Lovegame(5)

This time when she laughs, it sounds nothing like tinkling bells and everything like high-end sex. I try not to respond, but it’s pretty hard not to notice the way the sound goes straight to my cock like it was designed specifically to get me hard.

“Nothing about this business is safe,” she tells me. “I thought you’d be the last person I’d have to explain that to.”

“All that money, all those bodyguards, and you still don’t feel secure?” It’s a direct salvo, one that hits the mark judging from the way her shoulders tense and the dimple disappears completely. For a moment I mourn its loss, but then I’m too caught up in her transformation to think about anything else.

“Silly, Ian,” she all but purrs as she lightly traces one dark purple fingernail across the back of my hand. She’s dripping sensuality now, wearing her sex appeal like Perrault’s wolf wears its teeth and claws. “In this town, it’s not bodyguards that keep you safe.”

Her fingertip is gliding over the inside of my wrist now, stroking back and forth in a rhythm that takes my dick from semi-aroused to fully hard in seconds. Then again, maybe that’s the way she’s looking at me, eyes hooded, lips wet and parted, cheeks just a little bit flushed.

“So, what does?” I have to clear my throat twice before I can get the question out.

It’s her turn to lift a brow. “I would think that was obvious.” Then she’s sucking her lower lip between her teeth, biting down oh-so gently. Her breath hitches just a little and—f*ck—so does mine, though I know exactly what she’s doing. Turns out being forewarned doesn’t always mean forearmed. “I keep myself safe.”

“Touché.” I make a concerted effort to keep my voice—and my hand—steady, even as desire pure, unadulterated lust sweeps through me. I ignore it, concentrating instead on the list of questions that I have memorized. “Before we were sidetracked, we were talking about your tendency toward improvisation—”

“But you already got your question,” she tells me, cutting me off. “Several questions, in fact. Now it’s my turn.”

I could push, considering she’s given me a non-answer to pretty much everything I’ve asked her so far. But she’s not the only one who knows how to play games at this table. “Ask away,” I answer, smiling broadly. “I’m an open book.”

“Why do people always say that like it’s a good thing?” she asks, and if possible, her voice is even huskier—even sexier—than it was just a few minutes ago. “An open book only shows you two random pages in the middle of the action. How is that supposed to tell you everything you want to know?”

“I guess that depends on the pages, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps it does at that.” She looks me over, her eyes lingering on my mouth, my chest, my hands. “What two pages are you going to use to portray me?”

“Whichever two you show me.”

She smiles at that and this time it is the man-slayer she’s so famous for. Her hand is at her throat, her fingers deliberately toying with the amethyst pendant that rests just between her breasts.

“That is exactly what I hoped you’d say.”

I try to ignore the sudden sensation of bite marks on my ass, but it’s not easy. Especially when it hits me that I’ve just lost the first battle of whatever game we’re playing.





Chapter 2


There’s a knock on the door, followed by a young, female voice calling, “We’re ready anytime you are, Ms. Romero.”

“Thanks, Juliet,” I call back, hoping that I get her name right. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Take your time,” she answers after a brief hesitation that tells me no, I did not get her name right. Damn. There are so many photo shoots in my life, so many eager, young assistants waiting for their big break, that I have trouble keeping track of all the names.

Faces, I remember forever. But names…names are harder. Most days I’m lucky if I remember my own. Then again, if I don’t, there’s always someone around to remind me.

Still, I’ll have to ask somebody else what her name is and make a point of apologizing. No one deserves to feel like their identity doesn’t matter. Especially in this business where there’s always someone waiting around to remind you of just how unimportant who you are really is.

I go to put my tablet in my bag, and as I do I catch a glimpse of myself in the huge, full-length mirror that takes up nearly one whole wall of this room nobody ever uses. I freeze for a second—for several seconds—then bend over slightly and brace my hands on my thighs as I try desperately to catch my breath.

Try desperately to fight back this latest iteration of the panic attacks that are becoming more and more common.

Breathe in through the nose, I tell myself a little frantically. Hold it for seven counts then out through the mouth.

In through the nose, hold for seven, out through the mouth.

I do this several times, all with my eyes closed. All with my brain focused on the words, on the actions, on anything and everything but what set the attack off in the first place.

It’s enough to have my hands stop shaking and my heartbeat slowing down. Thank God. The last thing I need is anyone on the shoot gossiping about how Veronica Romero is losing it. My agent would kill me—even if it were true. Most particularly, if it were true. I’m not allowed to do that in public. Not allowed to do anything in public, really, except smile and sign autographs.