by Maggie Marr
Rush’s job was to assess people, to know more about them than they knew about themselves. Nikki was dangerous. Not the double-crossing, cutthroat danger typical in Hollywood. Rush relaxed when embraced by those expected behaviors. No, Nikki Solange was dangerous to Rush in a different way. A way that cut closer to him, a way that forced him to remain on his guard, a way more dear and dangerous. Rush empathized with Nikki Solange. There was an earnestness Nikki couldn’t hide. A solid goodness that she seemed to pretend didn’t exist within her. She was a soul lost in the depths of the ocean, the sharks circling. Rush understood how hard the girl was swimming and punching and flailing.
And, unfortunately for him, Rush also found Nikki damned attractive.
The two together, attraction and empathy, could be a deadly combination. Those emotions could work like kryptonite and zap Rush’s strength. Cloud his judgment with regards to his objective. Make him hazy and his reaction time slow. If he let it. Which he wouldn’t.
Rush tilted his head away from his iPhone, which he pretended to fixedly study. Nikki and her roommate Christina topped the marble stairs and stopped to speak to the hostess. He appeared ignorant of their approach toward the semicircle booth directly to his left.
His gut tightened and his skin prickled. A hunter with big-game prey, his target was within grasp, so close he caught a whiff of a clean lavender scent. The hostess did all that the C-note was meant to ensure. She seated Christina with her back to him and Nikki facing Rush. Nikki settled into her side of the horseshoe-shaped booth amid her and Christina’s laughs. Her loose-limbed body, soft voice, and wide smile, was calmer than Rush had seen in any of the surveillance photos taken since Jeb’s death. The act of being out of her town house, of being with a friend, of doing something other than holing up and hiding out seemed to work magic on Nikki.
He sipped his water and his eyes did a quick sweep of the Soho House library. The room sparkled with a scattering of stars. Academy-Award-winning scriptwriters huddled over laptops in the corners, nestled deep in couches and high-backed chairs. Entertainment executives who Rush knew in various ways, but none of them aware of his real reasons for their association, lunched. Everyone in the Industry who knew Rush Nelson—or thought they knew Rush Nelson—knew him only as a trust-fund, silver-spooned, good-looking devil who successfully dabbled in film. The perfect cover for a young good-looking security man in the employ of one of the world’s most powerful men.
Rush didn’t glance toward Nikki. He didn’t need to. He waited. The halt of her laugh, the pregnant pause, he could nearly feel the intake of Nikki’s breath a mere five feet from him.
His skin tingled with the knowledge that she’d spotted him. She’d connected the memory she didn’t know she had of him to now. The same man who had caused her to halt in the middle of a club, who had made her pulse rate jolt and a slow molten heat to build in her gut and surge through her body and then had disappeared into the crowd of Dresden1. That man, he was here.
With intention, Rush locked his gaze onto Nikki. She was a white-hot mess. No, Rush needn’t manufacture attraction for her. He need merely harness the sensual undercurrents that pulsed between them. He would use the heat that circled them to get close to Nikki without her ever knowing, ever suspecting, the ulterior motives for his closeness.
Her eyes swept over Rush’s face and widened with recognition. The color in her cheeks at first drained, and then a pink flush elevated the beauty of her skin. The flush, the barest pink, evidence of Nikki’s attraction to him. He let one corner of his lip curl upward as she watched him, and he tilted his head to the left in the studied practice of a man who could reel a woman in. She smiled and quickly ducked her gaze. Her fingertips grazed the long strands of her auburn curls while she pretended to study the menu. Nikki leaned closer to Christina and her lips moved. Nikki’s whisper went unheard by Rush, but Christina’s head whipped around toward him. Rush looked down at his iPhone and let Christina do her head-swivel to check him out and then give her roommate, Nikki, her opinion on him.
Yes. Rush Nelson was well on his way to the inner confines of Nikki Solange’s private life.
*
Nikki’s head pounded from her late night and her hangover. She was thirsty and hungry and her body felt like it had been jerked and pulled and left out in the rain. Their hostess handed them their menus as Nikki slid into the leather booth.
