“Hi, Miri. Ready to go to the prom?”
She burst out laughing and then cringed as the full body girdle of torture dug into her ribs. She crossed and took the flowers, a riotous tissue-wrapped arrangement of roses, lilies, daisies, and carnations. “Wow.” It was all she could come up with. “Wow.” He was so tall, so overpowering there in their living room-slash-foyer.
“Wow is right,” Mason said. “You look amazing.” He glanced at his watch and then at her dad again. “I’d love to stay and chat, but we’re running late. Maybe your dad can put those in a vase with some water?” He took the flowers from her and shoved them at her father. Miri thought she saw a vein pulse in the older man’s forehead, just next to one of his more impressive scars. Before her dad could open his mouth to reply, Mason reached for her elbow, guiding her to the door.
“You have your clutch? Damn, but those diamonds look lovely.”
And somehow he had her out the door and down the walk before her father could do much more than call out goodbye. He frowned from the porch as the limo pulled away from their sad brown stretch of lawn.
Mason raised his eyebrows and gave her a woeful look. “I think your dad doesn’t like me.”
Again, Miri burst into unreasonable—and painful—laughter. She held out an arm. “Please don’t make me laugh. I can hardly...even...breathe.”
“I wasn’t trying to make you laugh. Literally, I sensed his hatred.”
Something about his offhand tone, his combination of humor and hurt feelings sent her off into more breathless peals of laughter. “Stop...for real...”
He watched her with twinkling eyes and a subtle quirk of his lips. “Don’t pass out. Or die. Although I think these limos all have defibrillators now.”
She put a hand over her heart, praying for calm. He was killing her—with his good looks, his deadpan sense of humor, his charm. He fell silent a moment, allowing her to collect herself. She opened her clutch, a tiny useless bag that held only three things: a tissue, lipstick refresher, and a compact mirror. She had to sacrifice the tissue already to dab at her eyes. Finally, she eased back against the seat and chanced a look at him, hoping he wouldn’t start her laughing again.
“It’s good to see you,” he said. “Thanks for coming out with me. I thought you might enjoy hanging at one of these things.”
One of these things. Yeah, you know, just a stage-side table at the Golden Globes. Mason couldn’t appear more blasé. She sucked in her breath and stared at him in all his movie-star glory, and said the only thing she could think of to say. “Thanks so much for inviting me.”
Oh, and hey, are the things I read about you true? She would never have pictured him as a hardcore sex deviant...but there was that hard-on during the rape scene. She still remembered it, would always remember it. Honestly, she’d masturbated to the memory more than once. Not just his erection bumping against her belly, but everything about that last scene they’d filmed together. His force, his hard breathing, his muscles and the rough, masculine texture of his skin.
Not that his present formal and polite manner had anything to do with that fictional rapist. Mason had been playing a character. She knew that, and yet she couldn’t help wondering if that rough, impassioned man was there, sometimes, underneath.
“Can I ask you something?” His voice was so sexy. So low and rumbly. Was he going to ask why her gaze kept sliding toward his pelvic region? “Why do you still live with your dad?”
Oh, much more embarrassing. “I guess because I haven’t made enough money the last few years to afford my own place. You know how real estate is around here.”
“Doesn’t that, uh, cramp your style?”
She told him the horrible truth. “I don’t have much style. I’m totally uncool. If you want me to wait behind a tree or something while you walk the red carpet, I’ll understand.”
“There are no trees there, only paparazzi,” he said apologetically. “And they’ll probably shout out embarrassing questions. I’m sorry if they do.”
Miri tried to appear unruffled. “Oh, you mean about the scandal?”
For a moment he looked stricken. “Well, or just...questions about whether we’re dating and stupid stuff like that.”
God, he hadn’t meant the scandal at all. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Don’t be sorry. Scandals happen. You can’t get away with anything when you’re famous. If there’s a way for people to tear you down, they’ll do it.”
Miri didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what to say.
