Lovegame

by Tracy Wolff

  “I did, yes. Thank you for letting him through, Curtis. You don’t happen to know if he stayed, do you? Or if he left again?”

  He looks dismayed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. We don’t monitor cars leaving—only those trying to get in. I wish I’d thought to look. I wish—”

  “It’s okay, don’t worry. Please.” I reach into my purse and pull out a twenty to tip him. “I was just curious if you noticed. I don’t actually expect you to know.”

  His eyes grow wide when he sees the money, but he holds his hands up in front of him as if he’s warding off evil spirits. “Oh no, Ms. Romero, please. You don’t have to tip me.”

  “It’s Veronica, not Ms. Romero. And it’s okay to take the money. You earn it sitting here every night, keeping all of us safe.” I waggle the bill in front of him until he very reluctantly reaches for it.

  He’s bright red by this point, but he’s holding the money like a lifeline. Either because he needs it or because it came from me. I’m not sure which idea makes me more uncomfortable. The need, I think, as he waves me through. Definitely the need. I hate to think of a kid like Curtis barely scraping by on minimum wage, especially in L.A. I make a mental note to stop by the booth more often and chat him up, if for no other reason than to drop him a few more tips.

  I’m the third house on the street, so it only takes me a couple of minutes more on the winding road before I’m home. I click the remote and try to ignore the tightness in my stomach as I make my way up the long, hilly driveway. I’m nervous, and the sad thing is I’m not even sure why. Because I’m afraid he went back to the hotel or because I’m afraid he didn’t?

  My hands are shaking a little by the time I make it to the top of the driveway—at least until I see his car sitting there in the shadows. Then it’s like all the tension leeches from my muscles at once and I’m left soft, pliant, needy.

  He’s still here. After everything, he stayed—for me.

  I don’t bother pulling into the garage tonight, choosing instead to stop my car next to his. By the time I turn the ignition off and gather up my purse, he’s here, opening up my car door and pulling me out.

  He bumps his hips against mine, presses me into the car door even as his hands frame my face. I wait for him to kiss me—my lips all but aching for the feel of his—but for long seconds all he does is stare at me in the dim lighting.

  I wish I knew what he was looking for. I’d give it to him. Then again, at this moment, I feel like I’d give him almost anything.

  The silence throbs around us—soft and deep and comforting in a strange way I’m not quite ready to analyze. I wait for him to break it, for him to say something, anything. But instead he just waits, his thumbs stroking soothingly along my cheeks.

  When I can’t take the silence any longer, I cover his hands with my own and squeeze. Then I whisper, “Hi.”

  He smiles, the left side of his mouth quirking up a little higher than his right, the way it does when he really means the smile. When he’s not just being polite. “Hi.”

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here,” I say, leaning into him. “I’m glad you stayed.”

  “No worries. Big, fancy parties require some cleanup. I get it.” He bends his head then and finally—finally—brushes his lips against mine. “I’m glad you invited me over.”

  “I’m glad you knew it was an invitation.”

  “I wasn’t sure. But I hoped.” His eyes coast over me, lingering on my lips and the bruise on my breast.

  I take his hand, press his fingers to the upper swell of my breast in much the same way as I did earlier. Only this time, I urge him to cup me, to feel me. “I’m not fragile.”

  “You’re so fragile.” Before I can protest, his lips are on mine again. Warm, soft, sweet. So sweet I can barely stand it. So different than any other time he’s kissed me. “So beautiful.”

  Something tells me he’s not only talking about my looks. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part. If it is, I’ll take it, at least for now.

  The wind picks up, blowing the sweet scent of the ocean over us. I shiver as the cool breeze touches me and he pulls me closer, wraps me in his arms. So gentle. So tender. I don’t know what’s going on, but I like it. More, tonight, after everything that’s happened today it feels like I need it.

  The fact that he seems to understand without me having to say anything…it means more to me than it probably should.

