by Anna DePalo
Walking into the den, she plopped herself on the couch, feet dangling off one end. She began reading the script on her tablet. Moments later, Rick walked in.
After an extraordinary bout of sex this morning, he’d gone out to run errands and she hadn’t seen him in the two hours since. He looked just as yummy as earlier, however. They were both dressed in sweats, but somehow, he managed to make his look sexy rather than casual. He hadn’t bothered shaving this morning, and she’d come to like the shadow darkening his jaw. Contrasting with his wonderful multihued eyes, it lent him an air of quiet magnetism...
Rick nodded toward the device in her hand. “Have you checked the news yet?”
“No, should I? I just sat down.” She belatedly realized he looked more serious than usual.
Rick folded his arms and leaned against the entryway. “Well, the good news is your temporary restraining order came through, so your bad fan can be arrested for getting too close.”
“Great.” She hadn’t given much thought to Todd Jeffers in the past several days, though now that she was back home and he knew her address, she supposed she did feel an undercurrent of more stress. She asked cautiously, “What’s the bad news?”
“Your father has gotten himself arrested.”
Chiara leaned her head back against the pillows and closed her eyes briefly. “In Sin City? What could he have possibly done? The police turn a blind eye to practically every vice imaginable there. Even prostitution is legal in parts of Nevada, for heaven’s sake.”
“Apparently he argued about a parking ticket.”
“Sounds just like him. Responsibility has never been his strong suit.”
“You have to deal with the daddy problem.”
“I’ve never called him Daddy,” she scoffed, straightening. “Sperm donor, maybe. Daddy, no.”
“Whatever the name, you’ll keep having the same pesky PR problems if you don’t address the issue. And your next big movie might not come with a stuntman willing to double as the star’s boyfriend.”
“Hilarious.” Still, she felt a pull on her heartstrings at the reminder that their arrangement was temporary and fake.
Rick dropped his arms and sauntered into the room. “We may have had some success in distracting the press from your father recently, but you need to turn around and face the issue.”
“I don’t run from anything,” she scoffed again.
“Right. You’re a daredevil. Guess who gave you the risk-taking gene?”
She shrugged off a sudden bad feeling as she got up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rick’s gaze was penetrating. “What do you think gambling is? It’s a high from taking risks. There’s a rush from the brain’s rewards system. You like risks, your father likes risks. Different species of risk, but same family.”
She had nothing in common with her father. How dare Rick make that connection? Even worse, it was one she hadn’t seen coming. So she was in a profession with big highs and lows... So she did some of her own stunts...
Rick folded his arms again. “The funny thing is the only situation where you won’t take a chance is arranging a meeting with Michael Feran.”
“I don’t have anything to say to him.”
Rick tossed her a disbelieving look. “Of course you do. You have a lifetime’s worth of questions to grill and cross-examine him with,” he said pleasantly, “but let’s just stick with the issue at hand, which is getting him to stop attracting bad press.”
She jutted her chin forward. “And how do you propose I do that?”
“I’ve got some ideas...ones that might appeal to his own self-interest.”
“Oh? And since when have you turned into a psychologist?”
Rick braced his hands on his hips. “People management is part of the job description for a Hollywood producer. And stunt work is about getting your mind ready to conquer fear about what could happen to your body. Mind over body.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“I also found your Las Vegas showgirl ventriloquist’s dummy on the chair where you left her. She had plenty of insights about you,” he joked, “but mostly she was content to just sit there and listen.”
“She’s trashy.”
Rick choked on a laugh. “Great. She’ll be popular.”
“You like them that way,” she accused.
“I like you. The dummy is just the repository for the part of your personality that you’re afraid you might have inherited from your father.”
“Oh, joy.”
Rick suddenly sobered. “Your father has a gambling problem, and I understand addiction. Hal went back to drinking too much after Isabel’s antics sent him into a spiral.”
“You never mentioned there were consequences from Isabel’s media stunt.” She caught herself at Rick’s droll look at the mention of the word stunt. “Sorry, bad choice of words. I meant her diva moment for the press.”
Rick dropped his hands and shrugged. “Hal is sober these days after a stint in rehab. Or so I hear through the grapevine...since we don’t socialize anymore.”
Chiara was starting to understand more and more about Rick’s wariness regarding the limelight, actresses and fame in general. An aspiring actress had not only cost him a friendship but had crushed someone he knew.
“I’ll even offer my house for a meeting with your father,” Rick went on. “Odele can contact Michael Feran and figure out the details, including flying him to Los Angeles. I’ll pick up the tab.”
She sighed before asking wryly, “So all I have to do is show up?”
“Affirmative.”
“Your house isn’t even finished!”
“There’s landscaping and stuff still to be done, but it’s habitable. And more important, it’s neutral territory for a private meeting with your father.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Is there anything you haven’t thought of?” she demanded.