“It’s all true, by the way,” he added. “All the stuff in the press. I mean, the bulk of it. They connected some dots that don’t go together, but I am a pervert. You should know that.”
Miri’s mouth went dry. “Um, okay.”
“It was all consensual though. All those activities in the papers. Consensual.”
She nodded quickly. “I’m sure they were.”
“I’m not even as bad as most of my friends. Now, Jeremy Gray. That is one corrupt motherfucker.”
“He’s married, isn’t he?” Miri murmured. “I thought he had a kid.”
“So what? He’s still into crazier stuff than I am. He and his wife are both freaks, but they’re my friends. They’re wonderful people who just happen to be sex perverts.”
“Like you.”
He grinned. “Like me. I’m not saying that to creep you out or make you uncomfortable or anything. Just full disclosure, like you telling me you have no life.”
“Well, I said I had no style.”
“But you meant no life.”
“It sounds kind of mean when you put it that way, but...” She would have been offended if not for the teasing twinkle in his gaze. She fell silent as he took her hand and threaded his fingers through hers.
“I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable, talking about the scandal and all that. It’s just…I feel like I can be honest with you. I don’t know why. Maybe because you aren’t a self-absorbed prima donna like most of the actresses I know.”
“I try not to be a prima donna.”
“You’re like the girl next door.” She cringed at the words, although he clearly meant them as a compliment. It was the image she was trying to overcome by doing edgy movies, by being with him. He turned slightly, drew gentle knuckles down her cheek. Being careful with her makeup, she supposed. She stared back at him. Was it her imagination or was he suddenly a lot closer? His gaze was so direct, so intense she almost closed her eyes, and then she did close her eyes because he was bowing his head. My God...was he going to—
He was kissing her. Holy God.
It wasn’t a pervert kiss. It was a sweet, quick kiss, close and warm and so perfectly careful that Miri barely freaked out. He drew away and leaned his head back against the leather seat.
“I would have kissed you harder, but I didn’t want to mess up your makeup. Maybe on the way home.”
“Mm.” That one short, innocuous syllable was all she could manage. He still held her hand, a light pressure.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked. “If I kiss you on the way home?”
“No, I don’t mind.” His fingers traced across her palm, a slow, repetitive caress.
“We never got to kiss before, during our little love scene together.”
“You mean our rape scene?”
“Yeah. I would have liked to kiss you, but the moment wasn’t right.”
“A little too rapey.”
“Far too rapey.” He stretched and let go of her hand. “But later, when we don’t have to worry about your makeup, I’ll kiss you the way I’d like. Give your dad something to really get angry about. I’ll kiss you until you have lipstick on your eyebrows. Smeared across your cheeks.”
“That’s...not very appealing.”
He leaned close again, his gaze locked on hers. “I’m going to make you take those words back, Miri. A few hours from now.”
She stared, hot and cold. Turned on a
nd terrified to death. His eyes were pure blue, no gray or green in them.
“I—I just meant—the smearing part,” she whispered. “The kissing part sounds okay.”
“You’ll like the smearing part too.”
And that was that. His words brooked no opposition. He’d already turned away from her to gaze out the window. Miri tried to get a grip on her rapidly cycling emotions, not to mention the galloping drumbeat of her heart. The limo slowed as they approached the venue. Through force of habit she collected her clutch and prepared to disembark, but her mind was elsewhere. Mason wasn’t like any guy she’d ever known—romantically or otherwise. Was this normal, these confusing swings from humor to seriousness, from friendliness to seductive commands? You’ll like the smearing part too. It sounded messy. She had a feeling interacting with Mason could become extremely messy. Scary.
Thrilling. Exciting.
The driver opened the door and Mason got out. Miri fell back at the roar and scream that accompanied his appearance. This was fame. Huge, massive, tsunami-sized fame. Fans screeched and reporters and photographers bellowed his name as he turned to help her from the car. He didn’t just haul her out. He put a hand under her elbow and lifted her slowly, perhaps understanding how hard it was to move in her dress. When she emerged, he steadied and shielded her as she fussed with the hem of her gown. He put a hand at her neck to smooth the wide diamond choker. She felt the caress of his thumb not just on her nape, but in her breasts, her pelvis.
