To cheer himself up, he had run into FAO Schwarz to pick up some presents for the kids. It was Madeleine’s birthday on New Year’s Day, and he’d promised to track down a Rollerblading Barbie. Max had spent enough time in New York to know that one’s fellow shoppers could be a bit on the pushy side, but he had never seen anything quite like the women in that fucking toy store. They were like drug-crazed prop forwards: grabbing and shoving and wrestling over these Barbie dolls as if they were the last water bottle on a desert island. By the time he’d beaten a crowd of them back to secure Madeleine’s prize, then gone through the whole ordeal again trying to find something suitable for the two boys, he’d emerged onto the street feeling like a gristly piece of meat that had just been chewed up and spat out by some giant, man-eating monster.
“Taxi!” he yelled as an apparently empty cab sped straight past him, stopping for a leggy blonde half a block down. “Fucker,” he mumbled, although he couldn’t really blame the driver. He’d have pulled over for the blonde as well. Abandoning hope of finding a cab in such foul weather, and suddenly in desperate need of a restorative drink, he doubled back on himself and nipped into the O’Mahoney’s pub on the corner. The dingy dark-wood-paneled bar was almost empty. Thank Christ. He was in no mood to have to wait around for service.
“What can I get you, sir?”
Max looked up from his piles of shopping into the green eyes of a truly stunning girl. She was wearing a tight white T-shirt with the O’Mahoney’s logo emblazoned across her magnificently ample chest, and her long auburn hair tumbled down around her shoulders, making her look not unlike the storybook pictures of Helen of Troy.
“Fuck me, you’re beautiful,” said Max, before realizing to his horror that he’d actually spoken the words aloud.
The siren laughed, a deep, mellow sound that Max found quite enchanting. The nightmare of the Barbie department was already fading into the dim recesses of his memory.
“And you’re not looking too bad yerself,” she said.
Ah, that Irish accent. It killed him every time.
Max noticed the mischievous way her eyes flickered when she spoke to him and her brazen holding of his gaze. Things were definitely starting to look up.
“I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly, unable to wipe the smile off his face. “That just slipped out. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Max, by the way. Max De Seville.”
He offered her his hand and she shook it.
“What, you mean like Bond, James Bond?” she teased him. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Max. I’m Angela.”
For a few delicious seconds they held each other’s hands, neither of them saying a word.
“So, Max,” said Angela eventually, still looking deep into his eyes. “What can I get for you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Max drawled, looking her body up and down as though he were appraising a master painting. “But I expect I can think of something.”
He woke up the next morning with a hangover that could have felled an elephant.
“Oh shit,” he whispered, opening one eye and trying to reorient himself to his spinning hotel room. “I’ve died and gone to hell.”
“Well that’s just charming, thanks very much.”
Angela was lying above him, propped up on her forearms, her big, smooth, rounded breasts spilling onto his chest, and the tips of her titian hair softly brushing against his face. Opening his eyes a little further, Max saw her smudged black eye makeup, and her lips and chin slightly reddened from kissing, and the previous night’s events gradually started coming back to him.
“Not you, angel,” he said, stroking her hair tenderly, but not wanting to risk a kiss, with his mouth tasting like a four-day-old ashtray. “You’re heavenly.” She was, too. How the hell had he managed to land a girl like that? “But unfortunately, I think someone may have broken in here last night and smashed me over the head with an anvil. Oh God,” he groaned, pushing her gently off him. “Did I miss something, or did you not sink about seven pints last night? How come I’m the only one who feels like a rat’s arse this morning?”
She laughed and, whipping the duvet off both of them, straddled him again, this time taking his arms and pulling them up so his hands were on her breasts.
“You know what the best cure for a hangover is?” She gave him that mischievous look again.
“Oh please, no, for God’s sake, woman. Have some compassion for a dying man,” Max whimpered.
Licking her palm, Angela reached down and wrapped her right hand firmly around his dick.
“Just close your eyes,” she whispered. “I’m about to give you the last rites.”
By the time he arrived at Jerry’s loft later that evening for the party, Max’s stomach had stabilized, but he still looked like a man in the final stages of acute liver failure.
“What the fuck happened to you?” asked Jerry, ushering him in from the lobby and relieving him of a bottle of vintage Chablis.
“I had a rough night last night,” said Max, pushing his way through a roomful of glamorous New Yorkers and following his old friend into the kitchen, which was crammed with flustered uniformed serving staff preparing yet more trays of complicated-looking hors d’oeuvres.
“Was she worth it?” asked Jerry, snaking expertly past two waitresses and handing Max a flute of champagne.
“Fuck, yeah,” said Max, shuddering. The faint lemony smell of the fizzing alcohol was making him feel nauseated. He pushed away the glass. “But I’m never drinking again. Have you got any Coke?”
“Liquid or powder?” Jerry smiled.
“Liquid,” said Max firmly. “And not Diet. I need the sugar.” He put his hand to his temple. “That music’s fucking loud, mate.”
