Lovegame(4)

“I’m more than happy to be the one who says it,” I answer with complete sincerity. “The emotion you brought to the Belladonna was breathtaking, and somehow totally authentic despite the subject matter.”

“It was a brilliant role. Thank you for writing it.”

“All I did was write the book. Derek James wrote the screenplay. And you brought her to life.”

She shakes her head at me, tsk-tsks a little. “False modesty is so unbecoming. It’s one of the first lessons they teach you in Hollywood. Is it not the same in New York?”

“False modesty? Yes. But a writer had better be modest if he wants to be any good. Especially a non-fiction writer.”

“Why non-fiction specifically?”

“I think you know the answer to that question better than anyone. Because it’s never about me. It’s always about them. Isn’t it the same for you?”

“I’m not known for my modesty,” she says with a laugh. “Just ask my ex-lovers.”

“I don’t need to ask anyone. I’ve seen you act.”

“What does that mean?” For the first time, she looks wary.

“It means you become every character you play. From the ingénue to the queen to the—”

“Sociopath?”

“I was going to say savior, but yes. There are times in the footage I’ve seen that I can’t distinguish you from her. And I spent hours, days, interviewing her.”

“That’s quite a compliment.” And yet her voice says it’s anything but.

“It was meant to be,” I try to soothe. “What’s it like, being so talented that you can be anyone you choose?”

“I think that’s a question I should be asking you. You’ve written books on two serial killers, one mass murderer, and two of the most notorious unsolved murder cases of the last century. To write the way you do, you have to get inside the murderer and his victims. The same goes with the profiling you did early on in your career. What does that feel like?”

Like I’m balancing on the edge of an abyss, waiting to fall in.

Like I’m sinking in quicksand with no hope of ever being pulled out.

Like I’m drowning.

“Disturbing. Fascinating. Sometimes sad.”

She tilts her head in acknowledgment. “Exactly.”

I hope not. For her sake, I really hope not.

Before I can say anything else, our lunch is delivered. She smiles at the waiter as he slides her salad in front of her and he gets so flustered that I nearly end up wearing my hamburger and fries. She pretends not to notice.

Once our food is delivered, our water refilled, and extra napkins placed in a position of honor on the table, there’s no other reason for the waiter to hang around, much to his dismay and my amusement.

I give her a couple minutes to eat undisturbed before diving back in. “So what’s that like?”

“What?”

“Men falling all over you everywhere you go.”

She could pretend she doesn’t know what I’m talking about—just like she pretended not to notice how flustered our waiter was. But she doesn’t. Instead she turns the tables. “What do you think it’s like?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

She gives me a slow, thorough once-over. “I’m pretty sure women must fall all over you—”

“When are you going to stop deflecting and actually answer what I ask you?”

She freezes. “Excuse me?”

“I’m here to interview you and the last few questions I’ve asked, you’ve thrown back in my lap. I already know what I think—I’d like your thoughts or this article is going to end up being an autobiography.”

“That’s not a bad idea. I’d read your autobiography in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah, well, you’d be the only one.” I take a bite of my burger, give her a minute to figure out that she’s not going to be able to charm her way out of this one. Then I ask again, “So, what is it like?”

Her shoulders tense, and suddenly it’s like a switch flips inside of her. Gone is the friendliness of the last fifteen minutes and in its place…in its place is something else entirely. “Being attractive?”

I shoot her a look that tells her to knock off the bullshit. “Being Maxim’s sexiest woman alive seven of the last ten years. Topping Esquire magazine’s sexiest list. Making People’s Most Beautiful list every year for the last decade. Being number one on IMDB’s top one hundred sexiest actresses of all time.” I pause, take a very deliberate sip of my water. “Should I keep going?”

“No. I think I get it.” Her voice is about ten degrees cooler than it was and as she purses her lips, narrows her eyes, I’m reminded of a children’s fairy tale. The better to see—hear—eat—you with, my darling. “It feels exactly like you’d expect it to feel.”

The whole thing is very definitely a warning to lay off this line of questioning, but all it does is intrigue me. And solidify my belief that Veronica Romero would play the hell out of the big, bad wolf.

Too bad I’m not cut out for the role of Little Red.

“Gratifying?” I ask. “Claustrophobic? Unsafe?”