He didn't know what it was about her that drew him. Caitlyn Reynolds was the best Hollywood had to offer: attractive, sexy, confident. And yet, when they'd finished rehearsing the seduction scene, when she'd come out of character and given him a smile for him alone, his attention hadn't been on her. The person he'd focused on had been Trish, curled up in a chair in her faded blue sweatshirt, nibbling on the end of her pen.
He'd learned the hard way not to trust his feelings, not to get caught up in the intensity of a scene, the sexiness of a character. He'd learned what love wasn't. How could he now be sure what love was?
And what was it about Trish that caught at his imagination? The contradiction between the assured wanton in his bed and the woman who dressed as though she didn't want to be seen? The fact that he only felt that she was truly his in the moment when he was inside her? The subtle loveliness that flowered into beauty when she smiled, or the wariness that shadowed her eyes?
Perhaps he was just hung up on the challenge.
A seagull soared over the waves, floating on the wind. "I've always envied birds," Trish said. Breaking loose from him, she leaned down to pick up a shell and throw it out over the waves. "I used to have dreams all the time about being able to fly."
Escaping. Always escaping. "Why don't you take flying lessons?" Ty asked, searching out a shell of his own.
She shook her head. "Not the same. You've got an engine making noise. Same thing with a hot-air balloon," she added, before he could ask. "Too many people involved, too much work. I'd just like to take a few steps and jump up and soar."
The globe of the sun touched the water and she shivered. "Maybe we should head out," Ty offered.
They ambled slowly back toward the car hand in hand, listening to the cries of the gulls.
"You know, I don't think I've actually been anywhere with you that wasn't either your house or the production offices," Trish said idly.
Ty shrugged. "Going out somewhere means I become public property."
She raised her eyebrows. "The price of fame?"
"If you like," he said, thinking about the press, the invasions of privacy. "It gets old after a while. I know that the public appearances are part of it all, and I respect that. But that's work. When I'm on my time, I want to be able to kick back, not worry about people talking."
"There's a point where you start being a prisoner in your own life."
"Or what people assume is your life. There are places I can go in Malibu where people are used to actors and don't really think much of it. Anywhere else…" he shrugged. "It's got to be really important for me to bother."
Trish leaned down to pick up a piece of blue-green drift glass. "It's the color of your eyes," she said playfully, the sunlight glinting on her hair.
Ty turned to face her. "I want you to do something for me." Abruptly, he felt a surprising flare of nerves. "The opening at Jocasta's is Tuesday night. I'd like you to go."
"Sure. What do you want me to do?"
He shook his head. "I don't mean go as my assistant. I mean go with me." He gave a brief smile. "As my date."
Her first impulse was to say no, he could see it in her eyes. He wanted to argue; instead, he took her hands, studying her eyes in the last rays of the setting sun.
"You know the press will be there," Trish said uneasily. "Unless I stay in the background, they're going to ask questions, maybe take pictures."
"I don't want you staying in the background."
She didn't trust him, he could see it.
"What about people talking?"
"I also said that when something's important enough, it's worth it." Frustration bloomed then. Suddenly, it seemed that they were talking about much more than just an art showing. "Trish, this opening is important to me. And it's important to me to have you there."
The seconds ticked by. Her fingers were cool in his as she studied his face. Then she flicked a glance to one side. "I don't have anything to wear."
"Buy something," he said in relief. "We can do it this weekend."
"Oh, no, I'm busy this weekend," she told him.
He frowned. "You've got plans?"
"Someone has plans for me, I believe." She gave him an amused glance. "Master."
He crushed her to him then and sank into the kiss. And driftingly he thought that they might make it.
They just might make it.
* * *
Trish blinked at the morning light coming through the blinds of Ty's bedroom window. She was practically living with him, it seemed, going to her apartment to grab clothing or collect the mail. In the space of a week and a half he'd become a fixture in her life, as though he'd always been there.
And would be, at least for now.
She studied him. He'd rolled onto his back and kicked the covers off so that he was covered only by a sheet. Convenient, she thought with a wicked smile, leaning over him. Time to wake him up like a good slave.
She flipped the sheet to one side to expose his body, the long, lean lines of him. God, he was gorgeous. His body spoke of power without seeming muscle-bound, all stripped-down strength and sinew.
The smooth lines and planes begged for her touch, but she fought the temptation. She knew what she wanted, and gazed lower to where his hard-on lay against his belly. It was partially erect with his morning hard-on. Meanwhile, Ty breathed deeply, asleep and unaware of her scrutiny.
Trish licked a fingertip and reached out to stroke the underside of his cock in that little spot just beneath the head where he was most sensitive. A small drop of precome eased out the tip as she touched him. He breathed deeper and shifted in his sleep.
Positioning herself until she was close enough to capture him with her tongue, she formed it to a point and drew it up the hard length of him. She stopped and listened to his breathing for a moment to be sure he was still asleep. When his breathing stayed steady, she began again, licking harder this time, tasting the salty nothingness of the pre-come and slicking it down over the hard tip, the velvety soft glans. She brushed her lips against him, and his cock gave a little jump.
