Lovegame(31)

“You didn’t tell me that.”

I snort. “What exactly was I supposed to say? That she went all diva on me the second I asked a question deeper than who her favorite designer is?”

There’s a long pause. Then, “Were you pushing her? Because maybe—”

“I wasn’t pushing her. I hadn’t even brought him up. I was asking questions for the article—not even hard questions, if I’m being honest—and she totally shut down. It’s the same thing she’s doing now and I’m not putting up with it.”

“What about yesterday? You were at her house all day, right? Surely you got something you can use.”

“She was doing a photo shoot all day. I got no time with her at all until the very end of the day.”

“Okay.” Mitch draws the word out, and the fact that his South Carolina accent has become pronounced says everything about how confused—and concerned—he is by my reaction. “So what happened then?”

Images of Veronica flash through my mind at the question.

Stripping down.

Spread-eagled on the table, hands pinned above her head.

On her knees, pushing her ass against my cock as she begs me to f*ck her.

Crying out as she comes around my dick…then kicking me out of her house twenty minutes later.

And now, apparently, being completely unprofessional and refusing to see me again. Seems like she really meant it when she said she doesn’t go back for seconds.

“Ian?” Mitch prompts. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Oh, about a million or two things at this point. But what am I supposed to say to him? That Veronica let me f*ck her brains out on her kitchen table? That it was darker and more intense than either of us had anticipated? That it shook me up, so it probably shook her up, too? And that now she’s screwing me over in order to take back the control she feels like she lost when we were together?

Mitch would have apoplexy if I told him any of that, especially considering how important this interview with Veronica is to my career. Not the Vanity Fair piece—that’s just an ego stroke and we both know it. No, this interview is important because I have questions and, after seeing that photograph in her parents’ room, I’m more certain than ever that she’s the only one who has the answers.

Which means she’s just going to have to get the hell over what we did on that kitchen table yesterday. If her ego’s bruised, I can stroke it. And if it’s just her ass that’s bruised…well, I’m more than happy to stroke that, too. Because I didn’t come all this way and agree to do this Vanity Fair piece just to come up empty now that the answers are right here in my grasp.

“I’ll take care of it,” I tell him, already grabbing my boots from the corner of my hotel suite and shoving my feet into them.

“Hey, wait. What does that mean exactly?” For the first time, Mitch sounds wary. He obviously knows me as well as he thinks he does.

“It means she’s going to talk to me whether she wants to or not.” I grab my wallet and keys from the dresser.

“Okay, look, let’s not do anything crazy here, man. I can call her agent back, see about getting a short meet over coffee. I don’t want to get Vanity Fair involved, because the last thing we want is for them to yank the story from you. But that means we don’t want her to call them, either. You’ve worked too long and hard on the book to just—”

“Believe me, I am well aware of that fact. Don’t worry. I’ve got this—”

“You don’t have this. You—”

I hit end call, shove the phone in my pocket. Then I’m slamming out of the room, taking the stairs three at a time because I’m too impatient to wait for the elevator. Thankfully, the valet isn’t busy and it’s only a couple of minutes’ wait before I’m cruising toward Burbank and Warner Bros. studios.

When we had originally been trying to come up with a time to meet, either Veronica or her agent had mentioned that she was filming at Warner Bros. for the next few weeks, before taking time off to do the international press junket for Belladonna. And since I have no idea where she lives except that it isn’t in the house she claims publicly as hers, catching her at work is my best bet. With my Vanity Fair press pass and other credentials, I’m pretty sure I can talk my way on set.

Half an hour later, I’ve done just that—turns out the security guard at the main gate is a big fan of both my books and Veronica Romero. He nearly jumped out of his skin with excitement when we were talking about Belladonna coming out, so a flash of my Vanity Fair credentials was pretty much all it took to convince him to let me through—and to direct me to the soundstage where Veronica’s new movie is shooting.

From what I understand, it’s some big-budget action-blockbuster remake, about as far from Belladonna as she could get. At least until you realize that she’s playing the role of the action hero and not the damsel in distress. It’s a big risk for a studio to take—hanging an entire action franchise on a female lead—but if there’s a woman in Hollywood right now who has the credibility and the audience to make it a success, it’s Veronica.

When I get to the right soundstage, the light is on signaling that they’re filming inside. The writer in me is a little disappointed—I’d like a chance to see her act, to see her immerse herself in a character just to see if I can spot the difference. If there even is a difference. I’m beginning to think that everything she does, everything she says, is an act. And that the only time I’ve ever seen the real Veronica was when she was coming apart on my dick.