“Don’t you look handsome?” you purr as he hands you the roses and gives you kiss on the cheek. “That’s very sweet. You shouldn’t have.”
“I wouldn’t have done anything less.” He opens your car door. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks.” You smile, stepping into the car and gathering the skirt of your dress behind you as Bodhi closes the door solidly and slips into the driver’s seat. You call up to him, “I feel like you should be sitting back here with me.”
“That might be a little dangerous,” Bodhi tells you. You laugh but wonder whether his double entendre is intentional.
“Right,” you agree as you smooth your gown down snugly over your legs.
The dinner is long and boring but Bodhi does exceptionally well, giving you your moment in front of the red carpet reporters and photographers and surprising you with witty conversation at the dinner table. When the main course arrives, he turns down the chicken. “I’m a vegetarian,” he informs you politely, but he munches on the salad and bread.
He is funny and sociable, a fun date. As he surprises you with his knowledge of both world events and industry issues, you realize that you’ve totally underestimated this man. You wonder what else there is you don’t know about him.
As dinner concludes you excuse yourself from your table and run into the legendary Virginia Blair entering the ladies’ room. She wears red organdy and a toned-down version of the bouffant that made her famous in the sixties. She raises her eyebrows as she catches your eye.
“Who’s the hunk?” she asks you. A famous cougar, Virginia has been linked to a chain of men half her age for as long as you can remember. You hope when you are her age you’ll have half as much fun as she seems to be having.
“Oh, he’s my driver, if you can believe it. I didn’t know I was supposed to bring a date.”
“You always have to bring a date, honey,” says Virginia, arching a finely drawn eyebrow. “The older you get, the younger he should be.”
She gives a low, throaty laugh and then looks at you sagely. “Nice last minute save. Any more to that story?”
“Nope, it’s strictly a friendly relationship,” you tell her.
“Gay?” she asks.
It’s your turn to laugh. “No, not that either. Just a really good friend. Too good to mess up, if you know what I mean.”
“Nothing’s that good, honey,” Virginia advises, leaving you with a swish of her feather-trimmed hem.
You scan the room for Bodhi’s white-blond head and spot it easily in the midst of the crowd. Before you can get to him, though, a strong hand grabs your arm. You pull back and find yourself looking straight into the sexy grin of Jackson Michaels.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he drawls. His date, a little cookie-cutter blonde, hangs onto his arm and looks around the room in an apparent state of extreme boredom. He doesn’t bother to introduce her but leans in and whispers, “I need a minute. Go mingle.”
She obediently releases his arm and takes off toward the center of the room. Jackson turns to watch her, his eyes following her twitching backside as she saunters away.
He gives a little whistle as he turns his attention back to you. “Sweet little thing,” he says, then adds with mock-regret, “A little empty upstairs, though, if you know what I mean.”
You don’t bother to dignify his remark with a response, but force yourself to relax your arms, which you realize you’ve defensively folded across your chest. Not that you mind offending him, but your crossed arms are forcing your cleavage higher than you want it.
“Look,” he tells you, “I know we got off on the wrong foot this morning. Let me make it up to you. I really want us to get along—you know, with the movie coming up and all.” He pauses for a moment to survey the room, making you wait a little longer than you’d like. “What do you say we blow this joint and go for a drink?”
You feel a fresh sense of indignant rage surge through you and barely manage, “Are you serious?”
You turn to walk away again and to your utter disbelief Jackson grabs you a second time. He looks you directly in the eye, and for the first time you notice the intensity and tenderness behind the gruff exterior. “Please,” he says. All sense of smug confidence erased from his face, he looks into your eyes with a sincerity you wouldn’t have thought he possessed. “I’m really not a bad guy. All I’m asking for is a few minutes. I’ll even make it easy for you. Let’s head over to my place for a drink after this thing’s over. Just give me a chance.”
In spite of yourself, you feel your resistance melting. After all, Jackson probably had little or nothing to do with the last minute casting change. Plus, he’s new, he’s green, and he’s just starting to experience stardom. Of course it’s going to go to his head. And you don’t want the whole shoot to be uncomfortable for both of you.
“Well, I do agree it would be a good idea to talk about the project a little. But tonight won’t work. I need to get back to my date.”
Jackson’s smirk returns, his golden eyes sparkle, and his dimples emerge even as he has the nerve to raise one eyebrow and ask, “You mean your driver, right?”
“How do you—?” you begin, feeling the blood rush to your face.
“I do my homework, sweetheart,” he answers.
You pause, not sure how to react, then tell him sharply, “We’ll talk later.”
As you turn to find Bodhi, you feel Jackson’s eyes following you, and you rub the slightly tender spot on you right arm just below your elbow, the spot Jackson grabbed just a little too hard. You remind yourself to smile. Why are you letting this guy ruffle your feathers?
You spot Bodhi leaning casually against a column, looking like some kind of commercial for after-dinner mints.
“So,” Bodhi says, rocking on his leather heels, “crowd’s thinning out. What now?”
“I figured you’d want to get home,” you say. “I’m sure you’ve had quite enough of me for one day. I know I have.”
