Curve Struck (A Celebrity Stepbrother Romance)

by Christa Wick

  "Talk."

  She looked at the beautifully carved muscles flexing beneath his clothes, the massive chest plates, the taut abdomen.

  His hard, short breaths scared her.

  "With your hands or your mouth?"

  The corner of his mouth twitched in a regretful smile. "Don't know Morse Code or I would gladly tap the warning against his thick skull."

  "I don't want--"

  "You don't have a choice, Mel. Now get your shit and go -- leave me at least a little patience to deal with this fucker."

  "You're really just going to talk to him?" she persisted, the tears she'd been holding back finally escaping down her cheeks.

  She didn't like any of this, didn't like not calling the cops even if it was her idea, and she certainly didn't want to leave Declan alone with Strake. Cold fury burned in the icy gray gaze.

  He nodded, his face gentling slightly.

  "Now go."

  Chapter Sixteen

  "Circle the block," Declan ordered over the intercom, the limo's interior tinted window up since he had stormed out of the production company's offices, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

  His gaze flicked in Melanie's direction.

  "Does your mom know you live here?"

  She squirmed in her seat. Other than ordering Melanie to give Russell her address, he had said nothing to her on the drive from the studio to her small apartment building on the corner of Normandie Avenue and West 60th Place.

  "My mother has my address," she answered, staring at several spots on his silk dress shirt that were darker than the fabric's deep purple.

  There had been no time for her to study his clothes in her office, but the spots still had a wet look to them when Declan had slid into the limo's back seat, the black of his pupils eating up all but a thin ribbon of the gray irises.

  Grunting, he flexed his right arm, his hand buried in the pocket of his dress slacks the entire drive.

  "Well, has she ever fucking looked at it on a satellite map?"

  Melanie shrugged. Her mom didn't use the internet like that. Her father would have foregone looking at it on the map to visit it in person then promptly found her someplace else to live at his expense. But George Archer had died before she moved to Los Angeles.

  Declan shook his head. "Stupid question, she would never let you live here if she had."

  Melanie rolled her lips together, grinding away at the glib responses that wanted to correct his ignorance. If her mother was the type of parent to try to restrict where her child lived, she would have checked the place out one way or another. And it didn't matter. Melanie was old enough and sufficiently self-supporting to live wherever the hell she pleased.

  Not that the small one bedroom she shared with Cammie pleased her. But Los Angeles was crazy expensive, even in the bad neighborhoods.

  Irritation snaking all around his face, Declan forgot himself, reaching out with his right hand to press the intercom button again. "Stop and drop us off, then keep circling."

  Melanie stared at his hand, the skin on the base knuckles of his index and middle finger torn and in the process of scabbing. Catching the direction of her gaze, he shoved the hand back into his pocket until the limo came to a stop.

  He threw the door open, scanned the sidewalk then ordered her out.

  Daylight still clung to the sky, but it was beginning to fade. Any working streetlights across the city would be flickering on, but the streetlights never worked on this stretch of Normandie.

  "I don't need walked to my door," she protested as he grabbed her by the elbow and tried to steer her toward the small parking lot.

  "I'm not walking you to your door. I'm going in."

  His gray gaze shot daggers at her. Planting her feet, she dug in with her heels.

  "Don't make me throw you over my shoulder, Melanie Lee," he growled.

  She snorted, the sound issuing as a challenge. He spun on her, his lean muscular body dipping as his hand slid from her elbow to her wrist.

  Fuck, he was really going to do it -- or at least try.

  "Wait, wait..." She pushed lightly at his head, afraid of really pissing him off. She couldn't understand why he was so angry with her to begin with. "I'll take you inside, but you have to promise not to be a jerk to my roommate."

  "Roommate?" He lifted his head, his body straightening at the same time. His gaze narrowed as Melanie was slow to elaborate.

  "Yes," she sniped. "She doesn't deserve you acting like an asshole -- and neither do I!"

