19
I was sure it was just the after-effects of surgery and being forced to spend time in a hospital, but I could feel the presence of my mother. Obviously that would explain my slip to Marc.
Whether it was my imagination—a lonely daughter’s attempts at holding onto the memory of her beloved mother—I never questioned the feeling. I just accepted it for what it was.
There’d been situations during my modeling career when I’d felt her near. Usually when I was being pressured to do something I wasn’t comfortable with. At those times, I’d recall her belief in me and find the courage I needed to stand up for myself.
As an actress, I’d often sense her close by, too. When a particularly emotional role would draw on all my reserves, I could feel her with me.
But right now, her presence didn’t make sense. Apart from the difficulties of my sling, I was safe—albeit in a strange location. If anything, I should have felt it when I was in the hospital, but that hadn’t been the case.
Distracted by my thoughts, I let Marc lead me to my bedroom. Inside, he dropped my hand and opened the bag at the end of the bed.
“They’re not hiking shoes, but they’ll do.” He set a pair of runners on the floor beside the bag.
I withheld a sigh when I saw them.
“I’ll help you with the laces.” Before I could argue, he crouched down in front of me.
Oh wow. Maybe I was under more stress than I realized. Having brooding, tough guy Romero tie my shoes was all kinds of weird.
I hadn’t moved and he cocked an eyebrow at me.
Not wanting to appear precious—or start another fight—I went over and sat on the edge of the bed.
Marc picked up one of the runners and cradled my heel with the palm of his other hand. Even through my sock, the contact heated my skin.
I bit my lip, but only on the inside, so Marc wouldn’t see.
Gently, he slipped my foot into the runner and then propped it on his firm thigh. He was looking down at the lace, and not at me, and I found myself studying his face.
There was something about the light lines in his forehead that made me want to run a fingertip over them. For some reason, it felt like each one had a story to tell, and I wondered if they had deepened during his time in the FBI.
My gaze dropped to his eyebrows. They were furrowed in concentration as he did up my lace, and below them were impossibly long, dark lashes most women would kill for.
I straightened self-consciously when he reached over to pick up the other shoe.
“Not too tight?” he asked, already slipping it onto my foot.
“Fine.”
I waited while he did it up, feeling a little lightheaded. It was probably the drugs, but the sensation receded a bit when he rocked back on his heels and let go of my other foot.
“Are you sure you’re up for a walk? Maybe we should eat something first?”
“I’m fine.”
He stood up. “So long as you’re fine, then.”
I couldn’t see if he was smiling at me because he’d turned toward the door. I followed him out into the hall.
“Give me one sec,” he said, heading for the kitchen.
A moment later he was back and he handed me a banana. “Eat it.”
“I’m not—”
“Eat it, Lena.”
“But I’m not . . . ”
I stopped talking when he grabbed the banana and peeled it for me, then shoved it at me.
“Fine.”
He smirked and we went outside into the sunshine. In the short time we’d been inside the sun had climbed higher and the cool autumn morning had risen a degree or two.
We set off at an easy pace and must have been walking for at least twenty minutes when Marc spoke.
“My dad and I used to go camping whenever we could.”
I used my hand to shield the sun from my eyes and looked over at him. Well, this was new. “Just you and your dad?”
“Yeah. My mom can’t stand it, and that’s putting it lightly.”
“Five stars all the way for her, huh?”
“You could say that. And my brother doesn’t care for it either.”
“You have a brother?”
“Yeah. Seb. Sebastian,” he corrected. “He’s younger.”
“Why didn’t he like it?”
Marc shrugged as we continued to walk. “Probably because I liked it. Who knows?”
“You’re not close?”
Marc didn’t answer, so I listened to the long, brown grass rustling beneath our feet as we made a path through it. I’d almost given up on a reply when he cleared his throat.
“We’re different. And we’re closer now than we used to be.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” I’d never had a brother or sister and I would like to think that, if I had, I’d have made an effort to have a relationship with them.
Marc blew out a long breath, but it wasn’t because he was puffed. “Yeah, it’s good he’s forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you?” Thankfully I was a good actress. My question was mildly curious instead of fascinated.
He swept his gaze over the fields spread out before us. “For being a bastard.”
“You? A bastard?”
Marc shot me a dark look and I thought I’d almost ruined any chance of the conversation continuing.
“I guess you could say I was the black sheep,” he said after a while.
Or the dark angel, I thought.
“I never fit into that life.”
This time I did stop walking. “What life?”