It was fully hard now, pulsing a bit against her lips. When it leaped again, she slid it inside her mouth, feeling it thicken and harden as she moved her head, slid all of that heat and warmth up and down the hard length of him. It was intoxicating, this power, this ability to pleasure his body, this ability to learn a man's body in detail.
A week and a half and she was practically addicted.
* * *
Ty dreamed of pleasure, of harem girls who stroked his body, brought him erect and to orgasm again and again. Then he felt the silky brush of a woman's hair against his belly and saw a red-haired harem girl slipping his cock into her mouth, sucking on him until he groaned. He tensed and ground his teeth as he tried to hold back from it—
And the translucent curtain of dreams fell away as he swam up toward consciousness.
But the sensation went on. Ty whispered her name, awake now and feeling every nuance of sensation as Trish sucked and stroked and licked at him, now shadowing her mouth with the ring of her thumb and forefinger, now sliding him deep, deep into the warm wetness of her mouth, until he thought he was going to explode.
He reached out to pull at her shoulders and she raised her head. "Good morning, master," she said impudently. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
"I want to be in you," he ordered and brought her up to straddle him.
"You mean like this, master?" she asked, poising her hips over his rock-hard erection.
He moved to ready himself and found her already hot and slick. Sliding up into her was almost enough to take him over, and he gripped her hips for a moment to keep her from moving.
"You're so wet," he murmured.
"You see how much it turns me on to go down on you?" She shifted her hips a little and cradled her breasts in her hands. "What is your wish, my master?"
"I want to see you touch yourself while I'm inside you." When her eyes widened, he reached out to take one of he
r hands and place it where their bodies met. He moved her fingers a bit and she caught her breath. "Like that," he said.
* * *
It was almost more than Trish could handle, the feel of him hard inside her, the slow stroke of her fingers held by his. When he released her hand to watch her, his eyes were dark with arousal. If it had turned her on to pleasure him while he slept, that was nothing compared to the sensations rocketing through her now.
Each circle of her fingers took her closer. When he reached out to clasp her hips and raise her up and down, the combination of the two frictions had her crying out. Ty's face was taut with the effort of control. As though he were a wave, she could feel him growing in strength inside her, could feel the moment she pushed them both over into orgasm so that she was quaking and gasping even as he was pulling her down on his cock.
She couldn't imagine how she'd ever done without this feeling.
She couldn't imagine how she would.
* * *
11
« ^ »
Trish stood in a corner of Galerie Vizquel, watching the ebb and flow of people. Mostly the flow, she admitted—there wasn't a lot of ebb going on. Outside, a line of people waited to get in; inside, the press milled about with cameras. Ty's pictures hung on the white walls, the images all the more dramatic for the austerity surrounding them. Ty stood to one side, talking with a critic about up-and-coming L.A. artists. A collection of obvious fans formed an adoring half circle around him.
And Trish stood in her red bolero jacket and highwaisted black palazzo pants. Paired with a soft, white silk blouse, it looked like something Katharine Hepburn might have worn—classy, stylish and discreet. She felt at ease and infinitely more comfortable than she'd have felt in any of the short and sexy outfits Cilla had urged her to buy. The choice left her free to stop worrying about herself and watch what was going on, instead.
"I can't believe I'm standing fifteen feet away from Ty Ramsay." A blond woman—girl, really—clutched her girlfriend's forearm, her bracelets jingling. "He's even hotter in real life than he is in the movies. I'm going to try to go up and meet him," she said, fluffing her hair.
"Oh my God, is that Tom Cruise that just came in?" her friend gulped, sounding barely able to breathe with excitement.
"You're so clueless. I can't believe you don't recognize Colin Farrell," the blonde answered, immediately resetting her targeting system.
Trish's lips twitched in amusement. In actual fact, it was neither, but they were already descending on the hapless newcomer.
The room was dotted with the celebrity hounds that Ty had feared, people who spent more time gawking at him than at the art on the walls. There was also the usual handful who stopped in for the scene, not to mention the free drinks and food. A substantial group, though, was there to see what he had done. Trish walked slowly through the room, listening to the bits of conversation.
"…it's a step beyond Beat Streuli or Robert Olsen…"
"…he is an actor, after all…"
"…use of texture creates a tension…"
Indeed, the art world was there in force. It was celebrity hunting of a different sort, Trish supposed, that voracious need to be on the inside track of talent. She wondered what Ty thought.
And how it felt to him to meld his two worlds. When they'd arrived earlier, he'd avoided the front door, directing the driver to let them off in the back alley. "For premieres and awards shows, I'll do the grand entrance. Not for this, thanks."
Jocasta had been waiting for them. She and Ty hadn't greeted one another with an air kiss, but with a genuine hug. It wasn't the contact that caught Trish's attention, it was the obvious affection and the whisper of a connection long past.
Or maybe not so past, Trish thought now, remembering the light in Jocasta's eyes. So severe and stylish it hurt, Jocasta wouldn't be the least amused at being labeled puppyish, but her eyes softened whenever she looked at Ty.
"Quite the feeding frenzy, isn't it?" a voice murmured.