  His lips pursed together, wiggled and then he shut his hate-filled eyes for a few seconds.

  "Don't worry, I'll play nice."

  She didn't believe him, not entirely, not with the clipped way the words had left him.

  Jerking her hand out of his grip, she marched past the security fence that even she could have scaled and to the main entrance on the first floor.

  "No keycard and the lock's been punched -- are you serious?"

  Clamping her mouth shut, she gave him a slide glare and headed for the stairs to the second floor.

  "How many break-ins each month?"

  Even if she had known the answer, she wouldn't have told him. She only knew that her apartment hadn't been broken into. It was on the second floor, furthest from the stairwell. The neighborhood crooks were too lazy to make it that far whenever they made it past the entry door on the bottom level.

  It was Cammie's poor little Honda that couldn't catch a break. The dancer had so many radios stolen out of it, she'd given up replacing them. She didn't even bother locking the doors to it so she wouldn't have to replace any window glass when someone broke in to see if anything had been left inside.

  Melanie slid her key in the lock and threw another glance at Declan, warning him to not barge past her. Opening the door, she stuck her head inside.

  "Hey, Cam, I'm home with a visitor."

  "What the hell?" Cammie's voice sounded from the bedroom, the tone delighted and surprised. She raced into the living room, her rechargeable curling iron in one hand and a mascara brush in the other as she prepared to head to work.

  Next to Melanie but out of sight in the hall, Declan cleared his throat. She looked at him, eyes pleading for him to change his mind and leave her alone. It was late, she'd had a miserable evening with the events at the production company and a miserable, silent ride home as Declan fumed beside her.

  "Stop stalling, Mel."

  Shoulders sagging, she pushed the door open and gestured for him to enter. He moved past her, his entrance into the apartment marked by a squeal from Cammie.

  "Girl, you're killing me!"

  Melanie would have laughed at the outburst any other day -- or if Declan Bain wasn't the first male she'd ever brought to their apartment.

  "You're starting to smoke," Declan observed as Melanie followed behind him, her back turned to the scene as she shut and locked the door.

  The wry tone and the words confused her until she smelled what he was talking about.

  "Cammie, your hair!"

  "Oh, shit!" Cammie yanked the iron away and ran into the bathroom. "Don't go anywhere!"

  Declan turned toward Melanie, his face finally relaxing.

  For half a minute.

  He jabbed a finger at the wall behind her. "What is that?"

  Seeing the gossamer bit of nothing that had given her fits to sew, she felt all the blood leave her face. If Declan wasn't happy about where she lived -- not that it was any of his damn business -- he'd likely be even more disgruntled if he figured out what Cammie did for a living.

  "I'm a costume designer, remember?" She tried to turn her tone snarky, but she practically whispered her reply so her roommate wouldn't hear.

  "Whew, no real damage," Cammie chirped, coming back into the cramped living room. "That's a relief!"

  Oblivious to the blonde's return, Declan stepped past Melanie to touch the outfit.

  Cammie noticed his interest and wrapped her arms around Melanie's shoulders in a tig
ht hug.

  "Isn't our girl brilliant? She made that little bit of nothing for me and it triples my tips."

  Declan turned, his brows shooting up as Cammie continued to speed talk. She was always high energy, Melanie mused, but the movie star's presence threatened to push Cammie into overdrive.

  "I wish I could wear it every set, but it would probably lose its mojo, at least with the regulars." She squeezed Melanie again and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Her next design challenge is to quadruple my tips."

  His gaze glued on Melanie's face, Declan stepped within a foot of the women.

  "So, let me get this straight," he said and raised the first of too damn many fingers. "You live in probably the worst ranked neighborhood--"

  "Not even the top 25 for how bad it is," Cammie huffed. A native Angelino, she'd grown up in far worse neighborhoods.

  Ignoring her, Declan raised a second finger. "With a perimeter fence a toddler could climb over."

  A third finger popped up to tempt Melanie into wondering what it would take to break it before he went to far in his assessment of her life.

