” Grant said as their plates were cleared from the counter, “did you figure out whatever happened at the parade?”

  Blake sighed. He’d let that worry slip from his mind with everything else going on. “I did, although I can’t prove it.”

  “Who was it?”

  Looking around again and making sure Ruth was in the kitchen, Blake leaned into his brother. “It was Lydia. I confronted her after you took Ivy home.”

  “She admitted to it?” Grant asked, his eyes large and disbelieving.

  “No. But I saw the guilt on her face. She wants me, and Ivy is in the way.” He shrugged. “I don’t think she intended for anyone to get hurt. Just embarrassed, maybe.”

  “But you can’t prove it?”

  Blake slipped off his stool and threw some money onto the counter. “I don’t think so.”

  “You know, with all those reporters in town, I bet they took a million photos that day.” Grant tugged on his jacket and fished his wallet out of his back pocket. “Maybe one of them caught Lydia in the act.”

  That was a thought. He didn’t relish the idea of working with the camera-toting leeches, but Grant was right. Maybe they could actually prove useful. “And if they did,” Blake asked, “what do I do with the evidence? Turn it over to the police?”

  Grant gave a wry chuckle. “If Lydia were stalking me, I’d use it as blackmail to get her to leave me the hell alone.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Okay, that house is like something straight out of an old Civil War movie.”

  Ivy walked out onto the porch, where Malcolm was standing and looking across the lake at the Chamberlain mansion. “Yes, well, the sets in Civil War movies were based on actual antebellum homes, of which that is one.”

  “The architecture is amazing. Have you ever been inside?”

  “Yes. I was there the other day for a tea party. It’s beautiful inside. They really should give tours, but the family is extremely private. My high school boyfriend’s family still lives there.”

  “It’s Blake’s old house, huh? Amazing. Even from here, I can see the detail work in the columns.” Malcolm turned to her. “Is your parents’ home anything like that?”

  At that, Ivy chuckled. “Not even close. The rest of us live in smaller, respectable but not very exciting homes.”

  “That’s a shame.” He took his first sip of the mint julep he’d begged Ivy to make and winced. “That is awful.” Malcolm set the glass down on the little table and turned back to the Chamberlain mansion. “You should buy that house,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Ivy flopped down into one of the rocking chairs and laughed. “Even if I wanted to buy it, it’s not for sale. The entire Chamberlain family would have to be wiped out in a freak accident for such a travesty to occur.”

  “Then build a replica of it in Malibu.”

  Malcolm had only had one sip of that mint julep, but it must’ve gone straight to his head. Perhaps she should switch him to sweet tea. That idea was too crazy to even respond to. “You should’ve been an architect instead of an actor.”

  “Do you know how hard and expensive architecture school is? People drop out to go to med school because it’s easier.” Malcolm sat down in the other rocking chair. “Anyway, I could only afford it now because of all the movies I’ve done.”

  “Then you should rebuild it in Malibu. You’ve got more money than I do. How many millions did you make for that ridiculous comic book movie?”

  On reflex, Malcolm reached for his glass and took another sip of his drink. “Ugh. Not any better than the first time.” He shook his head. “I made twenty-five. Of course, my agent, my manager, Uncle Sam, and about ten other people on my staff all got their cut of it. But even if I made fifty million, I couldn’t rebuild a house like that in California. I might as well run a rainbow flag up the flagpole in the front yard. I could kiss my career good-bye.”

  “That’s not necessarily true.”

  Malcolm reached out to pat her hand. “Honey, please. While I love playing the role of your gay best friend in real life, it doesn’t pay so w
ell in films. It’s nearly impossible to be openly gay and land the kind of roles I want. Action films? Romantic leads? Comic book heroes? Do you think they’d pay me a fortune for a Red Rhage sequel if they knew I was gay? Do you think I’d win an Academy Award? Hell, the only way to do that is to be a gay man pretending to be straight, playing the role of a gay man. Ironic, huh?”

  Ivy listened to her best friend’s tirade as though it were the first time she’d heard it. “I just want you to be happy, Malcolm. You don’t seem very happy fake-dating half the women in Hollywood.”

  “But that’s how I met you. I wouldn’t trade that even for a greased-up fireman calendar model with washboard abs. You’re my favoritest beard ever.”

  “Thanks,” Ivy said. “I think.”

  Malcolm smiled at her, showcasing the charming good looks that had landed him the title of Sexiest Man Alive. It really was a shame that the women of the world would only get to look and not touch. He had dark hair that begged a woman to run her fingers through it. Tall and hard bodied, he smelled better than any man had a right to. His piercing blue eyes, tanned skin, and flawless smile turned every woman, whether a toddler or a senior citizen, into a puddle at his feet.

  Being his girlfriend, even for a few weeks and in name only, hadn’t been so bad. He was always a gentleman and always fun to be around.

  “Maybe when you get home, we should date again. I have that Christmas romantic comedy coming out Thanksgiving weekend. I’d rather you go with me to those premieres and parties than that sitcom actress they had me contracted with this summer. She’s boring as hell.”

  “I don’t think Kevin will go for that. I’m still coming off that Sterling Marshall thing. The charity work I’m doing is helping, but I think he still wants me to lie low on the relationship front for a while.”

  Malcolm snickered and reached for his iPhone. A few seconds later, he held out a picture of her and Blake kissing on the dance floor at the retro prom. “You’re not doing a very good job of lying low, Ivy.”