His black hair shadowed his unlined brow like he shadowed my thoughts. Nearly at the half-century mark, yet he barely showed his age.
Emotions ripped through me as he stared at me. Cold then hot, fear and anger, they raced toward each other at top speed. The resulting collision rocked me like a bomb blast. Broken, I became that frightened little girl once more. It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize, to beg his forgiveness for crossing him.
Yet how could I possibly covet his approval after what he’d done?
I truly wondered, as I had too many times since that night in the library, if there wasn’t some fatal flaw inside me, instead of the other way around.
Samuel leaned in, and I trembled as his all-too-familiar bergamot scent assailed me.
Spiraling, my senses reeled me back in time, returning me to the library. Again, I experienced his unbreakable grip on my upper arms. His weight crushing me. His sloppy wet mouth on my skin.
“Don’t.” My protest was a plea, choked past caustic bile rising to burn the back of my throat, just like it had back then.
“Too late to stop. You should’ve walked away instead of making a spectacle of something between the two of us that was a private matter.”
“You tried to force yourself on me.” I found the truth and wielded it, ripping it free at the roots from the deepest pits of hell where I’d buried it.
“You look like your mother,” he said, his voice low and intimate, meant only for me. “It was late. I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Are you serious?” Tears flooding my eyes, I curled my hands into fists. “Are those the lies you tell yourself to justify it? That is so beyond twisted. You are so beyond twisted.” I found the volume to volley insults, though my stomach roiled.
“Listen to me,” he said firmly and stepped closer. His custom tux appropriately cloaking him in black, his six-foot frame towered over me.
I staggered back, unsteady on my shaking legs in my heels. “Stay away from me.”
I cast my gaze around for something to hold on to. For someone to hold on to. For someone to help me. My lips trembled as I noticed the crowd that had circled us. On set, I might crave attention to validate my proficiency in my craft. But not this. Not everyone watching me while I faltered.
Alone, I trembled as tears gathered in my eyes, blurring the faces of those who surrounded me. Red lights on video cameras signaled the capture of my horror. Panicked, I searched for an opening to escape the spinning wheel of bodies around me.
Suddenly Max appeared. Head and shoulders above everyone, he moved beside me.
I wanted to throw myself at him, grab the lapels of his jacket, and suck in deep draughts of his scent, but I refrained. Mostly, I didn’t want to appear weak in front of my stepfather, but too much was because I didn’t know how Max would respond.
“Get back, Sam . . . Mr. Lesowski.” With his eyes twin bolts of cobalt fury, Max’s voice cracked the tension-filled air.
“Do not presume to tell me what to do, Mr. Cash. You’re the one who should step aside. This doesn’t concern you.”
“Like hell it doesn’t. She’s . . . I’m her . . .” Max’s gaze swept the crowd. He seemed to notice them and the expectant hush that had seized them, their cameras poised at the ready.
My heart thudded loudly in the silence. I held my breath.
Would Max acknowledge me? Would he acknowledge us?
“I’m her bodyguard. It’s my job to keep her safe.”
I dropped my chin and made excuses for him.
It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is him and me inside the frame.
“Well, I’m her father.”
“Not anymore, sir. Not if she doesn’t want you to be.”
Samuel whipped his head toward me. “Does this man speak for you, daughter?”
I lifted my chin. “I’m not your daughter. That was a lie.”
“One your mother told to both of us.”
Briefly, his visage flickered. For a solitary beat of time, he appeared to be just a man, a sad, hurt one with vulnerabilities and insecurities like everyone else. A man who might care about my opinion of him. But the moment didn’t last, and his expression hardened.
“It would be wise for you to consider that fact.”
I had considered it. I’d considered it a lot. My mother had obviously wanted me to believe Samuel was my biological father. But why? And more disturbing, had she ever planned to tell me the truth?
“Miss Wood.”
A uniformed theater attendant emerged through a gap in the crowd. Their interest seemed to have waned since Max swooped in to rescue me.
“Sorry to interrupt, but Miss Avalon sent me to find you. The press junket has begun.” Appearing uncertain, probably trying to decide if not accomplishing my agent’s directive was worth earning my stepfather’s ire, he glanced back and forth between Samuel and me.
“Still taking advice from that dinosaur?” My stepfather raised a dark brow. It saddened me that my signature move was a modified version of his.
“She’s the same age as you are.”
Samuel scoffed. “She’s obsolete. On the decline. With only one other client besides you, she’s practically irrelevant.”
“She manages my career better than you did. She brokered the Firelight role and the Valentine part.”
“A vanity project and a bit part with an inferior director.”
I didn’t argue with him about Firelight. I knew what it was, but I’d also known it was a chance to project a different image to my fans, and maybe get better roles too.
“The Valentine film is generating Oscar buzz, just from the script alone, and is directed by a man who will likely become a bigger deal than you are. Especially if you continue to press me in public like this, showing everyone what a bully you are.”
“You’re thinking short term and too small, as usual.”
Samuel gave me an icy smile. Chill bumps appeared on my flesh as he leaned close and dropped the volume on his voice again, so only I could hear.
