Lovegame

by Tracy Wolff

  The closer she gets to me, the more I realize that she isn’t real. That the woman standing in front of me isn’t the Veronica I had in my bed last night. Nor is she the woman I woke up. No, this is the public Veronica, the one she lets the world see—all shaded eyes and sexy, predatory smile.

  I have a moment to mourn the loss, to realize that the woman who smiled at me from across the room a couple of minutes ago really was genuine. And then she’s crowding me against the open refrigerator, leaning into me, her beautiful body pressed against mine from shoulder to thigh.

  “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” she tells me, reaching around me to grab an apple from the bowl on the second shelf. “This is Hollywood. The carb count in that muffin is more than most of us eat in a week.”

  She holds the apple up to me, pressing it first against her lips and then mine. In that moment, as she offers me a bite of the ruby red fruit, I don’t know if she’s more Eve or Evil Queen. Either way, it’s arousing and disturbing and intimidating as all fuck. Especially since for the first time I get it. I really get it.

  This armor she wears, it’s not the buffer all famous people keep around themselves. No, it’s not that Veronica’s armor is something she developed because she’s an actress. It’s that she’s an actress because she’s had to wear this armor for so long. Has had to protect herself when no one else would.

  This is it then, the missing piece I’ve been looking for since she sat down across from me in that restaurant four days ago. The piece of her I couldn’t quite get to fit with all of the others.

  Her predatory sexuality isn’t something she was born with and it isn’t something she chose. It’s something she learned to counter the pain.

  The question is why. And who? Who damaged her so badly that she figured out this was the only way to protect herself? Who broke her so completely that she’s turned every part of herself into a weapon?

  Even as I ask myself those questions, I’m terrified I already know the answer. But if I’m right, if Liam Brogan is the man who did this to her, how can I possibly ask her to take off the armor and show me her scars?

  Chapter 16

  “Veronica, darling, I just found this hanging upstairs in your room.” My mother plows into the kitchen carrying the dress I’d hung on my dressing room door less than two hours ago. “Tell me this isn’t what you’re planning on wearing to my party tonight!”

  I look from her to the column of white silk she’s brandishing like a weapon. “That is what I’m planning on wearing. I love that dress.”

  Even more, I love the way I feel in that dress—sexy, powerful, in control. Then again, that’s pretty much a guarantee with anything from the Atelier Versace collection, which is why they are almost always my house of choice. With the way things went in Ian’s hotel room this morning, I figure I owe it to myself, and him, to bring out the big guns tonight.

  He deserves to suffer.

  She frowns at me. “Are you getting a cold? Your voice is so hoarse.”

  I nearly choke on my own saliva as I think about exactly what I did last night that resulted in my voice sounding like this. A blush burns right under my skin at the idea of her figuring it out, and I call on every ounce of acting ability I have to tamp it down. There’s no way I’m going to have a discussion about proper blow job techniques with my mother, which is where this conversation will end up if I don’t steer her away from it. Well, either that or I’ll get a lecture on giving it to a man who has already served his purpose in advancing my career…

  “I think it’s just allergies,” I tell her quickly. “You know how mine get around this time of year.”

  “Yes, but I thought—” She stops dead when she realizes I’m not alone in the kitchen, that the room is, in fact, filled with half a dozen people from the caterer’s. She switches gears immediately, gives them the slightly off-kilter and completely charming smile that’s been her trademark for nearly forty years. “Thank you so much for being here today. My daughter and I appreciate all your hard work so much. I hope you don’t mind if I steal her away for just a few moments.” She bats her eyes at Marco, the head caterer. “I promise I’ll return her to you in just a minute, once I’ve made sure her allergies aren’t wearing her down too much.”

  He smiles back, but it’s obvious he’s more uncomfortable than charmed at being flirted with by a woman over three decades his senior. “Keep her as long as you like. We’re finished here.”

  I want to call him a traitor—he’s my friend as well as my caterer—but doing so would only set my mother off and frankly I have neither the time nor the interest to deal with her drama today. To be fair, I never do, but today my patience is particularly thin. Especially when she wraps her hand around my biceps, her freshly polished, maroon tipped fingernails digging into my arm as she drags me along behind her.

  “Let’s go into my office, shall we?”

  It’s actually my office, just like this is my house. But again, I’m not going to remind her of that fact—I would like to escape this little chitchat with my life and more importantly, my afternoon schedule, intact. If I distract her with petty details like the fact that I saved her ass by buying the house for thirty million dollars after she blew through most of the money Dad had left her, she’d be in tears and I’d be stuck here for hours comforting her. And owning up for the eight hundredth time to what a terrible, horrible, no-good daughter I am.

  No, I definitely don’t have time for that today.

  Still, I gird myself for the hard sell. And sure enough, as soon as the office door is closed behind us, she turns to me, her blue eyes wide and guileless. It’s the first clue that I need to watch my back. One of my earliest lessons when growing up in this house is that my mom only goes for the innocent look when she’s planning on drawing blood.

  “Wearing that dress tonight would be a mistake you can’t afford to make,” she tells me as she drapes the dress in question over the arm of the closest sofa.