He gave her a lingering look. “There are still a few fantasies that I’m playing with...”
“You know, it’s astonishing you come from such a nice family considering—”
“I’m an ego-driven macho stuntman who doesn’t respect the rights of actresses to do their own daredevil acts and knows nothing about the uses of double-sided tape?”
“No, considering your dirty mind.”
One side of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Well, that, too. I know plenty of uses for tape and blindfolds and silk ties.”
Oh...wow.
Rick’s eyes crinkled. “Stunts call for diverse props.”
“I go propless.”
Rick stepped closer and murmured, “Interesting. No need of any assistance?”
She tossed her hair back as sexual energy emanated off him in luscious waves that wrapped themselves around her. “Yes, I go it alone.”
He reached out and took a strand of her hair in his fingers. “Might be more fun if it’s two.”
“Or three or more?” she queried. “What’s your limit? A menagerie?”
He gave a soft laugh. “A couple is good. The number of times, on the other hand...limitless, I’d say.”
Her breath started coming quick and shallow. Oh.
She swallowed and focused on the faint lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, and the ones bracketing his mouth.
He lowered his head and then touched his lips to hers, and she sighed. He nudged her—once, twice, coaxing a response. Open. Open.
Chiara shivered and felt her breasts peak even though only their lips were touching. She leaned in, falling into something that she knew was bottomless...still relatively unknown...and exciting.
Rick deepened the kiss and raked his fingers through her hair, his hand anchoring at the back of her head. They moved restlessly, unable
to get enough of each other.
Then Chiara followed Rick’s lead as they stripped off their clothes hurriedly, desperate for skin-on-skin contact. When they were down to underwear, he stopped her.
She drank him in from beneath lowered lashes. He was hot and male and vital. There was the ripped midriff, muscular arms, taut legs...the erection pushing against his boxers. Suddenly she needed to catch her breath.
He lowered the straps of her lacy bra and peeled the garment away from her, and then swallowed. “Chiara.”
“Make love to me, Rick.”
It was all the invitation that he needed. He kissed her with unrestrained passion, pulling her close as her arms wrapped around his neck. And she responded with a hunger of her own, the feel of his arousal against her fueling her passion.
When she broke away, she pushed down her panties and he did the same with his boxers. And then they were tumbling onto the sofa, reaching for each other in a tangle of limbs and desperate passion.
She grasped Rick’s erection and began a pumping motion designed to stoke his passion and hers. He was warm, pulsating male—rigid with his need for her.
He tore her mouth from hers and expelled a breath. “Chiara, we’ve got to slow down or this is going to be over—”
“Before the director yells cut?” she purred. “There is no director, Stunt Stud.”
He gave a strangled laugh. “Stunt Stud?”
“It’s the name I came up with when I was objectifying you.”
“I was going to say to slow down or this will be finished before you’re satisfied.”
“Worried I won’t be able to keep up with you?” In response, she led his hand to her moist heat, already ready for him.
He stilled, and in the next moment, he was pushing her back against the pillows. Then he sheathed himself in one long stroke that had them both groaning.
As Rick hit her core, she arched her back, taking him in.
She followed his lead and the rhythm he set...building and building until she hit her climax in one husky cry.
“Chiara.” In the moment after Rick called her name, he groaned, stiffened and then spilled inside her.
He slumped against her, and she cradled him.
Contentment rolled through her—a feeling that had been too elusive in her life until now...
Nine
When they pulled up in Rick’s Range Rover to the nearly completed house, Chiara sucked in a breath. Wow.
Nervousness about the upcoming meeting with her father, who was scheduled to arrive within the hour, was replaced by happy surprise.
Rick’s home wasn’t a house but a castle. It was all gray stone and stunning turrets. She loved it.
She was so entranced that Rick had already come around and opened the car door for her before she thought to get out. She could see there was plenty of landscaping yet to be done, but still the effect from the outside was stunning.
“Want to take a look?” Rick teased as she got out. “I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of impressive homes belonging to famous people.”
None shaped like a castle. She looked at the mansion, and then glanced at Rick. “I’m impressed. You have the castle...were you looking for your fairy-tale princess?”
Rick’s lips curved. “Only you can answer that, Snow.”
He put his hand at her elbow. “Come on, let’s look inside. It’s done except for minor details, and is sparsely furnished.”
Rick’s house—castle—made her home look like a small and cute cottage.
Chiara gasped when they entered the foyer. She’d seen this house in her mind’s eye.
The double-height entry was airy and sunny but also warm and inviting. Done in light colors, it belied the imposing exterior. A curving staircase led to the upper levels, and various open doorways offered glimpses of other parts of the house.
She followed Rick in a circuit of the ground floor. A warm, country-style kitchen with beige cabinetry and a large island connected to a spacious dining room. An immense living room was bifurcated by a two-way fireplace and was made cozy by coffered ceilings in a warm mahogany wood. A library, den, two bathrooms and a couple of storage rooms for staff rounded out most of the lower level. The only thing missing was furnishings for a family...
