But I’ve been nude before—in front of tens of millions of people, in fact—and it is no more intimate than I want it to be. After all, there is no vulnerability in having a beautiful body. No vulnerability in being exactly what men want.
I wear it like armor, in fact. Use what I look like to hide what I don’t want others to see. Use it to hide all the ugly pieces of the even uglier truth.
But with my hair falling down around me—a reminder of both what I let him do to me and just how imperfect I really am—I feel more than vulnerable. I feel exposed.
Which is something I will not—cannot—tolerate.
And so I reach up, bury my fingers in my hair and pull out every remaining pin that I can find.
I have a ton of hair and it all comes tumbling down at once, in a mass of waves that cover my shoulders, my back, the top of my breasts. As soon as I do it, I feel better. Armored. Even before Ian turns around and catches sight of me.
His eyes go wide, which is all the confirmation I need. And now that my armor is in place, I think about the next step. About what Marilyn would do in this situation. What Sophia or Lana or Mae would do. And then I do it.
I smile at Ian—a little wickedly, a little wantonly—as I close the space between us. Once we’re close, I make sure to brush my breasts against his biceps, my hip against his stomach. I walk my fingertips slowly, slowly, slowly, up his arm until I get to his hand. Then I reach for the half-empty bottle dangling from his fingertips.
I drink the water down in several long, slow sips, keeping my eyes locked on his the entire time. When the bottle is empty and my thirst is quenched, I shove it back into this hand and give him the look that’s graced dozens of magazine covers—and nearly as many movie posters.
“Thanks,” I tell him, reaching up to stroke a finger across his bottom lip. “I needed that.”
“Did you?” He looks more amused than dazzled, which definitely will not do.
“Absolutely. Photo shoots can be so tedious, after all.” I reach my hands into my hair and then up, over my head. Stretching, stretching, stretching. His eyes go to my breasts—of course they do—so I hold the pose for several, long seconds, letting him look his fill.
Eventually, I drop my arms back to my sides, let my hair tumble back down. And because I can feel an answering response inside of me, a visceral connection between him and me that simply isn’t acceptable, I tell him, “I’ve got a date tonight, so I’m going to head upstairs to get ready. The bathroom around the corner is fully stocked—feel free to shower before you let yourself out.”
Then, before he has a chance to say anything in response, I turn my back on him and saunter back across the kitchen as slowly and sexily as my still-shaking knees will allow. As I do, I wait for him to say something—to voice an objection. In the old movies, the men almost always voice an objection.
But Ian doesn’t say a thing. If it weren’t for the prickling of the fine hairs at the nape of my neck, I wouldn’t have a clue that he was even watching me walk away.
But the hairs are standing on end, and a shiver is working its way down my spine. So I put just a little bit extra into the show, making certain that my hair is brushing back and forth against my back and that my hips are swinging just the right amount.
I tell myself it’s because of the orgasms—that he deserves a good show. And if that’s not the whole truth, then no one needs to know. Not even me.
I almost make it to the door, am so close that I can almost taste the freedom. But then Ian’s grabbing my wrist. Yanking me backward. Yanking me around, so that my body is flush against his and he is all around me.
His hand is in my hair, his cock hard against my abdomen. And his mouth—his mouth is dark and hard and ravenous against my own.
There is no gentle seduction this time, no coaxing licks along my bottom lip or the corners of my mouth. No, this is a full-on sensory assault, a campaign meant to shock and awe…and devastate. And it works. My God, does it work.
I put my hands on his shoulders, meaning to fight him, to push him away. But the moment his tongue tangles with mine—the moment his fingers pull at my hair—I am lost. Drowning in sensation.
Drowning in him.
He pulls my lip between his teeth, bites down hard enough to have me crying out. That doesn’t stop him, though—but why would it, when I’m clutching at his shoulders, trembling against him, pulling him as close as I can get.
He feels so good, this feels so good, that for a moment I think about going another round. Think about hopping up on the counter and letting him fuck me one more time. Or, even better, dropping to my knees in front of him and taking him down my throat. Only the knowledge that doing so would be about supplication instead of control—surrender instead of dominance—keeps me on my feet.
Well, that and the fingers twisted tightly in my hair, the hand pressed solidly against my lower back. He is very definitely in control right now and he wants to make sure that I know it. More, that I remember it.
The knowledge makes me wet all over again and that—more than anything else—has fear slamming through me. It’s only amplified by the need unfurling deep inside of me, arousal and terror a double-edged sword I am suddenly desperate to escape. Desperate to protect myself from.
It’s what finally gives me the strength to shove him back—and to fix a half-amused, half-bored smirk on my face. “Thanks, but going back for seconds isn’t really my style,” I tell him, reaching up to pat his cheek. “Maybe you shouldn’t bother with that shower before showing yourself out.”
His eyes spark at my words even as his face goes blank, and I take both as my cue to leave. Forgetting the grand exit, forgetting the desire to leave a certain impression, forgetting everything but a driving need for survival, I force myself to walk steadily toward the nearest exit.