  “Come on,” I tell him, clicking the button on my key chain to open the garage door closest to us. “The Santa Anas are coming in. Let’s go inside.”

  I lead him through the garage and into the house, pausing to type the alarm code into the keypad in the mudroom. As I do, I’m conscious of him looking around, taking in whatever parts of my home that he can see. It makes me nervous, edgy. Not so much because I think he’s going to judge me for my house, but because it is my home. And because he’s a man who notices everything. Reading his books has taught me that much and two nights in his bed have only cemented the impression.

  “So, this is your home?” he asks as we make our way into the kitchen.

  “It is.”

  He glances around, taking everything in, just as I knew he would. And I can’t help shifting uncomfortably as I wait for him to say something, can’t help wondering what he thinks of this room—this house—that I decorated completely on my own.

  He doesn’t say anything, though. Instead he makes a beeline for my refrigerator and pulls it open.

  “Looking for something?” I ask, more than a little surprised at his behavior.

  “Just checking,” he tells me, shooting a smirk over his shoulder. And that’s when I get it.

  “Is there enough food in there to prove I actually live here?”

  “There’s enough food to prove a rabbit lives here. I don’t know about you.”

  “I’m an actress, darling. It’s pretty much one and the same.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It really kind of does,” I agree with a sigh. “But, in defense of my nearly empty fridge, I do prefer my calories in champagne.”

  “Apparently,” he says as he shifts a couple bottles of Cristal around. “And Peanut Butter M&M’s.” He holds up a pack from my emergency stash in the back of the fridge.

  “You’ve found my weakness. Those things are my Kryptonite. Which is why they’re hidden all the way in the back. So that I forget about them until times of crisis.”

  “So, does it work?”

  “I’d say it’s about fifty-fifty.”

  “Not bad odds, then.” He puts the pack back and closes the fridge. “So, are M&Ms your only weakness?”

  I arch a brow. “No, but it’s the only one I’m going to admit to at this point in our relationship.”

  Shit. As soon as the words are out, I want to call them back. Pretty presumptuous of me to call what we have a relationship, even if that’s not really what I meant. I have a moment to make a wish for him to just let it go, but then he’s stalking toward me, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with sudden arousal.

  “Is that what we’re doing?” he asks. “Starting a relationship?”

  “It sounds so serious when you say it like that.” Still, there’s nothing left to do at this point but brazen it out. “Well, we are about two nights too long for a one-night stand. And three-night stand just doesn’t have the same ring.”

  “It really doesn’t,” he agrees, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me toward him.

  And then he’s kissing my jaw, my neck, the sensitive skin behind my ear. I arch backward, turning my head to give him better access as my whole body melts at his touch.

  This is what I’ve been missing all day, what my body’s been craving from the moment I rolled over and found him missing from the bed we’d shared. I’ve spent my whole adult life standing on my own two feet, refusing to lean on anyone for help, refusing to need anyone because I thought that was what would make me strong.

  But there’s som
ething about being with Ian, something about the way he touches me, holds me, makes me feel, that takes away the fear. That makes me feel strong for being with him instead of running away from him. I don’t know what it is, but I’d be a fool not to take advantage of it. And an even bigger fool not to like it.

  Still, I can’t resist teasing him as he works his hand around to the back of my dress and starts peeling down the zipper. “If you’re not careful, I’m going to start thinking you have a kitchen kink. Every time we’re in one, you try to take my clothes off.”

  “I think what I’ve got is a you kink. I’m pretty sure there’s not a room in this house I don’t want to fuck you in.”

  His words cause another jolt of heat to rush through me, have my knees weakening and my sex growing damp. “I’m glad to hear that. Since I have plans to fuck you in all of them.”

  “So, I guess this means you’ve got a kink for me, too, then?” he teases.

