Lovegame(63)
I tied her to the bed. Spanked her. Bruised her. And I then I kicked her out without so much as thanking her for sharing herself with me, all because I couldn’t stand to look at the evidence of what I’d done. To her and to myself.
My breathing is ragged, my heart beating way too fast. Once again, I think how easy it would be to self-destruct, how easy to say to hell with everything and just give in to the rage. But I can’t do that. Not now, when I don’t even know if she’s really okay.
Very carefully, I set the cup back on the counter behind me. I look around the room, at the mess I’ve made and the destruction I’ve caused. And tell myself this whole thing is just a small lapse, just a small price to pay when it could have been so much worse.
I’m good enough at lying to myself that by the time I step into the shower five minutes later, I almost believe it.
Chapter 18
I’m in the middle of a toast to my mother when he walks into the black-and-silver bedecked ballroom where I’m hosting my mother’s birthday celebration.
It’s awkward timing considering everyone at the party is watching me and all I can do is watch him. It’s hard not to, when he’s dressed in a gorgeous blue Tom Ford suit that shows off his long, lean body to perfection even as it makes his eyes look impossibly dark. And warm, so warm that I swear I’m starting to sweat as he looks at me across the crowded ballroom.
Though my words haven’t faltered, people are beginning to notice my preoccupation. I pull my gaze away just as a few start to turn to look, and force myself to stay relaxed and engaging as I tell the last of the jokes I’d planned. Then, with a smile I’m suddenly far from feeling, I finish with a lift of my glass and a heartfelt, “Happy Birthday to the most beautiful woman I know. You don’t look a day over forty, Mom.”
She laughs and gives her head a small, self-deprecating shake as everyone around us smiles in good-natured agreement. And while forty might be a little bit of a stretch for a woman who has now turned fifty seven times, it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility. She does look good, really good.
Of course, I would have preferred to end the toast with something about who she is rather than what she looks like, but my mother—the woman who will probably still be “fifty” when she’s actually seventy—would kill me. Staying young is pretty much a religion for her. Then again, that’s nothing new in this town where ninety-five percent of the people I associate with feel exactly the same way.
Once everyone has clapped, I step down from the stage so the DJ I hired for the night can resume the music. The first thing I do when I’m no longer the center of attention is to down my glass of champagne in one long swallow. It’s my second of the night, and though I vowed to keep all my wits about me tonight—with everything that’s happened I feel like I need to—I can’t help wanting another. Especially when Ian’s melted chocolate gaze snags mine and refuses to relinquish its hold.
Or maybe it’s me who refuses to look away—at this point, I just don’t know. All I do know is that he’s heading straight for me, the crowd between us parting like so much seafoam as he cuts a path through them.
Who does he see? I wonder as I decide to hell with it and grab another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. When he looks at me right now, does he see me? Or does he see her? The Belladonna? Not for the first time since I found the gown my mother selected for me waiting in my room—a gown that bears a marked resemblance to one I wore as the Belladonna—I regret agreeing to let her dress me. Especially since I still don’t know how I want to handle this meeting after the way we left things this morning. I wanted to be armored when I saw him again, but instead—dressed like this—I just feel vulnerable.
Not that I’m going to let him see that. Because if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that when I make a man suffer, I want to be certain it’s me he’s suffering for—not some character he invented or some woman whose head he lived in for far too long. Ian spent months trying to figure out who Celeste Warren was, how she thought, what she was capable of. And now, here I am, looking just like her. Again.
For the first time, I feel an ounce of sympathy for him. If he’s half as messed up by all of this as I am, is it any wonder that things have gotten so messy between us?
He’s almost on me—I’m bracing myself for having to speak to him, trying to figure out the best way to handle him considering everything that’s passed between us in the four days we’ve known each other—when Damon Brooks, my own personal hero, swoops in and asks me to dance.
One of the most famous actors in Hollywood—in the world, actually—he and I have been close friends since we starred together in a teen movie well over a decade ago. I was the young ingénue with a heart of gold and he was the rich bad boy out to seduce me. Only the tables turned halfway through the film and the predator became the prey…and vice versa. The movie did well, quickly becoming a cult classic, and our trajectories in Hollywood were set.
He’s the golden boy and I’m the cunning seductress. It’s a role whose restrictions I may chafe against every once in a while, but it’s a million times better than playing the victim.
I should turn him down. Ian is closing in and the look on his face warns me not to move. But I’ve never been very good at doing what I’m told, so I do accept, taking Damon’s hand with a smile and allowing him to sweep me onto the dance floor.