Lovegame(64)

It’s a fun song, not too fast and not too slow, and Damon is a great dancer—one of those men who makes it easy for his partner to follow wherever he leads. Add to that the fact that he’s one of the few people in this town that I genuinely trust, and I couldn’t have asked for a better savior.

He spins me out a couple of times, then pulls me close as the music segues into a slower beat. “How are you?” he asks, dipping me before I can answer.

“I’m good,” I answer once I’m upright again. “How are you? And what are these rumors I keep hearing about you and some new starlet whose name nobody can remember?”

He grins. “Amber’s great. Give her a year or so and everyone will know her name.” He snaps me out, then pulls me in again, fast.

“You once said the same about me.” I turn with him, let him sweep me around the whole back half of the dance floor. People are starting to notice, starting to watch all the fancy moves he’s pulling for both of us. With anyone else I’d be anxious, partly because of the not being in control thing and partly because of the trust thing. But Damon’s helped guide me through the shark-infested waters of Hollywood for years now—one dance is nothing, no matter how flashy it is.

“I did. And look how well that turned out.”

“Does it count when I had a head start?”

“Famous offspring isn’t the same as world-renowned actress. I figured if anyone would know that, you would.”

I do know it. I do. It’s just that sometimes it’s easy to forget when you’re free-falling down the rabbit hole.

He dips me again, and as we go down I can see him searching my face, my eyes, looking for I don’t know what. But when he pulls me up again, the grin is gone from his face and his eyes are serious. “You okay, Roni?”

He’s the only one I let call me that. “Yeah, of course.” I clear my throat, nearly choke on the lie. “Just busy. You know how it is.”

He nods, but his eyes are still searching mine as he pulls me closer into the shelter of his body. Then he’s moving us until we’re in the corner of the dance floor, no more fancy steps, no more showing off. Instead, he turns me so that I’m facing the wall, away from any prying eyes—including Ian’s. Not that it matters. I don’t have to see him to be able to feel his eyes on me.

But Damon is oblivious to everything but me, his face concerned as he says, “Tell me.”

I shake my head. “Not now.”

“Is it a guy?” His eyes narrow. “Is he here?”

I don’t know how to answer that. Because Ian’s a part of it—of course he is—but compared to the garden and the bathtub and the fact that I’m desperately afraid I’m going insane—being kicked out of his hotel room this morning seems pretty minor.

“It’s not a guy,” I finally say, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

The fact that the song ends and Ian chooses that moment to slide a hand around my waist and ask, “Can I cut in?” certainly doesn’t strengthen my case.

Damon’s eyes dart from my face to Ian’s and I can see him trying to figure out what’s between us—and whether or not I want him to relinquish his hold on me. But before I can say something one way or the other, before either of us can even acknowledge the question, Ian is tugging me out of Damon’s arms and into his.

I stiffen instinctively, but I don’t try to pull away. Partly because I’m pretty sure he won’t let me go until he’s good and ready and partly because I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how confused and messed up I currently am.

Damon moves as if to intervene, but Ian shoots him a look that freezes him in place. It’s pretty impressive, considering I’ve never seen Damon back down from anyone. What’s even more impressive is that Ian doesn’t whirl me away. Instead, he chooses to stay right where we are, an obvious f*ck-you to Damon if I’ve ever seen one.

I should do something, say something, but it’s like my brain stopped working the second he touched me. The idea terrifies me considering how hard I have to work to stay even half a step in front of him.

“You look beautiful,” he tells me as he pulls me close. “Your dress is very evocative.”

His hand is just a little too low on my back, his fingers just a little too possessive where they curl around my hip. I do my best to ignore it, just as I ignore the soreness between my thighs and the too-rapid beating of my heart. Instead, I concentrate on keeping my voice steady as I answer, “My mother picked it out. She thinks I need to try out a more serious look if Belladonna is going to be an Oscar contender.”

“It can’t hurt,” he agrees as we rock back and forth to the slow, sultry sound of Natalie Cole’s “Unforgettable.” “But the nomination is yours. I’ve seen the rushes—you’re brilliant as the Belladonna. An absolute natural.”

I know he means it as a compliment, but I can’t take it that way. Not today. Not right now. Still, I try to be gracious, try to say thank you. But the words stick in my throat.

He moves us a little away from Damon, and out of the corner of my eye I can see my old friend watching us. I should reassure him, should let him know that I’m totally fine with dancing with Ian, but he knows me well enough that he’d see right through me if I tried.