Amy wandered to the window where she got the best cell reception in the house and stared across the street at the forty-foot high palm trees in desperate need of trimming. She’d heard rats made nests in them when they weren’t cared for. This was the sketchier side of Westwood, and no one in this part of town would be grooming the palm trees. The neighborhood, like the tiny three-bedroom house, was run down but affordable and relatively safe. It was the kind of area that rented month-to-month houses and ugly garden apartments without pools, a temporary home for veteran skaters like her, Kyle, and Allyson between stints on the road. Not the kind of place Astors inhabited, but then she hadn’t been an Astor since she’d left that world behind at seventeen.
She’d been dreading making this call. Would he complain about how sore he was? He’d earned her begrudging respect after that skating lesson yesterday, but if she pushed him too hard, he’d injure himself. Then it would be good-bye twenty-thousand dollars and the end of her chance to be spotted before Enchanted made up their mind about casting. She’d tell him practice was canceled and suggest meeting for coffee in Brentwood—somewhere trendy where they could be seen together. This was what Kyle had been leaning on her to do. She’d tried explaining their mutual dislike to him, to no avail. “If you want Enchanted, Amy, generate some interest, the clock is ticking,” he’d said.
He answered on the first ring, his husky baritone sending a tingle down her spine.
“Hey, Shane. Listen, the rink is tied up with an event tonight. Some scheduling snafu. Frank was very apologetic. We’ll pick it up again tomorrow, okay?” Amy pressed the phone against her ear with her shoulder.
“No problem. Uh . . . would you want to grab a drink or something?” he said.
She hesitated. “I guess.” He’d beaten her to it. Why?
“Spoke?” Shane said.
“Spoke?” she echoed. Not exactly a low profile place. Or so she’d heard. She didn’t frequent ultra-hip rooftop terrace bars with fire pits and pools where a martini cost twice as much as her standard meal out.
“I’ll pick you up. How does six work for you?”
“Fine, but aren’t you concerned about . . . well, about people figuring it out?”
“Nah. My agent’s already put it out there that I’m a skater. It can’t hurt for the producers to think I’m good enough for your august company.”
“We’re still keeping quiet about our training?”
“Yeah.” There was a long pause. “I’m up for a role, and they think I know how to ice skate. It’s not a complete lie anymore. I figure since we had the time booked, I’d like to get to know you. I really appreciate your help and I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he said, smoothly.
She hung up the phone. Spoke would be the perfect place. Was he sincere about appreciating her help? She could not bring herself to like him. Initially she had wanted to keep her distance, especially given his reputation as a womanizer. The looks he gave her body could melt ice, but he wasn’t flirtatious. Far from it. Chilly professionalism best described their relationship since that first meeting.
She rifled through her closet, looking for that right combination. Here was an opportunity to dress the Amelia Astor part and hope someone noticed them at Spoke. And that someone at Enchanted was paying attention, too. Unfortunately, she didn’t have anything appropriately trendy enough for Spoke. But Allyson, her roommate, would and when it came to clothing, Allyson pulled out all the stops.
He roared up in a sports car—a red convertible one this time and only ten minutes late. She climbed in the beige leather passenger’s seat and caught his wary look. “What?”
“Used to seeing you in workout attire.”
She shrugged. “You should see me in full makeup and princess regalia.”
They made small talk about the latest Lee Child thriller and argued good-naturedly about casting decisions made for the movie. Twenty minutes later, Shane pulled alongside the curb of an art deco building in Santa Monica. He gave the car keys to a valet and came around to help her out of the car. They took the elevator to the rooftop, and with a nod at the sentry, they passed through the final door to the patio. It was just past seven and the sky was still bright, so they found seating on a couch near a fire pit in a little cabana area complete with tied back curtains. What did people do up here that warranted closing the curtains? Drugs? Sex?
She sat on the plush, black cushion, skirmishing with her hem for the millionth time. She never would have borrowed Allyson’s stupid dress if she’d know she’d be battling exposure every time she sat down. The ridiculous strapless thing that looked so cute on a hanger had to be either tugged up to keep her breasts covered or pulled down to keep her booty covered—but was incapable of handling both jobs simultaneously. Clearly it was not designed for someone with breasts, hips, or a skater’s full butt. She draped her wrap over her bag, tempted to use it to cover her legs, as Shane’s gaze drifted over her body again.
A waitress with a gleaming smile and a very short, navy skirt came over to take their order. Shane gave her the once over, too, and he must’ve liked what he saw because he went from distant to flirtatious in two heartbeats. He chatted with her about Spoke, and when she leaned over to point to a few items on the drink menu, Shane appeared more interested in what was coming out of her top than in the leather bound booklet. Amy watched, disgusted.