“How are you feeling?” Christina asked. Her eyes penetrated Nikki and concern layered her voice.
“Confused,” Nikki said. “Hungover.” She pressed her fingertips to her right temple. Scared. Was a word that Nikki wouldn't mention to Christina. She hadn't told Christina, or anyone about the terrifying call she received at Dresden1. A call that caused a fear to pulse through her and pull at her limbs.
“Adam is a douchebag,” Christina said. Her irritated tone punctuated the statement and pulled Nikki back from the thoughts of the disturbing call she'd received.
Adam was a douchebag, but Nikki still felt the fool. A fool for letting any portion of her heart or head believe there could ever be anything more than sex between them.
“He’s a musician.” Nikki’s eyes flitted up from the ecru-colored menu she held. “I knew that going in.”
Christina bit her bottom lip and nodded an acknowledgement of Nikki’s admission. An acknowledgement without judgment.
A long slow sigh escaped Nikki’s lips. Her eyes danced around the room and took in the well-heeled crowd. She felt safe here, high above LA, ensconced in the private club in the penthouse on Sunset. No looky-loos, no photographers, no one but the elite of entertainment. These seasoned Industry vets didn’t gape and point at Celeste Solange’s niece and whisper about the shit-pile of trouble in which she’d managed to land. No, this crowd was too LA for that kind of behavior. Nikki was barely noticed. Her gaze landed on the man who sat in the booth to her right.
Nikki's pulse kicked upward. A tight breath sucked in across her teeth. Her fingers tingled and a slow heat coiled within her stomach.
It was him. The same man, the guy whose eyes had lasered through a club filled with bodies and stopped her—before that horrible call—his eyes had pinned her to the floor, immobilized her legs and frozen her face.
Nikki fought the urge to stare at the black-haired man with the large muscles under the black cashmere sweater. The man who, when the server set down a fresh drink, had a dimple that sank deep into his cheek. The man who, as he looked up, caught her gaze, tilted his head, and squinted as if he knew her, all the while maintaining a smile with perfect white teeth.
Heat bolted through Nikki. A heat that simmered deep in her belly that curved through her body from merely his inquiring look.
Christina leaned forward. “Who are you staring at?” she whispered.
Nikki jerked her gaze back to Christina. “It’s this guy next to us,” Nikki said, her voice low and her menu covering the lower half of her face. “I saw him the other night at Dresden1.”
Christina did a Hollywood head check toward the booth next to theirs. “I have no idea who he is,” Christina whispered under her breath. “But God, wouldn’t I like to know.”
The server brought him his lunch, and he maintained his focus on whatever documents lay on the table beside his meal and ate. Nikki tried not to stare, but she was drawn to this man—drawn to his eyes, to his body, to the maleness and silence that exuded from him.
“I saw him last night,” Nikki whispered and took a sip of her Pellegrino. “I know it’s the same guy. It has to be.”
“I can find out,” Christina said. She scooted to the edge of the booth and Nikki watched as Christina first headed to the restroom and then stopped at the hostess stand. Christina could be discreet. She could be charming. She could get nearly any information from anyone at any time. She was a good friend to have.
Christina returned to her seat. “His name is Rush Nelson.” She leaned closer toward Nikki. “Seems he produces. Or has. He’s young and wealthy.”
Nikki took a bite of her Caesar salad and pretended even to her roommate that she had only the vaguest desire for this information while actually her whole body pulsed with the need to know every infinitesimal factoid about this man.
“From what I sussed out he is very and, seemingly permanently, single.”
“Gay,” Nikki said and bit into a crouton. Of course. Atrociously good-looking, well kept, and with a sex appeal that knocked her flat on her ass—her luck wasn’t this good—the man had to be gay.
“Not in the slightest,” Christina said. “It would seem he’s been involved but is quite discreet and isn’t one to kiss and tell.”
Discretion? In LA? Nearly unheard of. Nikki’s heart pattered faster. The server dropped Rush’s bill at the table and he signed for his meal, collected his papers and his phone, and rose to leave.
