by Deanna Chase
“Think of the holidays! What a wonderful present, right? It’ll be great publicity for us, and for you.” Daphne plucked the tattered book out of his hand. “You don’t have a girlfriend. Your sister is in Paris. And you just finished this film. Plus, Abby Reid is really nice.”
“All my fans are nice.”
Daphne’s brows lifted. “How would you know? You don’t read fan mail.”
Reese shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not because I don’t appreciate their….” He waved a hand, unable to articulate the right word then he shrugged. “I’m just a meathead.”
“Oh puh-leeze,” interrupted Daphne, rolling her eyes. “If I have to hear or read that stupid quote one more time, I’ll shave your head and make you wear a prom dress on your date with Abby.”
She watched Reese’s gaze slide to the book she held hostage and he sighed, giving a slight nod. Grinning in triumph, Daphne returned the ratty tome and left. The minute the door slammed shut behind her, she disappeared in a shower of gold sparks.
1
Reese Cadwell sat at the table for two near the restaurant’s bay window, which faced the Las Vegas Strip, and regretted for the thousandth time his agreement to the publicity department’s insane scheme.
He fingered the soft petals of the dozen white roses on the table and sighed. Did he really consent to a whole evening with a female who would simper and flatter and ask personal questions? He loved acting and, in some ways, he liked being a star, but he hated the invasion of his privacy. No one had the right to delve into the areas of his life not related to the craft or to the business.
“Rachel Monroe with Star Weekly. Who are you meeting tonight?”
Damn it. For all his desire to avoid bad press and journalists like Monroe, it was impossible to have a career without media coverage. Unfortunately, for every well-written article, there were ten pieces of malicious, untrue dreck. Rachel specialized in dreck. She had been the first reporter to make a deal with his ex-girlfriend Bonnie Braden for the nitty-gritty details of their rocky romance.
Reese inhaled a fortifying breath as he turned to face the worst of the worst reporters who covered celebrities, and forced a smile. “Are you eating here, too?”
“You know I can’t afford a ritzy place like this, Reese. I’m a working girl.” Her gaze was riveted on the rose bouquet. She grinned, showing shiny rows of teeth—pointed and white just like a shark’s.
Why was Rachel in Las Vegas? She was way outside her usual beat of Hollywood hotspots. Surely she didn’t know about his deal with Cupid, Inc. If she had her way, she’d take another huge bite out of his reputation and plaster any indiscretion across the front page of the rag she worked for—like she did, week after week, with Bonnie’s tell-all.
Rachel kept grinning at him, obviously hanging around to see who showed up to his table. “Who was the woman you were seen shopping with at the Place Vendôme in Paris?”
The press had hounded him so relentlessly that he’d gone to Paris to visit his sister Kimmie and chill out for a few days. He needed a break from the publicity that, after six months, still had not died down—thanks to Bonnie’s constant stoking of the media fires.
“What is the blonde’s name? Is she your new girlfriend?”
The woman was his sister’s girlfriend, not his. No one should care about bedroom politics in this day and age, but he knew better. Everything was a scandal—from the chipped polish on Paris Hilton’s toenails to the drunken nuptials of a NCAA basketball player and his Mercedes Benz.
“Oh c’mon! You were photographed coming out Van Cleef & Arpels, one of the most exclusive and expensive jewelry stores in Paris. Now, here you are in Las Vegas. Do I hear wedding bells?”
Where was her logic? She believed he went to Paris to buy an engagement ring, but instead of marrying his so-called bride in one of the most romantic cities in the world, he took her to Vegas for a quickie wedding? Riiiiight.
Reese’s smile felt brittle and fragile, but he kept it in place and stayed silent. Rachel knew this tactic, and rolled her eyes. “Gimme a break, Reese. If you won’t tell me whom you’re dating or marrying, at least answer one question for me. How do you feel about Bonnie’s six-figure book deal where she promises to reveal the sins of the Hollywood sect, especially those of you and your friends?”
He felt like shit that someone he had cared about and trusted screwed him over for money. Hell, if all Bonnie had ever wanted from him was cash—he should’ve paid her outright instead of dating her. When he’d found out about Bonnie’s book, he got righteously pissed off and called his lawyer, who was fighting the publication deal tooth-and-nail.