“I will remain at the top of my profession long after you’re a memory. Long after I have destroyed everything you hold dear. Give that some thought, my dear, and consider carefully your next move and who you trust. Not all inside your inner circle are the value to you that you think they are.”
Chapter Forty
* * *
The press junket was a whirlwind, one entertainment reporter or blogger asking a flurry of questions after another. Many stayed on topic about the movie, but a dizzying number peppered me with questions about my personal life.
Because of Olivia, I was prepared, and for the most part successfully deflected speculation about Max and me. But as I stood to exit the small windowless space I’d occupied for the past sixty minutes, one more interviewer entered.
Carter Besille.
“Good evening, Miss Wood. So kind of you to linger for me.”
In his tux, he looked as distinguished and handsome as my stepfather, but I knew that like Samuel, his good looks disguised a toxic heart.
Bracing, I sat again, my fingers curled into fists as he took a seat on the chair opposite mine, unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, and leaned forward.
“Your GI Joe is as rude as ever. Unprofessional and underdressed for an occasion like this. Given the recent photos that have surfaced of you and him, I imagine you let him get away with a lot, but is that wise?”
“Is what wise?” I asked, pretending disinterest while flicking nonexistent lint away from the skirt of my gown.
“Oh, come now, you know I mean having an employee with benefits.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re only modeling the behavior of your sire in that regard. I guess the old adage is true, that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?”
“I’m not . . . I wouldn’t . . .”
“He’s in your employ? You pay his salary. Isn’t this sort of inappropriateness the basis for most of the allegations against your stepfather?”
My spi
ne snapped straight. “Are you employed by my stepfather? You sound very much like you’re a spokesperson for him.”
“Samuel Lesowski has many allies in this town, Miss Wood. Most are smart enough not to cross him.”
“I’m not crossing him. He tried to . . . he attempted to . . .”
“You seem to have great difficulty articulating exactly what transpired between you and him in the privacy of your luxurious childhood home. Interestingly, where not a single witness was present to refute your charges.”
“You’re not the judge and jury, Mr. Besille.” My fingers curling tighter into my palms, I bit my tongue about the housekeeper.
“Perhaps not.” His lips curled, his gaze flashing malevolence before he struck again. “But my many viewers and I hold a great deal of sway in the court of public opinion. Much more than an insignificant local talk show. More than Behind the Stars. I suggest you conduct yourself with a little more decorum with me. A little more bowing and scraping by your staff would go a long way. And a lot more friendliness by you.”
He leaned closer and reached across the narrow table to touch my hand. “Do you understand?”
“I understand perfectly.” I stood abruptly, holding on to the contents of my stomach, but just barely. My body vibrated with anger. “We’re done with the interview. Thank you for your time, Mr. Besille.”
I let out a relieved breath as he exited the room. I was repulsed by his advance, and angry, but I was also scared. What he’d said was true. He had echoed Olivia’s cautions.
In Hollywood, perception often trumped reality. I needed to be less concerned about some things—like what Max hadn’t revealed during my confrontation with my stepfather, or the fact that Olivia had been noticeably absent when I’d been ambushed by Carter Besille—and be more focused on my own behavior.
Instead of worrying about my staff’s loyalty, as Samuel obviously wanted me to do, I needed to project strength. Being on the defensive didn’t help my cause. So what if I was feeling more isolated than ever? If Samuel wanted me to feel that way, I was determined to feel the opposite.
I straightened my shoulders as my bodyguard and my agent entered the room.
“Are you ready?” Olivia asked, her head tilting to an inquiring angle as she studied me. Beside her, Max was a statue, his gaze crystalline blue.
I nodded to her while preparing myself internally. One of the biggest performances of my life was about to begin. Right now. Tonight.
Down a carpeted corridor we went after leaving the small interview room. Max was beside me, Olivia walked ahead. Marching straight to a side door marked CAST ONLY, she pulled it open and glanced back at me.
“You’re on the first row. Second seat.”
“All right.” I swept my gaze over the packed auditorium.
Most were already seated in their comfortable velvet chairs, perusing the contents of their press packets. A few milled about on the front row. No sign of Samuel.
As I registered that relief, the Firelight director, Milton Rothbaum, spotted me. Smiling, he motioned for me to approach. I took a step forward, realized Max was beside me, and started to explain the front row was for cast members only, but Olivia beat me to it.
“VIPs sit here. Bodyguards and support staff like you and me have seats in the back row.” She turned her gaze to me. “We’ll meet you down front directly after the screening.”
I watched her steer Max around. It might only be my imagination, but it seemed like he was reluctant to leave me.
Comforted by that thought, I found my steps were lighter as I moved toward the director, but I froze in midstride when a flash of movement from a familiar figure caught my attention.
“Diesel.” My eyes widened in surprise.
“Hey, beautiful.” He swept his dark gaze over me. “You look nice.”
“So do you.” Amazingly so. His glossy black curls loose, the light indigo tux jacket with the black piping he wore clung to his wide shoulders, and his solid black trousers emphasized the length of his legs. He looked like he’d stepped right off the glossy pages of a Dolce & Gabbana ad.