Trish turned to see Jocasta standing next to her in a black sleeveless turtleneck dress that brought out her Josephine Baker eyes. "You got a great turnout. You should be pleased."
"They're certainly buying. I don't know that Ty will be thrilled about the fact that more of them are movie fans than serious collectors, but selling is selling."
"Keeping in business is probably a good thing," Trish agreed, watching Ty shake hands with a critic and in the next move sign an autograph before turning to a woman who looked like a serious art type.
"In this industry? Are you kidding? It's more a miracle, at least when you're starting out." Jocasta waved at someone across the room. "Sometimes I think I'm selling myself as much as selling art."
"That's the way it usually goes," Trish said. "So how long have you been in business?"
"Oh, about five years now. I like to think I've passed the first cut, but I'm not getting too comfortable. I've picked a few up-and-comers before the rest of the pack. I need more, though. When you're small like me, you can afford to take risks that the more established galleries don't have to bother with. If the artists do well, they help you make your name."
"And you help them."
"Of course. That goes without saying."
"I wouldn't think that in this environment it would."
Jocasta turned to study her. "You're smarter than the ones Ty usually falls for. Nice outfit, by the way."
Trish wasn't sure whether to interpret it as an opening salvo or provisional approval. Patronizing provisional approval. Time to move on, she thought. "Well, it's an impressive business," she said, preparatory to leaving.
"I owe a lot to Ty," Jocasta said casually. "He gave me the seed money. Hanging a show for him was the least I could do."
That warranted a response. "Funny, I'd assumed you were hanging his show because you thought he was talented."
"Touché." Jocasta gave her an amused glance. "You don't let much slide, do you?"
"Adequate to the occasion," Trish said equably, smiling at Ty when he looked her way.
Jocasta noticed the glance. Trish had a feeling she didn't miss much. "Ty's talent is a given. Some of my regular customers have followed him for the last couple of years."
Jocasta fell silent as a willowy model type walked in, a woman Trish recognized as Megan Barnes. The same Megan Barnes who'd just broken box-office records as the star of City of Light. The same Megan Barnes who'd been engaged to Ty three years before, she recalled.
Trish watched Ty turn to greet her, pleased that he kissed her on the cheek and not the lips, and frustrated at herself for noticing. Across the room, cameras flashed to capture Megan's sun-drenched California looks, to capture the golden couple reunited.
"Nice of Megan to stop by," Jocasta commented. "That ought to ensure this little soirée makes it into every tabloid. Not exactly what Ty was hoping for. Still, exposure is exposure and I'm sure she means well."
"I'm sure she does," Trish said, exhaling slowly as Megan patted Ty on the arm.
"Ty has a tendency to stay friends with his ex-lovers."
Trish let a beat pass before turning to Jocasta as though she hadn't been paying attention. "Pardon me?"
The fact that Jocasta's smile was kind, was probably the hardest thing to take. "Don't worry, she's probably telling him something that the baby did. Here comes her husband." Jocasta nodded as a dark-haired man with a toothy grin came up behind Megan.
"Ty's one of the good ones," Jocasta continued, "although he might drive you crazy while things are going on. Trust me, he's easier to like once you're no longer sleeping with him."
She wasn't going to rise to the bait, Trish told herself. She wasn't going to rise to that glance that said "I can afford to tolerate you. I've been here through all of them and I'll be here when you're just a memory."
Besides, she was probably right.
"It's unfortunate that he got pulled away by Hollywood," Jocasta said. "He could have been very successful just as
an artist."
Trish made a slow survey of the room. "It looks to me as though he already is." She stared across the room at Ty, who beckoned her. "Excuse me."
Jocasta gave her a look as though butter wouldn't melt. "By all means," she said.
* * *
Ty watched Trish cross the room to him, the loose, mannish clothing only playing up her femininity. He'd expected her to show up in the usual scene clothes, something short and tight. Then again, she had a way of confounding his expectations. She looked, he thought, like a '40s movie star, with a certain bred-in-the-bone glamour and grace to the way she walked, the way she held herself. It wasn't the kind of showy style that Megan cultivated, for example, and maybe it wouldn't draw the camera lenses, but it made her memorable.
And it made him want her.
She was a continuing riddle to him. She'd been surprised when he'd asked her to accompany him to the opening, as though she'd assumed he'd want a Hollywood escort. As though she'd assumed that they were about no more than sweaty days and nights in his bedroom.
Going out was rarely an option only because it meant sacrificing any degree of privacy and turning the whole thing into a free-for-all. He had a feeling Trish wouldn't be even remotely comfortable with that. Most women outside of the business weren't, which was maybe why he'd tended to get involved with other actors. They knew how it went and they took it in their stride; indeed, some of them, like Megan, for example, thrived on it. Some of them needed the media to verify that they were alive.
Trish didn't seem to be wired that way, so he'd tried to focus on time between the two of them. And yet, there was some part of her that was fragile, unwilling to believe in what was forming between them. It alternately frustrated and perplexed him. How could a woman who looked like she did expect so little? Don't dig, he reminded himself. Better to wait and let her offer it when she felt it was right.
CUTTING LOOSE Page 12