Jerry produced a Coke from the fridge and passed it over. “That’s the hottest DJ in the city, Max my friend,” he said. “He doesn’t do quiet. Besides, this is a party, and a shit-hot one at that, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Right on cue, a six-foot brunette with legs up to her armpits sauntered past the kitchen doorway in a skintight orange minidress and thigh-high boots.
“Hey, Katya.” Jerry nodded at her, acknowledging her smile as she walked past. She blew him a kiss in return and disappeared into the throng.
“So I don’t want to hear another word about your bloody hangover, all right?” continued Jerry, slapping Max painfully across the back of the shoulders. “It’s New Year’s Eve, mate. Have some hair of the dog, get out there, and stop moaning.” He raised his bottle of Beck’s to Max’s glass of Coke in a toast. “Good to see you.”
Max downed his glass in one almighty gulp. “Good to see you too, Jerry.”
Wandering back into the main party room, an immense, warehouse-sized living space with panoramic views across the city, Max wished he had made a bit more of an effort. He was not naturally lacking in confidence, but a depressing feeling of inadequacy gripped him as he caught sight of his own reflection in one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors: pallid, unshaven, wearing a dirty old pair of Diesel jeans and a gray fisherman’s sweater of Henry’s. He wasn’t exactly the epitome of New York chic.
As he approached a low table groaning with more of the hors d’oeuvres he’d admired earlier in the kitchen, and began to swoop in on a caviar-and-cream-cheese blini, he noticed a sea of people parting around him and moving toward the door. He was starting to wonder if he still smelled of last night’s hangover and had somehow imagined his earlier shower, when he realized that they were not moving away from him, but toward a new arrival.
“She’s here,” he heard a fellow next to him whispering to his companion. “I told you she was coming.”
“Who’s here?” asked Max through a mouthful of caviar. He felt ravenous all of a sudden.
“Didn’t you see her?” said the man, a trendy advertising type wearing orange lenses in his Buddy Holly glasses, and waving in the general direction of the crowd by the door. “It’s Siena McMahon.”
Max almost choked on his bli
ni.
“And that fit Spanish bird’s with her,” piped up the man’s English sidekick. Max pushed past them and made his way to a sofa at the back of the room, where two models were deep in conversation. He was very curious to see Siena, but some instinct made him recoil from the idea of battling his way toward her like a besotted fan.
“Mind if I perch here?” he asked the two girls as he eased himself down onto the arm of the sofa.
“Not at all,” said the prettier one, looking at his long legs and muscled torso with approval. “You’re a big boy, though. I’m not sure if that armrest can take your weight.”
Max raised one eyebrow at her knowingly. She was slightly bland-looking, long blond hair, very regular features, but undeniably an extremely sexy girl. Perhaps his hangover was starting to dissipate after all.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” butted in the girl’s friend rudely, pointedly turning her back on Max. Like most models, she had no tolerance for flirtation unless it was directed toward herself. “I’ve never understood what all the fuss was about. As far as I’m concerned she’s short and she’s fat. It’s a mystery to me what men see in her.”
“I know,” said the blonde. “Zane says he thinks it’s because she looks so slutty and available.”
“Not a bad look,” muttered Max under his breath.
At that moment, a gap appeared in the crowd and he found himself looking, albeit from a fifty-foot distance, directly at Siena.
The first thing he noticed was that she looked nothing like any of the other women in the room. Dressed conservatively in immaculately cut white palazzo pants and a crimson silk shirt that displayed only the slightest hint of her famous creamy-white cleavage, she radiated confidence and sex appeal, smiling and air-kissing her way through each new group of admirers.
The thick mass of dark curls was exactly as he’d remembered, as was the pronounced and incongruously demure dimple in her chin, a chin that still jutted arrogantly upward toward every man who came to worship at the altar of her beauty.
Because whatever other, jealous girls might say, there could be absolutely no doubt that Siena was beautiful. Magnetically, terrifyingly beautiful.
Holy shit, thought Max. She could light up the whole of Park Avenue with that charisma. It was like magic.
Try as he might, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“I loved your Vanity Fair pictures,” a chiseled, Armani-suited clone was gushing as he approached her. “So brave. So raw.”
Oh please, thought Siena. She hoped Ines was right and there were men other than models at this party. Despite the fact that she had lived and worked among New York’s modeling fraternity for the past two years, her inanity threshold remained perilously low. If there was one thing she had no tolerance for, it was pretty, stupid men.
“You make me sound like a carrot,” she said rudely, looking past him in search of someone, anyone, more interesting.
At first she couldn’t quite place him. At the back of the room, an enormous, powerful-looking blond man, dressed like a hobo, was staring straight at her. Siena was used to being looked at, but something about the intensity of this man’s gaze left her stomach churning. He was definitely handsome, like a trawlerman who’d gotten very lost and somehow wound up in a Manhattan loft surrounded by a bunch of spoiled, rich bankers and their beautiful toys.
And yet, he did look familiar.
It was only when she started walking toward him, and he stood up to greet her, that the penny dropped.
No. It couldn’t be. Siena froze in her tracks.