  So much for her concern over my nonexistent allergies. “It’s a dress, not national security, Mom. Even if it is a mistake—which it isn’t—I’m sure it will all work out.”

  She sighs, all long-suffering and put-upon. “Veronica, darling, do you know how many photographers are going to be at this party tonight?”

  “None, since I haven’t called any? And because security knows to keep the paps on the other side of the gates.” It’s my turn to smile and bat my eyelashes at her. “I want this party to be just perfect for you, Mom.”

  “Oh, I know you do.” Sentimental tears bloom in eyes the exact same shape, but two shades lighter, than mine. “But I didn’t see the harm in letting a few in to take pictures, so I called a couple magazines and gave them a heads-up. Then I gave their reporters’ names to the gate, so they know to let them in.”

  Of course she did. Of fucking course she did. Why I would expect anything else from her, I don’t have a clue. This is the woman, after all, who used her longtime husband’s funeral as a photo op…and his death as a chance to revive her career.

  “You know I don’t like photographers in the house, Mom.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You just had a photographer in here a couple days ago.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “That was for an actual magazine shoot. Not quite the same thing.” She knows it, too. She’s just being difficult.

  “Maybe,” she allows, “but that doesn’t make it any more important than tonight. Magazine covers and pap photos serve two very different purposes—especially when those pap photos show you hosting one of the most elite gatherings of the year. Exposure of both kinds is necessary if you want to look like a contender moving into awards season.”

  “I’m not catering to the paps in order to get nominations. Either they like my performance in Belladonna or they don’t.”

  The look she gives me is both mocking and faintly pitying at the same time. “Tell me you don’t actually believe that. Your father and I taught you so much better
than that.”

  There’s no denying they taught me a lot, but better? That’s a stretch, even for her.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she continues when I don’t immediately jump at her words of wisdom. “You might not always agree with the decisions your father and I made with regards to you, but you’ve got to admit we always had your best interests at heart. And it obviously worked.” She waves a hand, encompassing me from head to toe. “Just look at where you are now.”

  The irony in that statement baffles me…as does the self-delusion, considering most days I work really hard not to look at myself, really hard not to think about where I am or what had to be given up for me to get here.

  Suddenly I’m thinking about Ian, about that whole bizarre scene in his hotel room today. I don’t know why, considering it’s not like I had him for more than a couple nights of entertainment—and not like I was the one to give him up anyway. No, he’s the one who made it very clear this morning that he didn’t want me in his hotel room. Which…fine. I mean, two nights ago I did pretty much the exact same thing to him. Just because mine had been motivated by fear—fear that I’d let him see too much, fear that I’d given too much of myself over to him—doesn’t mean he has to feel the same way.

  When I walked out this morning, I swore that I wasn’t going to dwell on it. Wasn’t going to think about him or what happened or just how much of myself I’d given over to him last night during that ridiculous game.

  The fact that I’m breaking that vow now irritates me. And only makes me more determined to show him—show the both of us—that I don’t care about him or about what happened between us. I’ve had enough practice that I could probably get that across while dressed in a burlap sack, but I’m honest enough with myself to admit that that Versace dress will make it a lot more fun.

  “So what exactly is wrong with the dress, Mom?” I ask her as I pick it up off the couch and hang it on the antique coat rack next to the door.

  “Nothing, if you’re going to an awards ceremony—after having already been nominated. Those are the times you want to push the boundaries, to show off your spectacular looks. But not now, not when Belladonna is going to open and nominations are just around the corner. This isn’t the time for sexy.”

  “This is Hollywood, Mom. It’s always the time for sexy.”

  “Not if you want an Oscar. If you want one of those, you’ve got to be smart. You have to show that you’re a ‘serious’ actress. To show the Academy that you’re more just a perfect face and body.”

  “Isn’t that what the actual movie is supposed to do?”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “Movies help you get noticed, sweetheart. But they don’t actually get you nominated. It’s playing the game that does that.” She pauses, taps a finger against her almost pursed lips (almost, because actual pursing causes wrinkles and neither my mother nor her plastic surgeon have any use for those). “Maybe we should hire an Oscar coach.”

  I burst out laughing. I can’t help it.

  “Why are you laughing at me?” she demands with a pout. “I’m serious. If we want this to go our way—”

  “Our way? Don’t you mean my way?” Except she doesn’t mean that and I know it. All of this fervor, all of this planning, it’s because she’s never gotten an Academy Award—never even gotten a nomination. It always bothered her that Hollywood never saw her as anything more than a pretty face, no one but Salvatore Romero’s bimbo bombshell. Through the years, my father racked up ten nominations and three wins, while all she got was Best Dressed at the Oscars. That’s why she’s so obsessed with me getting one.

  But just because I’m right—just because I understand her motivation—doesn’t mean calling her on it is the right thing to do. I know it even as I say the words and one look at the expression on her face confirms it, has me drowning in guilt. Just because she makes me crazy sometimes is no reason to go for her weaknesses.