“You are so freaking tight-lipped. Can you tell me if you’ve signed on for Flames of Rhapsody? I hear Nicole Kidman is playing the blind ex-assassin.”
“Why don’t you go ask her?”
“I will. Are you playing the CIA operative bent on revenge?”
“Are you sure that’s what the movie is about?”
Rachel stilled, her eyes widening as she shoved her unruly red curls away from her face. “Are you saying Flames of Rhapsody has an alternative plot?”
Reese shrugged, his smile nearly melting under the pressure of aiming it at Rachel. She took the opportunity to snap his picture with a palm-sized digital camera. “Gotcha! Pictures may be worth a thousand words, Reese, but yours are worth a thousand bucks.”
“Excuse me.”
Reese turned toward a tall brunette wearing a shimmery silver dress and black lace wrap. She stood next to the table her gaze twinkling with mischief as Rachel almost tripped trying to shove a mini-recorder in her face. “Are you Reese Cadwell’s date?”
“No. Are you Rachel Monroe, the famous reporter with Star Weekly?” The woman’s soft voice had an accent he couldn’t place. It wasn’t the deep drawl of the South, but there was a definite twang.
When Rachel didn’t respond, Reese glanced at the reporter. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide. He’d never seen Rachel speechless before and it was terrific to watch the tables turn. One thing celebrities knew about their media tormentors was the driving motivation, other than money, was getting a taste of the fame. After a second, the reporter shook off the daze of being recognized and once again presented the microphone. “And you are?”
“Nobody at all, Ms. Monroe. I swear, and I can’t be sure, mind you, that I saw Nicole Kidman sneak into one of the private dining rooms, and again, I don’t really know, but I think she’s with her ex-husband. They were talking … you know, it’s strange. Do flames or blindness or CIA agents mean anything to you?”
“Flames of Rhapsody! Tom and Nicole in a new film together? Oh my God!” Rachel hurried off in the direction the woman had pointed without as much as a good-bye.
“Hello.” She smiled at him and he noticed the genuine quality in the curve of her lips and the cute dimple near the left corner of her mouth. He felt a faint stirring of admiration. “My name is Abby Reed.”
His date. Politeness forced Reese to stand and reach for the wrap across her shoulders, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. “I don’t think we have much time, Mr. Cadwell. I just lied my ass off and chances are little miss nosey will return with questions blazing if we don’t skedaddle.”
“Skedaddle?”
“Leave the premises.”
He grinned and handed her the roses with a flourish. “Let’s go.”
He’d made arrangements to leave through the kitchen. He had, with major reluctance, left his Kawasaki 750 Vulcan in the valet parking of the Bellagio’s garage and opted for a limousine, an ode to ostentation he usually tried to avoid. To his surprise, Abby scooted across the gray leather seats without uttering a single “ooh” or “aah.” He sat across from her, not wanting to crowd her, or worse, risk her sidling up to him. And yet … he had to admit she didn’t seem like the type of female his sister called “strut-n-slut.”
He watched her place the bouquet on the seat beside her. “Thanks for the roses. They’re lovely.
”
“Roses are small thanks for your very timely rescue.”
An awkward silence descended as they stared at each other, though from the congenial expression on Abby’s face, he guessed it was an awkward silence only for him. The limo pulled smoothly out of the parking lot and onto the Strip.
“How did you know what to say to her?”
“I hid by a potted palm tree and listened to her harass you.”
Abby’s gaze was warm and her smile hinted at secret amusement. Her eyes were brown and reminded him, for some odd reason, of autumn, apple cider, and bonfires. Jeez. He seemed to be getting into the holiday spirit. She was pretty, not in a gym-and-Botox way he’d come to expect from so many of L.A.’s beauties, but in a way that suggested a natural comfort with herself. Her body was all lush curves and sumptuous possibilities. Sumptuous? What was wrong with him? He shook off the ridiculous thoughts and smiled at her. “I appreciate you coming to the rescue, though that’s supposed to be my job.”