“Never,” Bodhi says as he places his large, warm hands around your bare shoulders, looks seductively into your eyes, then teases, “I’ve had enough of you for one lifetime.”
“Ah, that’s the old Bodhi I know and love.” You laugh, giving him an affectionate punch in the abs.
“Oof!” he exclaims. “Watch out, the girl’s been working out again.”
“Yeah, right,” you say, and begin to head for the door.
Bodhi stops you with a hand on your arm. “So, are we going to the beach or what?”
“The beach?” You had completely forgotten. “Oh, Bodhi,” you tell him, “I just thought after this you wouldn’t even want to. And I didn’t bring any other clothes.”
“That’s okay,” Bodhi offers. “We can still go.”
“Dressed like this?” you ask him.
“Sure,” he tells you. “We just won’t do the hard-core stuff. It’ll be all about making you relax. We’ll work around the dress.”
“I don’t know . . .” The thought just doesn’t seem as appealing now—sand in your shoes, stuck to your dress, in your hair . . . and you remember your ungodly early flight the next morning. Just then, you see Jackson exiting the ballroom. You notice that his date is nowhere in sight. He spots you and makes a beeline to your side, stands a little too close, then extends a hand to Bodhi and introduces himself. “So you’re the guy who gets my girl around in style?” he asks Bodhi.
You widen your eyes in disbelief.
Bodhi, ever the laid-back and never-jealous gentleman, replies, “That’s me.”
“Listen,” Jackson addresses Bodhi, leaning in, very man-to-man, “you won’t mind if I cut in? Anna and I have some business to discuss.”
“That’s cool,” Bodhi replies, folds his arm, and leans back against the column. “I can wait.”
Jackson flashes his white teeth at Bodhi. “I’m sure you can,” he tells him, “but this might take a while. You know, industry stuff.”
Bodhi’s posture becomes tighter, and he dr
aws himself up to his full height and pulls his shoulders back, making himself appear as broad as possible. He would make a great bodyguard, you can’t help but think. You can see he is beginning to lose his patience.
“Look, dude,” Bodhi begins, taking a step toward Jackson.
From the corner of your eyes you can see people beginning to take notice of the obvious tension. You know you need to stop this, now. Every fiber of your being wants to step in and give Jackson a piece of your mind, but you know the less conspicuous option would be to turn around and leave with Bodhi, ignoring Jackson’s taunts.
You lay a hand on Bodhi’s upper arm, stand on tiptoe and whisper, “Just give me a minute.”
He looks none too happy but nods, straightens his jacket, and resumes his post by the column.
You walk over to Jackson, look him straight in the eye, and in the most controlled voice you can manage, say, “Mr. Michaels, I’m not sure exactly what impression you are under, but I am not ‘your girl.’ I barely even know you, and you have no right to me whatsoever, business or otherwise. I have to tell you that so far I am less than impressed by what I am seeing.”
Jackson takes a long pause, looking too deeply and gazing for too long into your eyes, with that dimpled smirk that reminds you equally of a cherub and of an eagle ready to swoop down and lay into its prey. Then he leans in and presses the rough stubble of his chin against your cheek. In spite of yourself, the tickle of his lower lip against your ear sends chills down your back, and you can feel your nipples harden against the tight silk bodice of your gown. He takes a beat then whispers into your ear, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
You lean back as though insulted, then return his gaze. Your instinct is to pull back and slap him hard across his grinning face. What is it about this guy that has your defenses up and your insides on fire? You can feel Bodhi’s eyes over your shoulder, shooting knives. Maybe the best thing is to deal with this here and now. What should you do?
To ignore Jackson and leave with Bodhi, turn to page 38.
To deal with Jackson, keep reading.
You decide you have no choice but to deal with this here and now. With all the patience you can muster, you blink up at Jackson and say, “I’ll be right back.”
Bodhi seems uncharacteristically crestfallen when you tell him you’re going to take a meeting with Jackson after all. “I’ll drive you over and wait outside,” he offers.
You love this guy, and can feel his need to protect you like a tangible weight on your shoulders. “Bodhi, it’s really okay. I can take care of myself.”
He closes his eyes and sighs, then responds with resignation, “Okay. I don’t like it, but I’m not gonna tell you what to do. I’ll keep my cell phone on. And right beside me.”
“Thanks, Bodhi.” You smile up at him and lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek. He blushes adorably, ducks his head, and heads out into the night.
“Okay,” you tell Jackson coolly, “I’m all yours. Let’s go talk.”
Jackson helps you into his red Ferrari—so new Hollywood—and closes the door firmly when you are seated. You sink down into the too-deep bucket seats of the flashy sports car.
“What happened to your date?” you ask as the car purrs to life.
“Sent her home,” he answers. “Three’s a crowd, after all. Most of the time.” You don’t know whether to laugh or to cringe as Jackson puts the car in gear and speeds off into the starry California night.
Jackson’s home is a modest bungalow in the hills that he’s managed to design in an ultra-contemporary style. The low, sleek furniture and dim lighting lends an edgy but inviting feel to the glass-walled rooms. The lights of the city sparkle through the walls of windows.