  With a sigh, I lean into her. Knock our shoulders together in a gesture that is both an apology and a bid for camaraderie. “I know you’re excited, Mom. I am, too. But the movie isn’t even out yet! Let’s see how it does at the box office and what the critics say about my performance and then we can talk about what we need to do.” Or not, as I have absolutely no interest in going down this particular road to crazytown, not even for my mother.

  And I’m certainly not giving it any more of my attention today. Right now I have a lot more pressing issues to worry about, one of which is making sure the photographers my mother hired stay where they belong. The last thing I want is for them to wander around on their own. When left to his own devices, it took Ian all of three minutes to find out that I didn’t live here. The last thing I want is for the rest of Hollywood to figure that out, too.

  A knock on the door interrupts my reverie and my new assistant, Danielle, opens the door and casts a wary glance between my mother and me. Not that I blame her—if I didn’t have to be a participant in this conversation, I would run in the opposite direction.

  “What can I do for you, Danielle?”

  “The gardener just came to the door. He wants you to take a look at the changes in the garden, make sure you’re happy with them before he and his crew leave for the night.”

  “Changes? What changes?” Alarm skitters through me. “Miguel was just supposed to do the regular trimming.”

  “I didn’t think there were supposed to be any changes, but he seems to be under a different impression. Do you want me to go see what his guys have done and report back?”

  “No, no. I’ll go. Tell him I’ll be out in just a minute.”

  I wait until Danielle is gone before turning back to my mother. One look at her face and I give in, just like we both knew from the very beginning that I was going to. “Look, if you really don’t like the Versace, I won’t wear it. But you’re going to have to come up with something else for me to wear because I have no time to go home and get another dress.”

  She claps her hands like a little girl at my capitulation, all but jumping up and down in her excitement. “You won’t regret it! I promise. I already have the perfect dress in mind,” she says as she throws her arms around my neck.

  I already regret it, but what’s done is done. As I head toward the backyard and my father’s gardens, I can’t help sending a prayer out to the universe that she doesn’t dress me like a total frump. Because while I buy her “you need to be seen as a more serious actress” argument to a certain extent, I’m also pretty sure the wardrobe change has just as much to do with her wanting to shine the brightest at the party tonight as it does with my image. Probably even more. Not that I have a problem with that—it is her birthday. And you only turn fifty seven times, after all. Maybe eight if you really stretch it out.

  Besides, I assure myself as I throw open the French doors that lead to the side patio closest to the gardens, I don’t need a dress to make Ian suffer. If I’ve learned one thing from my mom in the last thirty years, it’s how to bring a man to his knees…and keep him there.

  But one look at my father’s extensive gardens and thoughts of Ian on his knees, or anywhere else for that matter, abandon me. In their place is an abject and absolute horror, one that makes my head spin and my knees buckle. I have to be seeing things, have to be imagining—I lean into the closest outside column in an effort to steady myself, blink my eyes repeatedly in an effort to convince myself that I’m seeing things.

  Neither effort works.

  Frantically, I glance around for Miguel, the man who’s been in charge of my father’s prized gardens since I was a little girl. He’s nowhere to be found—and neither are the regular members of his crew. In their place is a bunch of strange men I’ve never seen before. Men who have just ripped out a huge swath of the English gardens Miguel has spent decades cultivating. Gardens my father designed when he built the house and that he continued to add to and expand all the way until his death four years ago.

  All the flowers, all the bushes, even the sc
ulpted hedges that made up this whole side of the yard, are gone. And in their place are…

  I’m not sure. I can’t tell what plant it is from here, so I step closer, hoping to get a better look at what’s been done. And then immediately wish I hadn’t. Because my father’s beautifully formal English gardens, all the roses, all the marigolds and peonies and lilies, have been replaced by row after row of belladonna plants. Some are in the berry stage, others are already flowering with the distinctive purple-and-yellow blossom, but they are all definitely belladonna.

  My blood runs cold and for a moment I can do nothing but stare in dismay. So much is gone, ruined, that it’s a little hard to comprehend. Especially considering all this work was done today. Then again, with a crew this big, of course it only took a little more than half a day to wreak havoc on what once was here. And while it’s true that I hated the gardens and only kept them up in honor of my father’s memory, that doesn’t mean I’d ever want to see them demolished like this. And belladonna, of all things, put in their place?

  The destruction is inconceivable.

  A man with a clipboard and an outstretched hand approaches me from the left. His eyes are wide and he looks a little flustered, like he can’t believe I’m standing right in front of him. Since I feel exactly the same way right now, I start talking before he’s stupid enough to ask for an autograph. “Who are you?” I all but screech. “And who gave you the right to do this to my property? I should call the police.”

  I fumble in my pocket for my phone as I think about doing just that. This is vandalism of private property. Not to mention trespassing. He should be arrested. They should all be arrested.

  Except my phone isn’t in my pocket. It’s still in my purse in the office, where I left it this morning after deciding I didn’t want to talk to anyone. And because I didn’t want to spend the day looking at it—or trying not to look at it—as I waited for a text or call from Ian that would never come.