“I’ll return the white steed to you later.” She grinned then her gaze turned sympathetic. “It must be difficult for you.”
“Dealing with reporters?” He shrugged. “It’s part of the business.”
“But offering yourself as prize for a silly contest is not.”
Surprised by the gentle reprimand in her tone, he grinned ruefully. “It’s a long story.”
“The good ones always are.” She stared out the window at the glitter and glam of the hotels lining the Strip, which had extra glam for the holiday season. He reached into the small black fridge to his left and pulled out a can of Pepsi. “Would you like a soda?”
“No thanks.”
He popped the top and sipped the cold, sweet drink. “If you think the contest is silly, why did you enter it?”
“My sister thinks I need excitement in my life so she filled out a gabillion entry forms in my name.” Abby glanced at him. “I’m supposed to indulge in hot sex, if, and I quote my sis, ‘You even breathe in my direction.’”
Reese almost choked on his soda. Liquid spewed from his mouth. He grabbed a napkin from the mini-bar next to the fridge and wiped his face then patted dry the spots on his blazer. At Abby’s look of astonishment, he smiled weakly. “You—uh—want to have hot sex with me?”
One corner of her mouth quirked and she winked at him. His heart skipped at beat at her sexy flirtation and her wordless, “You betcha.”
Hot sex with Abby Reed was not on his agenda.
Not that she didn’t look great in the dress that clung to her delicious shape, and well, he had noticed, now that the wrap slipped off her shoulders, that she had a great pair of—whoa. No, no, no.
The rush of blood to his groin forced him to cross his legs and think about Canadian winters. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing her if she thought the contest was silly—and it was—and she didn’t even enter it of her own accord. Part of acting was confidence and sometimes, unchecked confidence turned to arrogance, but like most human beings, and actors in particular, he needed validation and appreciation. Aw, hell. He caved in to his ego and to his curiosity. “Why didn’t you make your sister take the prize? Or give it to the second runner-up?”
“Maybe I should have auctioned you off on eBay. Would’ve made a bundle.” Her green eyes displayed the same mischievous twinkle he’d seen when she’d fibbed so gleefully to Rachel. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mr. Cadwell. I’ve had a crush on you since Fast.”
“Um … thanks.” The disappointment startled him. He had thought, maybe, Abby wouldn’t be like other female fans. He sighed, looking out the window, but without really seeing the flashy hotel-casinos and tourist-crowded sidewalks. Even in December, the streets were clogged with people.
It unnerved him how an autograph or a picture or just standing three feet away from him made people crazy. He did the red carpet at premieres because he knew the value of promoting the work. He wanted people to go see his movies. He just didn’t want them crawling in the rose bushes underneath his bathroom window or chasing him down the street with their cameras. He dealt with screaming, crying, stars-in-their-eyes women by staying away from them.
“Do you wonder why people like you?”
Reese blinked at her uncanny comment, which so closely echoed his own thoughts. “They believe what they see in films.”
“Isn’t that what you want as an actor?”
“Yes. But I want to be the character, not the movie star playing the character.”
The corner of her mouth tilted, revealing the cute dimple. “I’m afraid you don’t get to choose what people see or believe about you.” Her gaze met his and she chuckled. “Thinking about Reese Cadwell is simply thinking about the perfect man. He’s loyal and kind and enigmatic and gracious and handsome. He’s unattainable, too, so I will never see the chinks in his armor. I will never be disappointed.”
Reese wasn’t sure if he felt complimented or not. Then again, how could she or anyone else like anything but the man he projected on-screen and whom the press wrote about?
“Maybe that’s the real fear we all have, Reese. We don’t want to disappoint the people who admire us or who love us.” Sadness shadowed her gaze and she turned again to the window. The hunch of her shoulders suggested self-protectiveness. He wondered who had hurt her and why.
Maybe it was ego again. Maybe it was the way she’d rescued him from Rachel. Or maybe it was that tiny seed of lust planted when she’d winked at him. Whatever the reason, he wanted Abby to know that he wasn’t some asshole movie star reluctantly serving out a one-night sentence. Maybe that’s the way he’d felt—and acted—minutes before, but now, he realized the truth. He liked her. She was candid and funny and sexy in that lush way that made him think about the four-poster bed in his suite.