  I pause, pretend to consider. “It’s really more of an interior design kink, but…”

  He thrusts a hand into my hair, growls a warning low in his throat. And then his mouth is on mine and I’m falling into him. Drowning in the strength and sex and power of him.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he tells me when we finally come up for air seconds, minutes, hours later. “And this dress…” He skims his lips across my shoulder as he shoves the straps down my arms. Moments later, the gown falls at my feet in a pool of red lace. “I wanted to fuck you the moment I saw you in it.”

  For the first time since I saw him parked at the top of my driveway, a frisson of unease works its way down my spine. I ignore it, try not to let his words upset me. The last thing I want right now is to be jerked out of this moment and shoved right back into the panic I was in earlier.

  I pull him close again, press hot, openmouthed kisses to his lips, his throat, the stubble on his jaw. I want to lose myself in him, to block out all the ugliness of the last twenty-four hours and think only about him. Only about this.

  But he’s still talking, still murmuring sexy things in my ear, against my skin. Things about how much he wants me and how crazy I make him and how he wants to make me feel good. He’s saying all the right things, doing all the right things, but my brain is going now and I can’t help wondering if he’s saying these things to me…or to her.

  If I’d been wearing the white dress—my favorite color by my favorite designer—maybe I wouldn’t have these doubts. Maybe I wouldn’t wonder who he was talking to, or about. But considering my mother all but dressed me as the Belladonna tonight, it’s hard not to wonder if it’s really me he wants. Hard to hear Ian call me beautiful when I look like her. Especially considering how much the Belladonna was, if not his actual creation, then at least the muse who sat on his shoulder when he wrote the biggest and bestselling book of his career.

  Would it be so strange for him to fall for her? For me, as her?

  From the moment he showed up in my life four days ago, I’ve been one incarnation of the Belladonna after another. Vintage suits, ballgowns, even the corset and garter belt I’m wearing right now. Is it so strange then, to wonder again whether it’s her he wants…or me?

  I try to cover my insecurities, to bury them once and for all. But Ian senses that something’s wrong—the same way he always senses that something’s wrong—and the moment he does, he steps away from me.

  I should be grateful for his concern—and for the reprieve as it gives me a chance to get my head back on straight. But the moment his touch disappears, I’m lost. Bereft.

  I want him badly. And I want him to want me the same way. Until it’s a burning in his blood, a craving in his soul. A deep and terrible thirst that can’t be quenched.

  Not the Belladonna. Not Veronica Romero. Not Maxim’s sexiest woman alive or whatever other moniker he tried hanging on me at lunch that first day. I want him to want me. Plain, old Veronica, who likes the beach and yoga pants and ridiculously expensive champagne.

  Is that really so much to ask?

  I work hard to keep this latest freak-out to myself. The last thing I want Ian to see is how fucked up I am, and how right he was to call me fragile earlier. But he’s looking at me, studying me, tilting my chin up so he can see my face, my eyes.

  “Do you want me to leave?” he asks, his hand stroking over my jaw in a soothing rhythm.

  “No.” I clutch at him, my fingers tangling in his dress shirt as I pull him close. “I’m sorry. I’m just…”

  “Exhausted.” He picks up where my voice trailed off. “I pushed you hard last night, then treated you reprehensibly this morning. Is it any wonder you don’t trust me?”

  “It’s not that,” I tell him, because I don’t want him blaming himself. My losing it is not his fault. “It’s just…”

  “Just what?” He runs his hand through my hair, his fingers playing with the small curls over my ears. As he does, I feel my barrette give way, the clasp popping off my too-thick hair at the first disturbance. “Oh shit, sorry.” He holds the hair clip out to me.

  I freeze in horror. Because it’s not my barrette that he’s holding. In fact, it’s not one of my regular hair ornaments at all. It’s a brooch. More specifically, a vintage brooch. Even more specifically, the vintage Cartier brooch that I wore numerous times during the filming of Belladonna. The same vintage Cartier brooch that once belonged to Celeste Warren herself.