She must have been a little too obvious because the waitress cast a couple of nervous glances in her direction.
Amy hid her irritation with a frozen smile.
When the woman walked away, Shane commented, “So, something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I know you’ve probably been asked this before . . . ”
Only a million freakin’ times.
“Why did you leave competition? You were at the top of the skating world when you quit—”
“Why did you leave music for acting?”
Shane shifted on the couch, met her eyes, and shrugged.
She shrugged in return. If she didn’t need to be seen with him, she would’ve ditched him over the heavy eye contact and ogling the waitress. What kind of guy did that when out with another woman?
He’d earned a bit of respect completing her two-and-a-half-hour skating torture the other night, but knowing him, that determination was a character flaw, too—she could add stubborn and unreasonable to her litany of complaints.
She’d developed an unhealthy fascination with Shane Marx. After her first lesson she’d dug up all there was to know about the guy—that he’d been with TruAchord for five years, until the band disintegrated thanks to infighting, rehab, and egos. Some of the band members had dropped off the face of the earth, a few had gone on to do television or commercials. Shane, with his looks, had walked from one successful venture directly into another: Hollywood, with barely a misstep. That is, until the last few years, when the stories had started to come out. Vengeful ex-girlfriends who went public about infidelities, difficulties with female co-stars and crew, naked photos.
“Acting was a natural progression. Leaving a sport where you are nationally ranked on your way to Olympic glory for an ice show is whacked,” he said when she continued to ignore him.
He had no tact, not one shred.
Most thought it. No one ever said it to her face.
“Maybe the circuit was whacked?” Or my life on the circuit.
He lifted his brows. “And the shows aren’t?”
She met his gaze, those blue eyes that missed little, a stare that had graced the covers of any number of entertainment magazines in the last decade. She hadn’t made the mistake of underestimating his intelligence or his drive. Clearly he had both in spades. She still didn’t have any clue why he’d invited her out, but it wasn’t about gratitude or interest, considering all the heavy innuendo with the damn waitress.
The woman came back, caught Amy’s stink eye, dropped off the drinks, and departed hastily.
“Not Enchanted. Others, maybe.”
“I’m sorry, what?” he said absently as he watched the waitress hustle away.
God! What an asshole.
She sucked down most of her drink in two swallows and examined the glass. That was a damned good martini. It made her regret her two-martini limit.
He turned back to face her, giving her his attention. “Why are you still doing it—the princess thing? Hasn’t it gotten old?”
“No. And it’s not like I have a gazillion career options.”
“Why not coach?”
She set her glass carefully on the table, her head swimming. That was a strong drink on an empty stomach. She needed to eat, stat, before she got really loopy. She glanced around for the waitress, knowing they’d be lucky to get her back.
“Another?” He raised an eyebrow at her glass.
“An appetizer would be good about now.”
He handed her the sheet of paper listing specials. She selected a sushi entrée, Shane flagged the woman down, and ordered food and another round.
“So, no coaching?”
Amy narrowed her eyes and shook her head. Would he just drop it already?
“Why not? Seems like something retired skaters do.”
Retired. She stifled a shudder, put her shoulders back, and re-crossed her legs. “I’m not ready to retire.”
“When do you go back out on the road?” Shane turned toward her and laid an arm on the back of the couch, his fingers close enough to brush her hair. Faded denim stretched tightly across his muscular thighs. She dragged her gaze from his lap to meet his knowing smile.
Amy smoothed her hair out of her face, the material across her breasts slipping until her nipples were nearly exposed. She sat on her hands to prevent herself from yanking it up. A hungry expression wiped the half smile from his face and darkened his eyes to navy.
Do I have your attention now?
“Not sure,” she mumbled. Now that she had his interest, she wasn’t sure she wanted it. All that intensity channeled into lust was highly arousing. Her hormones were raging and his body . . . that stupid, fucking picture she’d looked at, then looked at again.
That had been a mistake. The damn image popped into her head when they were skating, talking, last thing at night, first thing in the morning. Days they trained, days they didn’t. Is this what guys went through when they met a Playmate? Did they have trouble focusing or were they continually thinking about what the other person looked like unclothed?
Was it really him? What she wouldn’t give to know that story.
She couldn’t remember a time when she’d wanted a guy so desperately. Wanted to rip off his clothes and lick him from head to toe.
It was confusing to be hot for someone she couldn’t stand.