His body was a collection of muscles under expensive fabric, his moves tight and masculine. He walked past their table and Nikki glanced up. He locked his gaze onto hers.
Nikki’s heart pounced in her chest. Please let him stop, please let him speak, please let him…
His smile was coy and engaging. He looked at her and squinted as though he maybe recognized her. Perhaps remembered her from the other night, but instead of speaking, he left her with his smile and turned his head and continued to walk by.
*
Rush waited. He lingered near the far entrance to the long, narrow hall that led to the indoor bathrooms on the second floor of Soho House. He counted backward in his head. She’d wash her hands, freshen up, check her lipstick, and then the door would open…
Out walked Nikki as Rush came down the hall. He bumped into her and managed to drop the packet of papers he carried in his hand.
“Oh no,” Nikki said and knelt to the floor. “I am so sorry.” She scrambled to gather the pages that flitted across the wooden floor.
The hall was so narrow there was little room to maneuver.
“No problem,” Rush said. He let his finger graze her hand as he reached for a paper. He looked up and locked his gaze onto her terribly blue eyes.
“I…” Her eyes were wide and her mouth open. Her pink pout of mouth was in a perfectly shaped O. “I…” Nikki blinked three times. “I’m such a klutz.” She yanked her gaze away from him, then licked her lips and continued to collect pages.
“A shockingly pretty klutz,” Rush said, his voice low and throaty.
Nikki flushed with his comment and the corners of her lips turned up into a peekaboo smile. Nikki held a sheaf of papers in her hand. “Have we… Have we met before?” she asked and crinkled her brow.
Ah, yes. His opening. “I’m not sure,” Rush said. “Perhaps.”
Nikki handed him the pages. This manufactured meeting by Rush was going much as he’d planned. Nikki stood.
“Again, so sorry,” she said and lingered. She didn’t want to ask, but her body language, her lean forward, her tilted head, her tongue licking her lips—she was giving him all the signals, intentional or not, that she wanted to know more about him, wanted him to ask more about her, didn’t want to leave.
“Quite all right,” Rush said. He raised his brows and flashed his high-wattage smile. “Thanks.” He turned to walk away and caught the flash of disappointment on her face. He’d dashed her hopes—she’d wanted desperately for him to place her, to remember her, to have put her into that super category of an intriguing woman remembered.
“Wait.” Rush paused mid-stride and turned back. He squinted and looked at Nikki from the tips of her toes to the top of her head with enough heat to make her pretty, pedicured toes curl, but not so much as to make this little bunny flee. “Were you at Dresden1 the other night?”
Nikki’s eyes brightened and her cheeks flushed. She nodded but pretended she was surprised he’d been there too.
She wasn’t surprised. This was a classic female flirtation device, one in which, Rush was well-schooled.
“Red top? Came late?” Rush squinted harder. “I do remember you.”
Nikki’s top teeth bit down on her bottom lip.
“Rush Nelson,” Rush said and held out his hand.
“Nikki.”
She consciously left off her last name. Noted. Of course. Better for her to assess an individual and their agenda in LA before letting them too far into her life. Once the last name of Solange was dropped, the intentions of the most genuine Los Angeleno could shift.
“Nikki,” Rush said with his soft voice. “Nice to meet you. How was lunch?”
“Good. Always is.” She touched her fingertips to her hair.
Rush’s iPhone rang—perfectly on time. He glanced at the number. “I am so sorry, Nikki, but I’ve been waiting for this call from Asia. I have to take it.” He smiled and backed away from her, down the hall and toward the bar, speaking softly to no one on the other end of the line. He was in. He knew he was in. He didn’t even have to glance over his shoulder to be sure.
*
“Mr. Nelson asked me to give you this. Said he was terribly sorry he couldn’t come by.”
Christina leaned toward Nikki. They were at the main desk of Soho House on their way to the elevator.
Nikki opened the ecru paper and a note fell out.
So sorry to run off. Would you consider dinner with me?