“Hello, Siena,” said Max, towering over her like a Roman statue. “Long time no see.”
She could hear her heart pounding and felt a torrent of conflicting emotions raging through her.
Max De Seville! How could Max De Seville be here? Just seeing his face and hearing his voice transported her back in an instant to Hancock Park and the earliest, happiest days of her childhood. Suddenly, she was no longer the world-famous model, envied, desired, and in control. She was a seven-year-old girl, being ignored and dismissed by Hunter’s twelve-year-old best friend, and ordered out of their tree house.
Ridiculously, she found her old resentment of Max, always her rival for Hunter’s affections, flooding back, as though the last eleven years had never happened. But fighting with the resentment was enormous curiosity, combined with another, more unsettling feeling that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
She wished he would stop staring at her like that.
“Max.” She smiled thinly and extended a perfectly manicured hand. “What a nice surprise.”
Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. Max instantly bristled. So that was the way she wanted to play it? Well, if she thought she was going to come the supermodel diva with him, she had another think coming.
He shook her hand. “Isn’t it? I hardly recognized you at first, actually. Must have been all those clothes you’re wearing.”
Despite herself, Siena blushed. That was fifteen-love to Max. “Yes,” she said, “I have this thing about dressing appropriately for social occasions.” She allowed her eye to wander disapprovingly over his threadbare sweater and dirty jeans. “But I see that’s not one of your priorities.”
Fifteen-all.
Max took a deep breath. He was determined not to let the little bitch provoke him. “How are you enjoying the modeling?” he asked.
“Oh, you know.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s a means to an end. Of course, the money’s fabulous. But I’m going to be doing a lot more acting in the future.”
“Oh really?” said Max with a sly smile. “What have you done so far?”
Was the bastard laughing at her?
“Other than make millions, you mean?” she snapped, wishing he didn’t make her feel so defensive. Max raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “A couple of indie films,” she said eventually, “some music videos, that kinda thing. I have some very interesting scripts I’m looking at right now,” she lied. “But I can’t really talk about it yet. What about you?”
“I’m a director,” said Max, feeling very uncomfortable all of a sudden.
“Is that so?” said Siena. Like her grandfather, she could smell weakness like a shark smelled blood and instinctively moved in for the kill. “Of what? How come I’ve never heard of you?”
Max struggled to think of a comeback. “I don’t do mainstream Hollywood shit,” he said lamely.
“Oh, I see,” said Siena. “Yes, I can see from your clothes that you must have sacrificed a lot for your artistic integrity.”
The fucking snide little bitch. How dare she? “Well, lovely as it’s been, Siena”—he smiled down at her with a self-control he was justly proud of—“I don’t think I’ll be staying to see the New Year in, so I’m afraid you must excuse me.” He put down his empty glass on a side table and turned to go. “I’ll tell Hunter you said hello.”
At the mention of Hunter’s name, Siena felt her knees give way and reached out instinctively to the arm of the sofa for support. Her head had started to spin and her mouth went dry with panic. Max was still in touch with Hunter? She watched, paralyzed, as his back receded into the throng. Oh God, she couldn’t let him leave.
“Max, wait!” she called out, more loudly and anxiously than she had intended, so that a cluster of revelers nearby turned around and stared at her.
Reluctantly, Max stopped and turned.
“Do you . . .” she began, obviously struggling to find the words. If she weren’t such a vain, selfish little madam, Max thought, he might almost have felt sorry for her. “I mean, are you and Hunter still friends, then?”
“Of course,” he said harshly. He knew it must hurt her to know that his relationship with Hunter had survived when hers had not. But she was so beautiful and confident and successful, so damn perfect, at that moment he wanted to hurt her. “Actually, we live together in Santa Monica,” he twisted the knife. “Have done for the last three years.”
“Oh.�
� She looked completely lost at this piece of news, so much that he instantly began to regret having told her. He should have just let it lie.
“Look, I should be going.”
“Oh no, Max, please, don’t go,” she pleaded, grabbing his arm.
He looked at her panicked face and saw a flicker of vulnerability that instinctively made him want to put his arms around her, as he had done all those years ago when she’d fallen out of the tree house and he’d thought for one awful moment that she might have been killed.
But he stopped himself. What was the point? She was so fucked up and obviously emotionally damaged. It would be like trying to pet a porcupine.
“Does he ever talk about me?” she asked.
He knew how much it had cost her to ask the question, and softened slightly. “He did,” he said, not unkindly. “But he doesn’t anymore.”
“Well, sure.” Siena shrugged in a failed attempt at nonchalance, desperately trying to fix her mask of self-confidence back in place. “I mean, it’s been, what, ten years? That’s a lot of water under the bridge.”
“Yeah,” said Max. “I guess it is.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been so rude before. Just tell Hunter I said hi, or whatever.” She tossed her mane of hair and gave a practiced, professional fifty-megawatt smile, a signal, he assumed, that the conversation was over and she was ready to get back to the business of receiving more male attention.
“I will,” said Max. Suddenly he was longing to get away from her, away from everybody.
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