“Have you been picked up for this season?” he was saying.
Amy glanced around the quiet terrace. “Hmmm?” she said, with studied casualness. “Picked up? It’s not like the NFL draft. I’ve been a principal with them for years.”
He watched her intently, eyebrows raised, not buying it. “They haven’t signed you though, have they?”
“They will,” she said, giving her hair another toss. After being seen with Shane Marx. A photo or two splashed on the Internet, a renewed interest in her past would be all it took to have Enchanted begging her to re-sign for another season. They could use the press. Ticket sales had dropped off in the last few years, but the Olympics weren’t far off and someone always rehashed her story around that time—this was the first year she’d be grateful for it.
He gave a shout of laughter and she frowned at him.
“What?” she said.
“Am I being played here?”
“I’m not going to try to take naked photos, if that’s what you’re asking.” She took another sip. “That wouldn’t have the intended effect on my career.” This drink was dangerously smooth, lovely.
He ignored the dig. “Why did you agree to go out with me?”
“You’re hot,” she said, playing with a strand of hair, blinking up at him with her best princess smile. Her smile faltered as she moved forward imperceptibly, out of the reach of those long fingers.
“I think you’re here with me for the same reason I’m with you.”
Amy affixed her best wide-eyed, innocent expression—her face fell naturally into those lines. “Attraction?”
She resisted the urge to yank up the dress again and tried to take shallow breaths.
“Publicity,” he retorted.
She stilled. “Is that why you asked me out?” she said, almost inaudibly.
“My agent encouraged it. He’s in the throes of panic over my image,” he stated.
His Ike.
Her Kyle.
“Right. He’s the one who set up the . . . ” she glanced around furtively, “lessons.”
“I need the lessons, obviously, but he’s trying to kill two birds with one stone here.” Shane gestured between them.
So he was using her the same way she was using him. That was fair. Then why was she so disgruntled?
“Why me?”
“You have to ask? Amelia Astor, princess, New England blue-blood. Incorruptible. You’re the ideal woman to rehab my image—according to Ike—and he’s never wrong about crap like that, so here we are.”
That stung. It was the way he said it. As though he would never in a million years be seen with her otherwise.
“And here you are just in time to resuscitate my contract.” She raised her glass. “Cheers,” she said, without the slightest bit of pique reflected in her tone.
He gave her a genuine smile and clinked her glass. “Cheers.”
Amy forced a laugh. “A fictitious relationship to aid our careers? How pathetic.”
“How LA,” he responded drily.
Goaded, she stretched out a hand and laid it, palm down on his rock hard, jean clad thigh, one finger tracing a pattern on the soft cotton. She leaned in, smiling smugly as his gaze dropped to her breasts, and whispered, “I’m not incorruptible.”
He tilted his head back, and she watched his throat work as he finished his drink in one swallow and scooted closer. “No?”
She whipped her hand away, before it ended up at the seam of his crotch.
“It doesn’t have to be fiction, but I don’t do fidelity,” he said as his long fingers tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear and he shot her a half-smile that sent a throb of excitement through her traitorous body.
She shifted on the couch.
“Ike got me what I wanted, and now I’m doing this for him. He’s trying to get me back in the good graces of certain producers. After all the crap that’s come down the past two years, I recently lost my first audition.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she murmured.
“I didn’t want it anyway.”
“No?” Amy feigned interest. This was the part where he went on and on about acting. She’d been out with her share of actors during summers in Hollywood. Usually they were waiter/actors, but nonetheless, she’d heard more about the business than she cared to in her lifetime.
“No. I’m done with all that. I’m only taking roles that speak to me.”
She pressed her lips together and widened her eyes. “Is there a Charlie Sheen biopic casting?”
His eyebrows shot up, then he laughed. “That came out wrong. Jesus, being in Hollywood all this time you start talking like them. I never used to sound like this. Like some jackass talking about the ’craft’ or whatever. And then the press has a field day with every little thing.”
“You have gotten some bad press.” She managed to keep her tone neutral.
He looked around the terrace, avoiding her gaze. “It’s the nature of this town. Everything is fair game and the women . . . ” His voice trailed off and an expression of revulsion crossed his face.
“Oh, the women are the problem?” This time she couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice. From what she’d read online, the fact that he couldn’t keep his hands off his co-stars was the problem.
Shane waved a hand. “They have to document everything on social media, brag to their friends. Gone are the days when you could get off with someone and go your separate ways. Now people post photos and tweet—everyone in the public eye gets burned, not only me. It used to be the paparazzi were the ones you had to avoid. Now it’s everyone with a phone—so basically everyone.” He ran a hand through his hair.