  I haven’t seen it since filming wrapped, but I would recognize it anywhere. With its delicate gold leaves and alternating clusters of pearls, rubies, and diamonds, it’s one of the most distinctive jewelry pieces I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen more than my share. The costume director on Belladonna had crowed for weeks when she’d gotten her hands on it.

  So what the hell was it doing in my hair? Especially when I know—I know—that I put on a very different barrette right before the party started—a ruby and diamond star that I’d found at an estate sale years ago and that I am inordinately fond of. And now that one is gone and this one has taken its place?

  No. Just, no.

  No matter what kind of an Oscar campaign my mother thinks we should run, no matter how much realness she wants in me dressing like the Belladonna, there is no way—no way—I would ever voluntarily put that thing in my hair. Not when most people believe she was wearing it the night she dismembered her husband’s mistress.

  I put up with it on set because I didn’t have a choice. But tonight? At my mother’s birthday party? There is no way I put that thing in my hair. No way.

  So how the hell did it get there? I’ve been sober all night—very careful not to drink too much so that I could keep my wits about me. And that means I didn’t let anyone close enough to put that thing in my hair—at least not, anyone I don’t trust. I mean, I did the whole air kiss thing with a bunch of the guests, but it was quick and easy, over in a second or two. The only people who had their hands on me longer than that for one reason or another were Damon, my mother…and Ian.

  Panic crawls through me at the thought, shutting down any hint of arousal and freezing me from the inside out.

  Ian, who cornered me on a balcony in the dark for long minutes at the party.

  Ian, who has had his hands all over me for the last fifteen minutes.

  Ian, who just “coincidentally” pulled the brooch out of my hair to begin with.

  Ian.

  Ian.

  IAN.

  As soon as the thought registers, I’m slapping the brooch out of his hand. It goes flying through the air before slamming into my granite countertops and skidding across the floor.

  I don’t stay to watch it come to a stop. Instead, I take off running, running, running, in a desperate attempt to get away. From Ian.

  Chapter 21

  “Hey!” I take off after Veronica who is currently fleeing down the hallway as if the hounds of hell are after her—or maybe even Satan himself.

  “Stay away from me!” she screams, right before she grabs a vase off a table and se
nds it flying toward my head.

  She’s got surprisingly good aim for a tiny slip of an actress. I duck as soon as she lets it fly and still I barely manage to avoid getting brained with the thing. I watch, in shock, as it shatters against the wall right behind my head.

  What the hell is going on here?

  I don’t have time to contemplate the question as she follows up the vase with a hardcover book, a lamp, and an amethyst geode crystal that might actually kill me if it connects. I manage to dodge them all, but the few seconds it takes me to save my brain cells is all she needs to get to the front door and out onto the driveway. Part of me wants to let her go—she’s obviously hysterical, obviously afraid, and the last thing I should be doing right now is chasing her. But at the same time, it’s the middle of the night and she’s Veronica Romero running through Manhattan Beach in high heels and lingerie. Anything could happen to her.

  It’s that thought that has me putting on a burst of speed, determined to protect her from even herself if that’s what it takes to keep her safe. I catch her halfway down the driveway and I grab her wrist, whirl her around to face me.

  “Don’t touch me!” she screams and she goes for my face, fingers curled into claws as she kicks and scratches and throws a few knees and elbows in her frantic efforts to get away from me.

  It’s the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced and for a minute I feel like I’m in the middle of an episode of the Twilight Zone. One minute we were in the kitchen making out and the next Veronica has gone completely, around-the-bend insane.

  More afraid than ever that she’s going to hurt herself—or me, at this point, since she seems out for blood—I grab her wrists and spin her around so that her back is to my front, her arms folded over her chest and held in place by me.

  “Let go of me!” she screams as she bucks and thrashes against me and for the first time I worry about the sound carrying. It’s a quiet night despite the wind whipping up from the beach and the last thing we need is a trigger-happy security guard coming up here—or some neighbor with a smartphone. Talk about a PR nightmare. I can already see the cruel hashtags trending on Twitter…