  "No building security, and a str--"

  "Don't go there," Melanie growled as his gaze flicked toward her best friend. "You promised not to be a jerk."

  "An exotic dancer," he corrected as he lifted the fourth finger. "Who probably has creeps trying to follow her home all the time."

  "Hey," Cammie objected, her voice going high and thin. "I'm super careful!"

  "I'm sure you are." Declan forced a polite smile in her direction before his cloudy gaze zeroed in on Melanie once more. "You are coming home with me. You've got twenty minutes to pack your bags."

  "The hell I am!" Her hands molded around her hips, her fingers digging into the fleshy curves as she stepped closer to him, her neck straining so she could meet his ridiculously determined gaze.

  It didn't matter that he had rescued her from Strake that afternoon or that she lived in a dangerous part of the city. He could barely make the argument that she'd be safer with him, not after how he had behaved on the limo ride from the private airfield to LAX.

  "This is where I live," she growled as she jabbed a finger at his chest, his muscles bunched so tight in irritation she couldn't dent their surface. "This is where I pay rent. We have a system and it has kept us safe for three years without your interference or help."

  She poked the towering male in front of her one last time then spun on her heel and jerked the lock on the door. A quick twist of the handle and Cammie had to scramble out of the way to avoid getting hit by the door as Melanie threw it open.

  "Now walk your patronizing ass out of my apartment."

  She spun as she ordered him away, turning back to find him calmly pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and dialing someone. Stunned by his demeanor and the inexplicable time out to make a call, she didn't ask him what he thought he was doing.

  It only took her a few seconds to figure it out on her own.

  "I need Nancy's number..." Declan paused half a second before his voice turned rough. "Just give me the number, I have no interest in talking to you now or ever."

  "Does he mean our Mz. Winslow?" Cammie whispered just as Melanie realized Declan planned on telling her mom about the apartment and maybe even about her roommate's job.

  She snatched for his phone but he danced away, a smirk flickering on his face before he started reciting her mother's number as Roger gave it to him.

  Without saying good-bye to his father, Declan hung up the phone.

  "Do I need to call her?"

  Melanie blinked, the threat of frustrated and hurt tears making her vision swim. What in the hell was Declan doing? He couldn't possibly care what happened to her. She was just the over-plumped daughter of the woman his father had married. Keeping Melanie safe wouldn't make Roger miserable or otherwise put out.

  "Melanie Lee," he said, his tone unrelenting. "Do I need to call her?"

  She couldn't get her mouth to work. Didn't he understand? The system needed two people -- check-ins, two a.m. escorts from the parking lot to the apartment, a second adult in the unit as a deterrent against someone kicking down the door.

  Melanie felt safe in the apartment when she was alone. When it was Cammie who was home on her own, she worried.

  "It takes two people," she whispered as he pressed to summon the keypad on his phone. "Two people to safely live here."

  His brows pinched together then his gaze flashed once on Cammie as Melanie's concern finally penetrated his thick skull.

  "Fine," he sighed then nodded at the two women. "Both of you pack your bags."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Two hours later, Melanie sat in the bedroom of Declan Bain's guesthouse as Cammie unloaded a trunk of clothes and costumes. Melanie's luggage was in the main house after a failed protest that she should be allowed to stay with Cammie despite the guesthouse having only one bed.

  Maintaining her best friend status, Cammie had supported Melanie's arguments, all while mouthing questions of whether Melanie had gone insane whenever Declan had his back turned to the dancer.

  "There!" Cammie whooped, filling the last drawer. "Now, unless you fake a heart attack or a seizure, there's nothing left for you to procrastinate over."

  Descending onto the bed where Melanie sat, Cammie nudged her with an elbow.

  "Now, tell me what is going on between you and Bain before I pass out in anticipation."

  Eyes averted, Melanie scraped at the underside of her nails. "Some production executive got all grabby with me today."