He gestured to the horizon. “Hollywood. Movies, acting, all of it.”
Oh. I started walking again, more slowly. It made sense, I had to admit. Marc’s scorn of the industry wasn’t something he hid, but I was starting to understand that maybe it was more deep-seated than I first thought.
“So it’s not just me you hate?” I joked.
Marc frowned so hard it looked like it hurt. “I don’t hate you, Lena. I just wonder why you put up with all the shit.”
“I’ve told you before, it’s because I like what I do, but what’s that got to do with your brother?” We’d already been through this and I was keen to learn more about his family.
“He’s more like them—Mom and Dad. Seb loves anything creative. He’s tried his hand at everything. Guitar, singing, musical theater, acting, writing.”
“Sounds like an awful person.”
He ignored my quip. “I don’t have a creative bone in my body so I used to make his life hell.”
“You were jealous.”
Marc kicked a stick out of his path. “I wasn’t jealous.”
I hid a smile at his petulant reply.
“I was angry I didn’t fit,” he said.
“It doesn’t mean they don’t love you,” I pointed out.
The firm set of his jaw was like that of an angry boy’s.
“I mean, I don’t know your family, of course,” I went on, wondering if I’d made an incorrect assumption. Just because he was the son of a well-known Hollywood producer didn’t mean I knew anything about him. His parents could be cold and distant for all I knew.
“They love me. Damned if I know why for all the grief I’ve given them.”
I blinked a few times, but it wasn’t because the sun was in my eyes. It was because I was finally starting to understand that some of Marc’s anger was directed at himself.
“Plenty of kids give their parents grief.”
“You didn’t,” he shot back.
“I didn’t get the chance.”
His expression softened. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. I’m actually glad my mother isn’t around to see things now.”
“She wouldn’t have approved of your career?”
I shook my head and smiled. “Oh no. She would love it. She was a big classic movie fan. She’d be so proud. But the divorce and stalking? She’d be worried out of her mind.”
“Do you think she would have liked Duncan?”
His question caught me off guard, and I thought carefully before I replied. “I think she would have been wary of him.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Because he’s controlling and fake?”
“She would have wanted me to be with someone more grounded. So anyway, at least you got your problems out of the way when you were young. Parents expect teenage angst.”
Marc fell silent and we walked for another minute or two. I didn’t bother to continue the conversation. I was feeling pretty tired due to the lack of sleep and was secretly grateful for the banana. “Mind if we take a break?”
We sat on the grass, the fields like a never-ending blanket.
“I’ve given my parents a lot of adult angst, too.”
I looked across at him. There was something different about Marc here. I could be wrong, but it was like he felt the freedom to be more himself.
“Because of your job?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it dangerous?” I had no idea if he’d worked in an office or out in the field. Somehow I couldn’t imagine him cooped up in a building somewhere.
“At times.”
He was right. It was a world away from Hollywood. Apart from stalkers, the sort of danger we dealt with was largely manufactured. “That must have been hard, for you and your family.”
“It was harder for them.”
“Let me guess. You liked the danger?”
“Typical Hollywood. Glorifying it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Some of us have to live in the real world.”
I stiffened. Marc wasn’t looking at me—he was still studying the view—but there could be no mistaking his meaning. He thought what I did was indulgent and nothing more than make-believe.
“Be careful,” I told him, “Hollywood is writing your paycheck at the moment.”
He shrugged. “You’re earning millions of dollars. I might as well take advantage of it like you are.”
With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I stood up. I could argue that many of us did do positive things with the money we received. Whether it was charitable donations or advancing causes in need of a higher profile, so many of my peers did more than act. But something told me I’d be wasting my breath.
And so much for getting to know Marc better. I’d thought there was more to him, but obviously I was wrong.
“I’m not taking advantage of anyone,” I said very quietly.
He stood up, too. “No, probably not. Maybe only yourself.”
Disappointment morphed into a sharp burst of anger, but I swallowed it down. “If you’re suggesting I compromise my values for what I do for a living, then you’d be wrong.”
He crossed his arms against his annoyingly sturdy chest and his eyes held a challenge. “So long as you can sleep at night.”
“I can sleep just fine.”
He grinned. “Fine then.”
“Can you?”
His smile faded. “What?”
“Sleep at night? It seems to me you’re compromising your values by putting up with Hollywood divas like me, just so you can earn a few extra bucks. At least I believe in what I do.”
Marc’s jaw hardened and his eyes darkened. I didn’t wait for him to reply. I set off in the direction of the house without looking back.