Amy took another sip of her drink and realized she’d finished it. Damn. And his wasn’t even half gone. She better slow down or she’d be smashed. Where was the food?
“I get in these situations and . . . stuff happens. Whatever.”
“I imagine it sucks to have naked pictures out there.”
He studied her through curious eyes.
The heat rose in her face. She must be drunk if she was bringing up that subject.
“Picture.”
“What?”
“A naked picture.”
“Yeah. That.”
His hand slid into her hair at the nape of her neck and stroked. “That’s the second reference you’ve made to that picture of my cock. Curious?”
She couldn’t suppress a full body shiver or the throb coming to life at his words. “No,” she lied huskily.
He scooted closer.
Everything in Amy was poised for retreat—but Amelia sprung to life, meeting and holding his gaze.
His expression was bland, but his breath sawed in and out of his body. He might make her shiver, but she made him pant, she realized with satisfaction.
Take that, waitress.
She must be more buzzed than she thought. And there was something about this guy that brought out every competitive instinct she’d ever had. It wasn’t like men fell all over themselves to be with her, but the lack of interest this one exhibited was galling.
Shane’s gaze was glued to the front of her dress. She took a deep breath and the dress slipped, exposing a sliver of her left areola. The intensity in his gaze seared through her, triggering her thighs to clench together in an attempt to stifle the pulsating ache between them.
His warm fingers left her nape to thread through her hair, and with an ungentle grip, he pulled her head toward his.
Arousal churned though her, leaving her lightheaded with desire. Acquiescent, she moved toward him, immobilized by the heat in the depths of his azure eyes, the lust etched into the sharp planes of his face. Amy closed her eyes.
He laved her lower lip with his tongue and her mouth parted on a gasp, her hand tightening involuntarily on his upper thigh.
He maneuvered her head, stroking his lips leisurely against hers, teasing.
She pressed her hips into the cushion of the patio sofa in a fruitless attempt to slake the desperate, empty aching. She arched toward him, vaguely aware the uncooperative dress was releasing itself of its obligation to cover her chest as she contorted her body to fit against his.
Her hand stole around his neck, gripping the broad column, urging him on.
His wide chest pressed her further into the cushions as his slick tongue swept inside her mouth, the hand on the back of her head tightening in her hair until it was almost painful, and she moaned into his mouth. He lifted one of her legs over his. She inhaled his exotic scent, tasted the tang of the gin on his breath. He deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking, tangling with hers, as his wide palm met her bare thigh.
God, yes.
Her legs parted, instinctively, craving his touch. She squirmed against him and his hand slid higher.
She held his mouth to her with two hands now wrapped in his thick hair, mindless as her lips explored the rough texture of his cheek and jaw before finding the surprising softness of his lips.
His fingers reached the satin barrier of her soaked panties and he made a sound—surprise? Pleasure? He cupped her and she writhed, his mouth capturing her gasp of pleasure as his two fingers slipped inside the waistband of her thong and found her slick seam.
Oh God, she was so close—
What the fuck?
Leaning back she broke contact with his lips with a grunt. Her hand left his neck to grip his wrist and she pulled his hand out of her panties, away from her desperate body.
Inches apart they panted, never breaking eye contact.
Amy released his hand and scooted away, her body still throbbing, aching for completion. Instead, she hitched up the dress.
Shane sat up and glanced over at the curtains pulled back around their little patio with couch and coffee table. He leaned sideways to finger the tassel holding the curtains open, looking over at her in askance.
She gave a shaky laugh, struggling for composure. “Whatever you’re thinking, no. For so many reasons, no. We’re here to improve your image, remember? Ike would have you blackballed. And I’m trying to win back my role as a princess in a family show, not show up on TMZ in a sex tape. “
She wriggled still farther away, until she was well out of reach of those hands.
What the hell was that?
A waiter appeared so suddenly with their food, Amy realized he must have been watching them.
“Want to get out of here then?” he asked, still staring at her, ignoring the plate of tapas and sushi.
“No. No I don’t. That was . . . well, you know—”
“For public consumption?” He glanced around the quiet rooftop. “We may want to hang out a while and try again or go somewhere else, since no one but our waiter seemed to notice us tucked back here behind the planters.”
He noticed who had been noticing? Or not noticing. God. She had been on the verge of orgasm thanks to those skilled fingers, while he had maintained a level of awareness. There was something about the way he smelled. And his body—and all that focused intensity. This attraction was a complication she did not need. Not if she hoped to continue to coach him.