Lovegame(55)

“Let’s go into my office, shall we?”

It’s actually my office, just like this is my house. But again, I’m not going to remind her of that fact—I would like to escape this little chitchat with my life and more importantly, my afternoon schedule, intact. If I distract her with petty details like the fact that I saved her ass by buying the house for thirty million dollars after she blew through most of the money Dad had left her, she’d be in tears and I’d be stuck here for hours comforting her. And owning up for the eight hundredth time to what a terrible, horrible, no-good daughter I am.

No, I definitely don’t have time for that today.

Still, I gird myself for the hard sell. And sure enough, as soon as the office door is closed behind us, she turns to me, her blue eyes wide and guileless. It’s the first clue that I need to watch my back. One of my earliest lessons when growing up in this house is that my mom only goes for the innocent look when she’s planning on drawing blood.

“Wearing that dress tonight would be a mistake you can’t afford to make,” she tells me as she drapes the dress in question over the arm of the closest sofa.

So much for her concern over my nonexistent allergies. “It’s a dress, not national security, Mom. Even if it is a mistake—which it isn’t—I’m sure it will all work out.”

She sighs, all long-suffering and put-upon. “Veronica, darling, do you know how many photographers are going to be at this party tonight?”

“None, since I haven’t called any? And because security knows to keep the paps on the other side of the gates.” It’s my turn to smile and bat my eyelashes at her. “I want this party to be just perfect for you, Mom.”

“Oh, I know you do.” Sentimental tears bloom in eyes the exact same shape, but two shades lighter, than mine. “But I didn’t see the harm in letting a few in to take pictures, so I called a couple magazines and gave them a heads-up. Then I gave their reporters’ names to the gate, so they know to let them in.”

Of course she did. Of f*cking course she did. Why I would expect anything else from her, I don’t have a clue. This is the woman, after all, who used her longtime husband’s funeral as a photo op…and his death as a chance to revive her career.

“You know I don’t like photographers in the house, Mom.”

“That’s ridiculous. You just had a photographer in here a couple days ago.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “That was for an actual magazine shoot. Not quite the same thing.” She knows it, too. She’s just being difficult.

“Maybe,” she allows, “but that doesn’t make it any more important than tonight. Magazine covers and pap photos serve two very different purposes—especially when those pap photos show you hosting one of the most elite gatherings of the year. Exposure of both kinds is necessary if you want to look like a contender moving into awards season.”

“I’m not catering to the paps in order to get nominations. Either they like my performance in Belladonna or they don’t.”

The look she gives me is both mocking and faintly pitying at the same time. “Tell me you don’t actually believe that. Your father and I taught you so much better than that.”

There’s no denying they taught me a lot, but better? That’s a stretch, even for her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she continues when I don’t immediately jump at her words of wisdom. “You might not always agree with the decisions your father and I made with regards to you, but you’ve got to admit we always had your best interests at heart. And it obviously worked.” She waves a hand, encompassing me from head to toe. “Just look at where you are now.”

The irony in that statement baffles me…as does the self-delusion, considering most days I work really hard not to look at myself, really hard not to think about where I am or what had to be given up for me to get here.

Suddenly I’m thinking about Ian, about that whole bizarre scene in his hotel room today. I don’t know why, considering it’s not like I had him for more than a couple nights of entertainment—and not like I was the one to give him up anyway. No, he’s the one who made it very clear this morning that he didn’t want me in his hotel room. Which…fine. I mean, two nights ago I did pretty much the exact same thing to him. Just because mine had been motivated by fear—fear that I’d let him see too much, fear that I’d given too much of myself over to him—doesn’t mean he has to feel the same way.

When I walked out this morning, I swore that I wasn’t going to dwell on it. Wasn’t going to think about him or what happened or just how much of myself I’d given over to him last night during that ridiculous game.

The fact that I’m breaking that vow now irritates me. And only makes me more determined to show him—show the both of us—that I don’t care about him or about what happened between us. I’ve had enough practice that I could probably get that across while dressed in a burlap sack, but I’m honest enough with myself to admit that that Versace dress will make it a lot more fun.

“So what exactly is wrong with the dress, Mom?” I ask her as I pick it up off the couch and hang it on the antique coat rack next to the door.

“Nothing, if you’re going to an awards ceremony—after having already been nominated. Those are the times you want to push the boundaries, to show off your spectacular looks. But not now, not when Belladonna is going to open and nominations are just around the corner. This isn’t the time for sexy.”