When they came full circle back to the entry, Chiara’s gaze went to the staircase leading to the upper floors.
Rick adopted a teasing expression. “In case you are wondering, a home office with a built-in desk sits at the top of the principal turret. I haven’t stashed a fairy-tale princess there.”
“Rapunzel?” She tapped her chest. “Wrong fairy tale. I’m Snow, remember?”
Despite her joking, she felt comfortable here—too at home. It was almost enough to make her forget she was about to have one of the most significant meetings of her life.
She was an actress, she reminded herself sternly. She needed to adopt a persona—a shield—and get what she wanted out of this meeting.
As if reading her thoughts, Rick said, “You and your father can meet in the library. It has two club chairs and a coffee table at the moment.”
“Okay.” Why had she let Rick talk her into this? She knew he had a good point—dragons must be faced—but she wasn’t relishing the chance to slay one of hers. She almost gave a nervous laugh at the thought of Rick cast as her knight in shining armor...
Except of course, she didn’t believe in such knights or in Prince Charming—or in fairy tales, for that matter. Though she was having a hard time remembering that these days.
At the sound of a car pulling up, Rick said, “That must be him. I had a driver pick him up from the hotel where he stayed last night after his flight from Vegas.”
“Oh, good,” she managed, and then cleared her throat.
Rick looked at her searchingly, and then cupped her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
She gave him a blinding smile—one she usually reserved for the cameras. “Never better.”
“Remember, you’re in charge here. You hold the cards.”
“Playing cards are what I intend to take out of his hands.”
Rick lifted one side of his mouth. “Sorry, bad choice of words. I’ll meet him outside and show him into the library.”
“Of course.” She’d dressed in a navy shirt dress—something she’d pulled out of the closet herself. Because even if Emery hadn’t headed off to start her own fashion line, Chiara couldn’t imagine asking a stylist about what to wear to a meeting with her estranged father. For some occasions in life, there was no fashion rule book.
Rick shoved his hands into his front pockets and nodded, the hair on his forearms revealed by rolled-up shirtsleeves. “Back soon.”
When Rick turned away, Chiara walked into the library. And then, because she couldn’t think of what else to do, she faced the partially open doorway...and waited.
The sound of quiet voices reached her. Greetings were exchanged...and then moments later, she heard footsteps.
Someone stepped into the library, and she immediately recognized Michael Feran—her father.
Her heart beat a thick, steady rhythm. She hadn’t expected to feel this nervous. She hated that she did. He was the one who should be tense. After all, he’d walked out on her.
She hadn’t seen him in person in years, but the media had made sure she hadn’t forgotten what he looked like. She wished she could dismiss him as a gaunt and lonely gambling addict wallowing in his misery, but he looked...good.
She silently cursed the Feran genes. They’d graced her with the looks and figure that had propelled her to the top in Hollywood, but they also hadn’t skipped a generation with Michael Feran. His salt-and-pepper hair made him look distinguished—a candidate for the father role in any big studio blockbuster.
“Chiara
.” He smiled. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
She wished she could say the same. Under the circumstances, it was a forced meeting.
At her continued silence, he went on, “I’m glad you wanted to meet with me.”
“Rick convinced me that I needed to have this face-to-face meeting.”
Michael Feran smiled. “Yes, how is the stuntman?” So her father read the press about her. Of course.
“I met him when I came in. Is he a candidate for future son-in-law?”
Chiara was hit with a sudden realization that left her breathless. She was falling for Rick. She had fallen for him. But they’d never discussed making their fake relationship permanent... She pushed aside the thought that had come with staggering clarity because if she dealt with any more emotion right now, she’d overload.
Instead, she forced herself to focus on Michael Feran. “You’re creating unwanted publicity.”
“I see.”
“Why did you talk to that tabloid about me last year?” It was an unforgivable transgression to add to his list of sins.
“Money would be the easy answer.”
She waited.
He heaved a sigh. “The hard one is that I wanted your attention.”
“Well, you got it.” She folded her arms.
She wasn’t going to offer him a seat, and she sure wasn’t going to sit down herself, despite the fact that Rick had pointed out this room had comfortable chairs. Michael Feran had to understand this was a halfhearted welcome and not an olive branch.
His gray brows drew together. “I probably didn’t go about it in the best way. Believe it or not, it was the only time I took money from a reporter.”
“Because you needed to pay off your gambling debts,” she guessed.
He looked aggrieved. “It was a mistake. One I don’t intend to make again.”
She was definitely going to see to it that he didn’t spill the beans again.
“Usually I’m winning at the card tables. Enough to pay my bills.”
“Naturally. It’s what matters in life.” She couldn’t help the tone of heavy sarcasm in her voice. “But you’re generating bad press.”