You gratefully accept the glass of red wine Jackson offers. It’s a relief to have something to do. The ride with Jackson was almost silent. For some reason you could think of almost nothing to say. Jackson motions to a glossy black leather bench. You sit and breathe a sigh of relief when he remains standing. Maybe this meeting will be brief, after all.
“So,” you straighten up and ask, “what did you want to discuss?”
“You know,” Jackson drawls in his low, gravelly voice, “I really just wanted to get to know you. I read something in the script about chemistry between our characters, and I thought that might be a little hard to swallow when the two of us had never even met.”
“It’s called acting,” you tell him.
“Hey, no need to be sarcastic.” Now the sincerity is back, and there’s no hint of the smirk. His eyes are wide and focused on yours as he eases down into the leather chair opposite you. “This is my first big project. I want this experience to be a good one. And maybe the start of something great. I mean, I know you’ve got this stuff all figured out. I’m just trying to find my way.”
Once again you find yourself feeling inexplicably tender toward Jackson. Something about him is so endearing when he’s genuine, maybe because it’s such a sharp contrast to his usual bravado.
You sigh and set your empty wine glass down on the table. You have no idea how its contents disappeared so quickly.
“Look, Jackson,” you tell him, “I’m not trying to be rude, but are you aware that you can be a little overwhelming?”
Jackson laughs, making the adorable dimples reappear on each side of his face. He pulls his bowtie loose and undoes the top button of his shirt, running a finger along the inside edge of his collar. “I’ve heard that on a handful of occasions,” he replies.
He rises to refill your glass, lifts it deftly from the table, and places it in your hand. As he approaches, that disorienting sensation returns, as though Jackson draws all of the air from the room. Your face feels suddenly hot.
You find yourself taking another sip of wine despite the heat. You’re feeling more and more relaxed, but your heartbeat quickens. You don’t know why Jackson is having this effect on you. You’re the one in the position of power, after all.
You set your glass down with determination. “You know,” you tell him, “I’ve worked with plenty of other rookies, Jackson, and I’m happy to help you. I know your first big break can be a lot of pressure. You’re welcome to come to me on set any time. But right now I really should get back. Tomorrow is going to be an early morning, and we’ll have plenty of time to talk shop once we’re on location.”
Jackson’s face drops and you think you see a tiny flicker of something other than disappointment, but he recovers quickly, a mischievous light glimmering behind his eyes. “Okay, then, let’s not talk shop. Let’s just relax.”
He walks toward the bookshelf behind your chair and for a moment you’re sure he’s about to come around behind you and start to rub your shoulders. You ready yourself to pull away, but instead Jackson produces a small, glossy, box from the shelf. “Care to play a friendly game of cards?”
Cards? you think. He wants to play cards?
“Jackson,” you begin, “I really need to get back to the hotel.”
“Just one game,” he promises. “What the matter? Afraid you’ll lose?”
“Okay,” you reply, your competitive side taking over. “What’s your game?”
Almost an hour and two more glasses of wine later you’ve beaten Jackson at Gin Rummy six times in quick succession. He’s taking it like a man and seems genuinely impressed, as he leans on one elbow with his undone bowtie dangling toward the floor.
This time when you win, leaving him stuck with a hand full of points, he flops facedown onto his stomach and groans, throwing his hands on top of his head, “I can’t take it anymore!”
It might just be the wine, but you find you’ve become extremely comfortable with Jackson.
He looks up at you with an adorably dangerous smile. “I surrender!” He groans, “You are the undisputed Gin Rummy champ.”
You laugh and begin to collect your cards but when you start to stand, a sense of giddy dizziness overwhelms you. You try to lower yourself back to your seat in the most graceful w
ay possible.
Jackson stands, smooths his rumpled dress pants, and refills your wine glass—again.
“I think it’s only fair,” he says as he walks back to his spot on the shaggy area rug, “that we play one hand of a game I’m a little better at. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a complete loser.”
A bubble of laughter escapes you.
He raises an eyebrow. “No, no, don’t try to hide it. I know what you’re thinking.”
“I really don’t think you have any idea what I’m thinking,” you tell him, giggling again. In fact, you can say with almost one hundred percent certainty he has no idea what you are thinking, which is that Jackson’s fly is unzipped and the tail of his starched white shirt is sticking suggestively out of the open fly. Somehow you find this irresistibly funny and cannot hold back your laughter.
“Okay, Anna, I get it. You think I’m hi-larious.” Jackson begins to shuffle the cards and as you continue to try to suppress your giggles he actually begins to look a little annoyed. “Well just you wait, ’cause I’m taking you down with this game.”
Though it’s even funnier that he remains totally unaware of his current state of exposure, you manage to sober up for one minute. Between giggles you ask, “What are we playing?”
“Five card stud.”
The serious way Jackson says this, combined with the silhouette of his protrusive shirttail as he stretches his back, sends you right back into peals of laughter. He slides to the floor and pats the spot beside him invitingly.
Why not? you think and lower yourself onto the floor, propping your back against the bench. The thick, shaggy rug feels marvelous. At this late hour, you couldn’t care less if the twice-worn Versace gets completely wrinkled.
Star Struck Page 4