There was so much adrenaline, so much screaming and jostling around them—and then there was his lazy smile and reassuring gaze. He leaned and kissed her on the side of her neck, just below her ear. Doubtless it was meant to be private, but Miri heard a thousand cameras go off. It sounded like some malevolent, clicking creature. Never, in her entire child-actress career, had she been party to a spectacle like this.
“There are so many people here,” she yelled over the noise, scanning the crowds on either side of the red carpet.
“Don’t try to talk,” he said. “You’ll end up looking horrible. No one looks good when they’re yelling. Just take my arm and smile.”
She did as he said, gripping her clutch in her other hand.
“No, look relaxed,” he said. “Don’t draw yourself up. Don’t clutch your clutch. Put your shoulders down and back. Smile.”
The more he coached her, the more nervous she felt. They were still standing by the car. She realized they were waiting for Mason’s publicist. The man arrived with a tight, distracted smile and only then did Mason lead her forward. She felt like Dorothy on the yellow brick road, only this road was red and carpeted and really, really crazy. Shoulders down and back. Smile. Smile. Smile.
She’d never smiled so hard in her life. The cameras clicked continuously as fans screamed for attention. Mason fielded questions from reporters and provided pithy sound bites like a pro. Yes, he was enjoying work on his new film. Yes, he would be presenting an award tonight. With his publicist glaring at his elbow, none of the reporters dared bring up the recent scandal or the damning silence of his ex-wife. When they asked Mason if the two of them were dating, he turned to Miri with a conspiratorial look. It wasn’t an answer; it was better than an answer. It was an insinuation, an invitation to speculate.
As for her...none of the reporters asked her anything. With a stab of comprehension, she understood she wasn’t here to attract any attention or promote her own career. She was here to decorate Mason’s arm.
Don’t clutch your clutch. Shoulders down and back. Smile.
*** *** ***
Jessamine was here. Mason knew that. He was prepared for it. He did his best to ignore the avid, nasty stares of all the people who wanted to see the showdown. Whether it seemed cowardly or not, he wasn’t going anywhere near Jess.
That was yet another reason to have Miri at his side. He could pretend it was Mireille Durand he was protecting, rather than himself. It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of him, after all, to expose his sweet new love interest to Jessamine’s well-known claws.
Jess would be at the bar getting sloshed, so Mason led Miri to the ballroom instead to find their table. Jeremy and Nell sat a few tables away, deep in conversation. When they lifted their heads and turned to him, Mason waved a furtive greeting. They usually sat together, but not this year, not when they were implicated in the same scandal. Their eyes fell on Miri, and Jeremy flashed a subtle thumbs up.
Suppressing a smile, Mason turned back to her. “You need a drink, don’t you? Yes, you do,” he said, answering his own question. Something about her manner, her reticence triggered the take-charge dominant in him. He pulled out her chair and set them both up with some drinks, greeting the other luminaries who came to sit with them, leaning close to Miri so anyone who wondered would think that yes, they were an item, even if, yes, they were an odd pair. Mr. Depravity with Miss Respectability. She played the part flawlessly because she was respectable. Innocent. Daddy’s little girl in the clutches of a worldly movie star.
Jesus Christ. The whole idea of it was making him hard.
He hadn’t planned to kiss her in the limo. He hadn’t planned anything. He’d just let things happen, and found himself surprisingly attracted to her forthright, self-deprecating manner. His stylist had done a great job, creating an image for her that fell halfway between sweet and sexy. Her pretty green eyes were complimented by her dress, and her hair was a pile of golden loveliness on her head. As for the diamonds, Mason had chosen the collar—er, choker—himself.