“Thanks. Just a little something I dug out from the back of the closet since the last Oscars I attended. The one where your sister beat out the Dogs for best song.” His chiseled lips curved.
Beyond the appealing shape and the deep cherry color, I got lost in the fact that the crescent indentation on the right side of his mouth was deeper than the one on the left. That slight inconsistency made him seem less like a player of mythological self-proclaimed proportions and more like a mere man, although one who had a penchant for causing more trouble for me than most.
“Her song was better.” My mouth curved. I found that I very much liked the way he continued to stare at me as if transfixed.
“Um, no offense.” His tone light, he stepped closer, and his tropical scent filled my senses. “But I don’t think a girl with questionable taste in music like yours gets to cast a vote.”
Diesel’s teasing was exactly what I needed after the run-in with my stepfather. Because he had a way of making even the threat of Samuel lessen, and because I’d been wrong to use him to distance myself from Fanny, an apology and an explanation I probably shouldn’t have made tumbled from my mouth.
“What happened at the party . . . when you pushed me into the wall, it reminded me of . . . of something else. I’m sorry. I overreacted.”
“I know.” His dark eyes narrowed, not with suspicion but understanding. “I’ve seen the interviews about your stepfather.” His curls seemed to shiver with irritation as he cast his gaze around. “I heard the asswipe might be here. Thought he might hassle you.”
The angry vibes flowing off Diesel made me take a measured step backward, and I bumped into someone.
“Mr. Le,” Milton said. “Good to see you accepted my invitation.” The Firelight director put his hands on my shoulders. “I didn’t realize you and Hollie knew each other.”
“My sister is dating one of his bandmates,” I said to explain.
“Interesting. Well,” he tipped his head to Diesel, “we’re glad to have you here and your score on the film. That and Hollie’s performance are some things critics agree about. The other is their universal rejection of my debut into science fiction.”
A wry expression on his full face, he ran a hand through his gray hair and gestured toward the two remaining empty seats on the front row.
“If you’ll both take your seats, I’ll attempt to introduce my latest masterpiece to the world. Let’s all cross our fingers that the audience scores tonight will be better than those of the critics.”
Chapter Forty-One
* * *
I wanted to ask Diesel about the score on the film. The music wasn’t rock, it was classical, orchestral all the way through. But Milton was speaking, so I had to at least feign interest, then stand as I was introduced.
One by one, all the main cast and significant tech crew members stood to receive recognition, including Diesel. Then the house lights dimmed, and I had to pretend to be interested in watching myself on film.
So not.
I couldn’t look at myself objectively. It always seemed to me that I was a fraud. That one day, someone would stand up and say, “Aha, you’re a pretender.” Then all the criticisms Samuel had thrown at me over the years would be proven true, and I’d be laughed out of the movie business.
Only while I was in the moment on set and in character did all the doubts quiet. While the cameras rolled, I was as certain as my next breath that my chosen profession was the right one for me.
The theater screen in front of me suddenly switched scenes. I slunk down in my seat, knowing what was coming next. A love scene. How in the world had I ended up sitting next to Diesel to watch it?
“Those your tits for real?” he whispered, and bumped my knee with his.
A warm, shivery sensation traveled upward to between my legs from that minimal contact from him.
“It’s only a little side
boob. Don’t get overly excited.”
The peeks at my body revealed nothing more than I would show wearing a bikini. In fact, I’d worn pasties for the sensual scene, my first sex scene on film. If I weren’t so embarrassed to be sitting next to Diesel for it, I would have been more fully able to appreciate how well it had turned out.
“Can’t help getting turned on with you right beside me.” His fingers skated up my arm.
I drew in a sharp breath. My nipples tightened.
“You have a smoking body.” Diesel dipped his head, his breath warming the skin beneath my ear. His silky curls swished across his brow, shadowing his handsome features. “It’s the second thing I noticed when I first met you.”
“Oh, really? What was the first?”
“Your eyes. Took a while before I registered anything else, if you recall. You stole my breath away.”
“It was morning.” I did remember. I didn’t think it was possible to forget. “You startled me. Ash didn’t say anything about you coming over.”
“Morning, yeah.” His voice low, Diesel held my gaze. Just like it had then, if felt like we were the only two people in the world. “But the color of your eyes is like the moon rippling over the surface of the ocean. And now your hair’s an accessory to the theme.”
“How’s that?” I whispered.
“It’s the color of a moonbeam. Sexy as hell combo. Like a siren or some shit like that. Enough to wreck a guy, for sure.” He took a strand of my hair, skimming the skin of my shoulder before he lifted my hair and rubbed it between his fingers, making me shiver. “Always wanted to touch a moonbeam.”
My scalp tingled, and other parts of me too. Maybe all of Diesel’s sexual bragging was true.
“Let go of my hair,” I said huskily. He had barely touched me, yet I was panting for air. I also noticed my costar on the other side of Diesel was watching us, although the music pumped through the theater’s speakers drowned out our hushed conversation.
“No.” Diesel brought the strand to his nose and sniffed it. “Strawberry. I wonder how the rest of you smells. Wonder how you taste.”
(Complete Rock Stars, Surf and Second Chances #1-5) Page 108