Rush
Nikki’s heart fluttered. Would she consider dinner with him? Nikki would consider much more than one meal.
Chapter 16
A Snake on the Junket
Press junkets bored Cici. After two decades in the film industry and dozens of movies, the necessity of spending eight hours locked in a suite at the Four Seasons while a newscaster from Podunkville, USA, asked her canned questions about her latest film caused a weariness to seep into her bones.
The questions to be asked by the reporters were preapproved, otherwise Cici would spend eight hours fending off the fanged inquiries about her supposed illicit affair with Jeb Schmaltzer and his deep-end death. Cici uncapped a FIJI Water and took a sip. Que, her makeup artist, brushed powder along the edge of her hairline. He’d do her lips last. She’d finished three hours of incessant questions asked by reporters from Abilene to Albuquerque. Each interview rolled into a giant, bulbous mass of feigned laughs and plastered-on smiles.
At least the next reporter was someone Cici kind of knew. Hannah Hendricks had handled PR for Worldwide Studios for a decade before retiring from La-La Land to do celebrity news for some no-name nothing of a channel in Sarasota, Florida. Kiki skirted around the edges of the suite atop the Four Seasons. This half-hour break for hair, makeup, and some kind of lunch was nearly finished. Cici’s untouched salad greens lay limp upon a plate. Hunger sliced through Cici, but the need for her best-body sliced deeper. Boundless Bound would be green-lit as soon as Cici convinced Nikki that producing the film with her in the lead was a must. Then they would go into production if Cici could land the male star. She had one man on her list, one actor who could do the film justice and landing him—well that would be a coup.
Boundless Bound would be her pièce de résistance. Adrenaline raced through her blood with the thought of the Oscars next year. She would be nominated. She would win. She closed her eyes and actually felt her hand grip the legs of that lovely gold man. She’d waited so long—gotten close only once before with a nomination when she was a nubile young starlet à la Jennifer Lawrence. Once Cici had become old news, there’d been no more noms from her fellow Academy members.
Some of her peers had garnered awards for the roles on which she’d passed. Specifically when her career had been fallow while she fucked around and married Damien Bruckner. Bile burned the back of her throat—she’d given up nearly three years of her career to that man, waiting for him to put his next film into production, only to be bumped and shamed by Damien’s notorious affair with Brie Ellison.
Cici hopped off the makeup chair and air-kissed Que a thank-you for making her look so good. He was magic with powders and brushes. She straighten
ed her silk shirt and walked from the room into the attached suite. Lights burned hot and the cameramen were ready to begin the final round of interviews for the Concession to Her Delight junket.
“Cici, so good to see you!”
Hannah Hendricks, a tall, leggy brunette, still had her game. She sauntered across the room, both hands outstretched. Hannah looked quite glam for a woman slugging it out in Sarasota.
“Hannah,” Cici said and gave her the two-cheek greet. “It’s been ages.”
Hannah leaned in and clasped both of Cici’s hands. “I was so sorry to hear about your niece.” The faux concern in Hannah’s voice highlighted the false sincerity on her face.
With Hannah’s mention of Nikki, a tooth of anxiety bit into Cici’s gut. She settled her shoulders and took the director’s chair opposite Hannah. She maintained her smile, but her fingertips tingled. Something was not right. Something was quite off.
“Thank you,” Cici said. She scanned beyond the lights toward the far side of the room. Where was Kiki? The junket stipulations had been clear: no questions about Jeb, no mention of Nikki, and while Hannah’s comment was off-camera and off-mic, an unstoppable ball of fear congealed in Cici’s gut.
“Florida must be treating you well,” Cici said and shifted in her chair. She clasped her long, slim fingers in a tight knot upon her lap.
“Florida? Ha! I stayed for six months and couldn’t take it. The heat. The bugs. The absolute lack of culture.” Hannah leaned back in her chair and tilted her chin. A sly grin decorated her over-made-up face. “I’ve been at The Tattler for nearly six months now.”
Cici’s lips tightened the tiniest bit, but she maintained her smile. Her nails dug into the backs of her hands.
The Tattler.