  From the moment Cammie had let out a delighted squeal over the opportunity to room at Declan's estate for any amount of time until she put the last piece of clothing up, Melanie had been trying to fashion a reasonable story -- one that Declan would be able to back up without even thinking about it. She settled on a truth out of context, hopefully one that would distract her roommate enough that she wouldn't poke at the inconsistencies or illogical parts.

  "What?" Cammie threw her arms around Melanie. "Are you serious? What happened?"

  Pushing up her sleeves, Melanie showed Cammie the bruises around both wrists.

  "Did you call the cops?"

  Lead filled Melanie's chest and she realized her error in parceling out this part of the truth to Cammie, who had her own history of men who didn't recognize a woman's right to say 'no.'"

  "I'm sorry," Melanie apologized, snaking her arms around Cammie's waist and burying her head against the blonde's shoulder. "I know I should have, I know he's likely done things like this before and will again."

  "Shhh, baby," Cammie soothed, patting at Melanie's back. "You do what's right for you. Guy like that is going to have money for the worst kind of vulture attorney -- if the cops even listen to you."

  Cammie pulled back, tears glistening in her brown gaze. "But...well...do you think you should see a doctor?"

  Shaking her head, Melanie brushed a tear from Cammie's cheek. "Declan came in before anything really awful happened."

  Cammie's eyes went wide and a smile fought back the quiver in her lips. "I noticed some of his knuckles were bloody and some dark spots on his shirt."

  "Yeah, that happened after he made me wait out in the limo. Before that, he had the dude in a chokehold. I thought he was going to kill him."

  "He likes you -- Declan, I mean."

  "No." Melanie shook her head, the motion on repeat as she pushed against the idea that the actor could genuinely be interested in her. "I mean maybe like a big--"

  Her jaws clamped shut, her tongue too slow in retreating behind her teeth. Tasting a little blood, she swallowed it down then wiggled her tongue inside her mouth to make sure she hadn't lost a piece.

  Crossing her legs and tucking her feet under them, Cammie stared at Melanie, head tilted off to one side in open speculation.

  Lord help me, Melanie prayed. Anyone who thought all strippers were stupid had never met Camryn Goddard. She was sharp as a tack, especially when it came to rea
ding people and situations. She also had a memory that went on forever.

  She should have been in college, earning an MBA or a law degree, but she had three younger siblings, one just starting the first grade, and a mortgage in central California for the house they lived in while she danced any shift she could get and shared a room with Melanie in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods Los Angeles had to offer.

  "I should unpa--"

  "Nope, don't even try to sneak out of here."

  Bringing her hand up near her mouth, Cammie tapped out a few rough calculations against her cheek and then her eyebrows went up like a light bulb turning on over her head. "Who did Declan call to get your mother's number? He was a bit of an ass to whomever it was, particularly his tone."

  Melanie shook her head, playing dumb.

  "Why would he even think to call your mom? You're a grown up. She doesn't pay your bills."

  Melanie wanted to shrug, but even the simple gesture felt like a huge lie.

  "Please, I..." Melanie stopped before she could whip out the victim card. She couldn't do that, not with Cammie.

  "You were supposed to start on the soap opera this week, then you said you'd gotten pre-production, but you didn't mention that the star of your last film is also the star for your current film. Did he get you the job?"

  Melanie's throat seized. She couldn't lie, but she couldn't tell the truth. Once she started talking, she'd spill too much. The marriage, Roger being Declan's dad, Declan being her stepbrother, and -- worst of all -- that she'd orgasmed in Declan's limo, his mouth on her neck and his hand cupping her pussy over the thin fabric of her slacks.

  Cammie frowned and her eyes went all hurt. "When was the last time you heard me gossip?"

  "Never," Melanie answered. She knew her friend was tight with a secret. But this was a big secret as far as Hollywood went. Not as big as some. But it was important to Declan.

  "Is he the reason you were so upset when you got home Saturday -- why you moped around all day Sunday?"

  Her brows shot up again as another possibility occurred to her.

  "Did you even go to see your mom in Colorado?"