The second I’m out of his sight, though, I drop the slow, unconcerned act and start to run—through the halls and up the long, winding staircase to the second floor. I don’t stop until I’m safe on the third floor, in the Picasso room Ian had admired earlier. Despite the entire wing I have on the second floor, it’s the only room in the house I actually claim as mine.
Once there, I close the door firmly but quietly behind me. Lock it. Then slump against it and try desperately to catch my breath. And to put the last hour and a half into some kind of perspective.
Except there is no perspective to be had, not about what happened in the kitchen and not about Ian Sharpe.
I want it to be light, want it to be superficial—just the mutual scratching of an itch. But there was nothing superficial about Ian’s hands on my body, nothing light about the way he held and kissed and spanked and fucked me. And definitely nothing light, or superficial, about the way I let him.
The chill of the air-conditioning raises goosebumps on my skin and for the first time since I walked out of the kitchen it registers that I’m still naked. I walk to the closet with trembling legs, pull out the purple silk robe I keep here to wear when I’m getting ready for a party or some other public event that requires the use of this house. I shrug the robe on, tightly knot the sash. Then sink onto the perfectly made bed with the abstract, Picasso-esque duvet and try to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
It might be easier if I couldn’t still smell him on my skin, if I couldn’t still feel him in the tenderness between my thighs and the heat radiating from my well-spanked ass.
I still can’t believe he did that—still can’t believe I let him do that. I’ve spent my whole adult life determined to maintain control—over my career, over my relationships, over my body. I’ve worked so hard to make sure no man could ever wrest that control from me.
And now I just threw it all away. I turned control over to him like it was nothing, let him do whatever he wanted to me. And enjoyed every second of it.
I raise one trembling hand to my mouth. My lips are swollen, tender, and I probe at them gently, shocked at how sensitive they still are. I lick my tong
ue over them, suck my lower lip between my teeth and bite down gently in an effort to replace the feel of him. The taste of him.
But he still lingers—on my lips and now my tongue. Lemon and mint and rich, dark chocolate.
He tastes good, better than any man has a right to, and I rub my lips together in an effort to vanquish his taste. To obliterate it. But, like the bergamot and citrus smell of him, it clings to me. Refuses to be ignored.
Just like him.
The thought terrifies me—I’ve never met a man I couldn’t put in his place and then ignore—and the idea that he’s the first, that he’s somehow found his way inside of me despite my many many precautions…
I cut off the thought as soon as it enters my head, then stand up in a rush and head into the bathroom, where I turn the shower on. I shed my robe and step into the large, luxurious stall before the water has even warmed up, so determined to rinse Ian off of me that I barely even notice the cold.
I stand under the spray for long minutes, washing off the day. Washing off the makeup. Washing off the sex. Washing off the role I played nearly a year ago and the role I’ll probably play for the rest of my life.
I stand there trying to get clean so long that the water turns hot and then, eventually, cold again. So long that my skin prunes up. So long that I can almost forget what he smelled like, what he tasted like, what he felt like moving inside of me.
At least until I look down and see the bruises on my breasts, the love bites sucked into my skin by his demanding—domineering—mouth.
It’s the final straw in a day full of last straws and I shatter, the glue holding all the pieces of me together melting under the onslaught of the relentless spray of water, getting washed down the drain on the reckless trail of tears I don’t have the energy or the will to stop.
What am I going to do?
What am I going to do?
WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?
Though I’m alone, I shove my fist against my mouth in an effort to stifle the sobs I can’t hold back. And then I cry. I cry and cry and cry…for everything that I can’t change and everything that I won’t.
I give myself five minutes. Five minutes to sob. Five minutes to lose my shit completely. And then it’s done.
I rinse the tears from my face once and for all, then grab the shampoo and quickly lather up my hair. The water is freezing—that’s how long I’ve been in the shower—and now that I’m back in control, the ecological guilt is impossible to ignore. As is the chill. I rinse out the shampoo quickly, do the same routine with conditioner. Then—after a quick once-over with a loofah and some body wash—I turn the shower off.
I manage to avoid thinking for a good fifteen minutes as I dry off, put lotion on, get dressed. But when I’m finally done, when I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror applying makeup and drying my hair, I can’t ignore the mess I’ve made any longer.
Twice now I’ve gotten so overwhelmed by Ian that I’ve walked out of what is supposed to be the cover interview for next month’s Vanity Fair. Twice now I’ve run away before he could ask any of the questions that he needs to make the piece anywhere close to decent—questions that will not only further the magazine’s agenda but the one set forth by my agent, as well.
If we were dealing with a normal timetable, maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal—especially considering he’s at least partially responsible for today’s debacle. But we’re not—we’re already cutting this interview as close as we possibly can. Usually cover articles like this are done months in advance, but since Ian and I couldn’t get our schedules to sync up before this week, he’s got almost no time to turn the article in if it’s going to actually make it to print. The only reason Vanity Fair even gave us this leeway is they loved the idea of Ian—the man who finally uncovered the truth about the Belladonna murder after fifty years of lies—writing the story of the actress who plays her.