He leaned toward her. She was still staring out the window, her head slanted in a way that suggested befuddlement. He glanced out the window and saw that the limo had pulled into his hotel’s driveway. Okay, so the Bellagio was impressive up-close.
Reese looked at Abby’s face, the soft curve of her cheek, the sleek line of her neck, and the oh-my-God cleavage revealed by the V-cut dress. Forget Bellagio. Abby was impressive up-close. He touched her knee, gaining her attention. She opened her mouth, but he held up his hand. “I’ve been…. ”
“A meathead?” she asked sweetly. “I’m quoting someone famous.”
He laughed, delighted with her quick wit. Before he could respond, the door next to him flew open. At least fifty people tried to cram their heads inside. All were female. All were screaming. Some were crying.
One girl managed to pop through the mass of squirming women, grab his arm, and screech, “I love you, Reese Cadwell!”
2
Abby flicked the switch that locked the door next to her then lunged to other side of the limo and did the same to the remaining two doors. She turned to Reese and blew out a steadying breath. Those female minions of Fan Hell mauled and screamed, trying to drag the poor man out of the car.
She grabbed Reese’s left arm with both hands and yanked with all her might. The strength of the women pawing the actor, however, overwhelmed her efforts—and his. He kept trying to pull away, but even with his feet anchored on the floor and his shoulders leaning back, he was no match for the manically adoring women.
“Please, ladies. I’m not a piñata,” said Reese. His gaze looked as tormented as a dieter faced with a chocolate sale at Godiva’s. No wonder the man hated to deal with fans. They were nuts.
She let go of Reese, looking around the limo for some inspired way to free him. Her gaze landed on roses. The plastic covering crinkled in her hand as she gripped ‘em and she swung forward, yelling, “Duck!”
Reese failed to heed this warning and got thwacked across the skull.
“Ouch!” White rose petals fluttered into his hair. His shocked gaze captured hers for an instant before a dozen pairs of hands grabbed his shoulders.
Oh, hellfire and damnation. Abby jum
ped onto the wiggling arms and snaky hands. The weight of her body broke their contact with Reese’s mangled blazer. Reese remained behind her, reaching over her shoulders to push and pull away various appendages while Abby applied the roses to the girls with a force that dismantled the petals and bent the stems. She managed, with flying roses, curses, and sheer willpower to get the idiots out of the way. Just before she grabbed the handle and slammed shut the door, she saw the harried limo driver and three Bellagio security guards attempting to subdue the little mob. She smacked down the lock and fell against the seat.
Reese sprawled next to her, sweeping back his shaggy locks, and inhaling deep breaths. He looked at his wrinkled black blazer, worn over a black designer T-shirt, and frowned at the missing buttons.
She elbowed him and he looked at her, embarrassment red slashes on his cheeks. She grinned. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
He laughed so hard he turned redder still. “You’re something else, Abby Reed.” Then he leaned down and kissed her.
Holy freaking moly. Reese Cadwell is kissing me.
Her heart thrilled in her chest, doing a triple-beat mambo that threatened to leave her breathless. Grasping the lapels of his blazer, she drew him closer, sighing in delight when his arms slid around her waist, pressing her tight against him. The sweet movement of his lips against hers sparked a fire low in her belly. Wanton. God, she felt wanton. Wanted. Sexy. Oh-so-divine. She didn’t care if this kiss wasn’t real, wasn’t truth. If Reese had turned on his acting skills to give her this gift, then God bless him.
His tongue slid into her mouth, flicking against hers in an erotic display that turned low flame into high heat. She moaned, the sound echoed into him, and he pushed her down to the seat, releasing her mouth to nibble the line of her jaw, the column of her neck, the base of her throat.
“You smell good. Like cinnamon. And apples.”
“I … uh … oh God, can you do that again?” He kissed a slow trail to the place under her earlobe, suckling the spot gently, and she shivered. Tendrils of lust clung to her, tightening their grip with every touch of Reese’s mouth.