It was probably too much. Jeremy and Nell for sure noticed it and got the joke. But was it really a joke? It was more of a delicious, horny secret. He’d kiss Mireille Durand later, hard and deep, and he’d finger that diamond choker and tighten it a little on her neck and see how she responded. For all he knew she was into the kinky stuff. She hadn’t seemed overly freaked out when she broached the topic of the scandal.
Mason touched Miri’s elbow and smiled at her. She smiled back at him with an artless, dazed look. Ah, she was so adorable. He could hear cameras clicking. Yeah, get this on film. Splash it across tomorrow’s celebrity sites. Print it on the cover of all the tabloids. He leaned close to whisper in her ear because he knew it would look romantic in a photo. He pasted on a nurturing, attentive look. Damn, now he had to think of something to say.
“Did you know that the ransom paid for a kidnap victim is tax-deductible?”
Miri snorted and slapped a hand over her mouth. So much for the carefully composed photo opportunity—but he enjoyed making her laugh. Miri had the most un-self-conscious laugh, so grating and graceless that it made him laugh too. He looked up, chuckling, and by chance caught Jessamine’s gaze across the room. He was glad then, even if the photos looked stupid. He hoped his ex-wife had seen him make Miri crack up. He hoped she’d assume they were laughing about her. Jessamine thought everything was about her. Her gaze was cool, detached, but he knew her well enough to read her other body language. The stiffness of her shoulders, the purse of her lips.
He turned back to Miri. She’d seen him exchange glances with Jessamine, because now her expression was sober, carefully composed to give nothing away. He squeezed her hand under the table as the awards broadcast began, and held it for a good bit of the proceedings. Not for photos. No cameras could see under the table. He did it because she was here and she was lovely, and because she had a diamond collar around her neck that she didn’t even realize was a collar. By the end of the night, after the schmoozing and the parties and the additional interviews, she still looked fresh and happy, and Mason found himself eager to make good on his promise. He wanted to kiss her some more. A lot more. He would downright make out with her if she let him. Are you the innocent you pretend to be? I hope not.
When they got in the limo after the last of the parties, she turned to him, bright-eyed even though it was almost three in the morning. “Did you have fun?” he asked, shoving aside his twelve-thousand-dollar tuxedo jacket and loosening his collar. He
didn’t wait for her answer, but leaned forward and slid a hand around her neck, drawing her closer. “I’ve been waiting all night to kiss you, you little flirt. Really kiss you.”
She didn’t draw away, or flinch or protest or any of those things. Later, when he thought back over things, he was one hundred percent sure of that. Still, something was off. Her hands felt wrong. Her lips were clumsy, as hesitant as they were hungry for his kiss. Maybe she was just tired. But no, it wasn’t that.
It was almost like she didn’t know how to kiss. When he thrust his tongue into her mouth, she resisted. Not out of disgust. Out of surprise.
Good fucking God.
He persisted, not wanting to embarrass her, but wondering if it could possibly be true. Had she never made out with a guy? Had she never been kissed like this, passionately, deeply, on the mouth? He forgot all about his collar-clenching plans and gentled his approach, giving her open mouthed kisses, coaching her along a continuum that he hoped would end up in some heavy petting, at least. She did loosen up. She learned fast, and when she began to respond more skillfully, more enthusiastically, Mason felt deep satisfaction. After a while, he pushed her back along the limousine seat and covered her, aligning his hips to hers. He was hard, rock hard. They’d been here before, in this carnal position, wearing a lot less, but that was different. This was... This was...
This was going too far. He was scaring her. She trembled under him, sucking in air.
“Ah, Miri,” he whispered, dropping one last, lingering kiss on her parted lips. He pulled away, watching lights play across her skin in the darkness of the luxe passenger compartment. With his thumbs, he determinedly smeared the last traces of her all-day lipstick down to her delicate chin, then across one cheek.
“Beautiful girl,” he said softly.
She rubbed at her face. “My father will see.”
“He’ll be asleep.”
She shook her head. “He’ll see. He’ll be waiting.” She was rubbing harder now, looking up at him. “Is it gone?”
Comfort 4: Command Performance Page 4