It’s a move guaranteed to sell a lot of magazines—and help set me up as a prime candidate going into awards season. The last thing I can afford to do is screw this up any more than I already have.
Which means, after everything, I’m going to have to see Ian again. I’m going to have to sit across from him and answer his questions, the whole time thinking about what happened between us. The whole time knowing that he’s thinking about the exact same thing.
Panic wells up inside of me, makes my head spin and my chest ache as it threatens to obliterate the calm I’ve worked so hard for over the last few minutes. As I blow out my unruly curls, taming my hair with the same ruthlessness I use to tame my emotions, I tell myself that it’s okay. That I can handle it. That I can do anything for a short while—even see Ian again.
It was just sex.
Just a biological function.
Just scratching an itch.
It’s no big deal, I tell myself as I straighten every last curl. Nothing I can’t handle. Nothing, even, to get worked up about. It was just sex and he’s just a man. And I know how to handle men—I’ve been doing it practically my whole life. What’s one more? What’s—
As the truth hits me, my brush clatters onto the counter and I sink onto the nearby vanity chair, my legs trembling so badly that I fear they won’t support me.
I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.
No matter how much I want to, no matter how important it is, there’s no way I can see him again. No way I can calmly answer his questions and pretend away what happened in that kitchen. Pretend away what he did to me—what I let him do to me. No, not let. Begged.
I all but begged him to take me like that and now I can barely face myself, let alone him.
I push myself up, ignoring the trembling in my knees that doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. I stumble into the bedroom, pick up the phone that sits on the nightstand. Then dial my agent’s number from memory.
His secretary answers on the first ring and as I wait for her to put me through, I take a few deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through—
“Veronica, hi!” Cole’s voice suddenly booms in my ear, breaking the silence and my concentration. “I was going to call you in a little bit, see how the shoot went. I talked to the magazine and they’re thrilled. Said you were brilliant as always, and that the preliminary photos are astonishing. How are you feeling about the shoot? The same way?”
“Yeah.” I take another deep breath, then let it out slowly to the count of ten. “The entire shoot was great, very easy comparatively. They did the whole thing with vintage clothes and it was pretty amazing.”
“I bet. I can totally see you as the femme fatale in some 1950s film noir. Is that the vibe they were going with?”
“In some of the photos, yes. But others were lighter, more playful. I think it’s a good mix.”
“I’ll be interested to see which direction they choose—and what photos they go with. Whatever fits best with the interview, I’d guess.” He pauses—for a breath probably, since, per usual, he’s been talking eight miles a minute since he got on the phone. “How’s that going, by the way? You like Ian Sharpe? He’s supposed to be a pretty decent guy to work with. I’ve met him a couple times and really liked him. In fact, I—”
“I want you to cancel the interview.” The words come out before I even know for sure that I’m going to say them.
There’s a long pause, then, “What do you mean, Veronica? Are you all right? Where are you?” He sounds concerned. Worried, even. Not that I blame him. I’ve been his client for well over a decade and in all that time, I’ve never asked him to cancel any kind of promo for me. I’ve always shown up, always done what I was supposed to do—until today.
“I’m fine. I just…it’s a lot, you know?”
“I do know. But that’s par for the course—you’re about to start the press junket for Belladonna. Things are only going to get more hectic from here.” There are a couple beats of silence and then, “Are you sick?”
I should say yes.
It would make sense to Cole, would get him off my back. But we made a promise many years ago—when it was just us against an industry that could destroy us both if we weren’t careful—that we would never lie to each other. As far as I know, we’ve both kept that pact and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to break it now. Not over a guy I’m never going to see again.
“I’m not sick.”
“Then what’s going on, Veronica? I know for a fact that this is one of the few interviews you were looking forward to—you’ve been wanting to meet Ian Sharpe for months. So what’s changed? Did he hit on you? Did he—”
“I don’t like him,” I interrupt before he can list any other suggestions and maybe, God forbid, hit on exactly what did happen. “We’ve met twice and neither time has been exactly pleasant. I know he doesn’t have all the information he needs but he can either write the article with the info he does have or Vanity Fair can scrap the article. At this point I don’t really care which. But I will not meet with him again. Do you understand?”
Again there’s a shocked silence from Cole’s end of the phone and if I wasn’t so freaked out about seeing Ian again, I’d probably relent. But there’s no way I’m letting him poke around in my head again, no way I’m giving him a chance to ask more of his deep, probing questions—especially considering all the new ammunition I gave him today. No way in hell.
I’m the biggest sex symbol in Hollywood right now and with that status comes full diva privileges. Just because I’ve never used them before doesn’t mean I don’t know how. I learned from the best, after all.
“Call his people, tell them I’m sick. Tell them I’m busy. Tell them I’d rather go parachuting in hell before meeting with him again—I don’t care what you tell him. But I’m done, and so is his interview with me. Understand?”
“I do. Absolutely. And I’ll take care of it.” Cole clears his throat and I can all but see the wheels turning in his head. “Are you sure you’re all right? Did something happen…did he…”