Chapter 5

“Veronica?” I feel like a parrot as I say her name for the third time in as many minutes. But something’s going on here and I can’t quite figure out what it is.

I’ve been attracted to her since pretty much the minute she slid into the booth across from me at the café yesterday—pretty hard not to be when she looks the way she looks and is the way she is. And while there have been a few times through the last two days that I thought she might return the sentiment, she’s pretty hard to read and even harder to pin down.

Until right now.

Or, more specifically, until a couple minutes ago. Because at this moment she’s looking at me with a combination of horror and calculation that is as fascinating as it is concerning. I just wish I knew why.

When she’d worked so hard to break the sexual tension that stretched between us like a circus high wire, I’d gone along with it. Had even lobbed an easy question at her so that she could get her balance back. So we both could.

That isn’t what’s happening here, though. Instead, she’s freaking out.

Oh, she’s doing her best to hide it, and maybe—if I hadn’t just spent the last eight hours studying her every movement, her every expression and inflection—I wouldn’t notice. But I didn’t take my eyes off of her during the photo shoot today and if I know nothing else right now, I know that what I just asked shut her down completely.

My only question is Why?

Her phone rings before I can ask it though, and she grabs for it like a drowning woman grabs for an inner tube—with a kind of terrified disbelief and desperate joy that the ordeal is almost over.

Veronica glances at the caller ID on her phone and her face smooths out, her expression becoming totally unreadable. “I’m sorry. I need to take this.”

“Of course. I’ll head downstairs for that coffee you keep offering me.”

“Great.” She nods, already distracted by whomever is on the other line. “I’ll meet you down there in a couple minutes.”

“Take your time.”

I head out of the suite and she pulls the doors closed after me with a sharp crack that echoes through the empty halls. I’m curious, really curious, so for a moment I think about hanging around, just to watch her body language through the glass doors. But that feels like cheating, especially since I’m certain that whoever she’s talking to has absolutely nothing to do with Vargas or my research.

So instead of lingering in the hallway, I head down one more flight to the huge, state-of-the-art kitchen that boasts nearly every gadget known to man. The coordinator of the photo shoot had made this room the base of operations today, but as I walk into it now the only evidence that they had been here at all is the basket of snacks still resting on the counter and the full carafe of coffee in the coffeemaker.

There are still a few go-cups on the counter next to the machine, so I grab one. I fill it up, then reach for the non-dairy creamer sitting next to the sugar. The container is empty, though, and I’ve never been one who can drink his coffee black, no matter how much shit my father and brother have given me for it through the years.

I glance at the stairs, think about waiting until Veronica comes down to ask, but then figure, what the hell. She’s a lot of things but stingy doesn’t seem to be one of them. She won’t mind if I borrow a little milk or half-and-half to put in my coffee.

But when I pull open the fridge, there is no half-and-half or milk. In fact, there’s absolutely nothing in it at all. No food, no drinks, no half-used bottles of salad dressing or jars of jam. Nothing. She doesn’t even have a bottle of ketchup.

I know some people eat out every night and so they don’t keep many groceries, but this…this is something else entirely. Even the most die-hard restaurant goers have something in the fridge. A carton of eggs, some yogurt, leftovers from last week’s takeout, an apple. Something. Veronica has nothing.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

Knowing I’m invading her privacy, but too intrigued to care at this point, I head over to the large walk-in pantry and pull the door open. It’s empty, too. There’s not even a forgotten box of cereal.

What. The. Fuck?

I turn toward the cabinets, start opening them as well. And that’s when things get even weirder. Because they are fully stocked—with dishes and glasses, pots and pans, bowls and silverware. Even some heavy-duty appliances.

She’s got everything a fully functional kitchen needs, everything except food. And since I’ve seen her eat on three separate occasions during the last two days, I’m pretty sure it’s not anorexia I’m dealing with here. Which means—

“What are you doing?” she suddenly demands from behind me, her voice higher and more strident than I’ve ever heard it.

“I was looking for milk for my coffee,” I answer, making sure to shut the cabinet door as I turn around slowly.

“In my cabinets?”

“Well, there wasn’t any in the fridge, but I guess you already know that, don’t you?”

I’m watching her now, can see the second it dawns on her that I know her secret. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“It’s exactly what it looks like. Why is it that everyone at the shoot today was under the impression that you live here when it’s very clear that you don’t?”

“You were under that same impression.”

“You’re right, I was. But I’m not the shoot coordinator or the room stylist or the caterer. How could they have poked around in this place and not figured it out? And why are you lying to everybody, anyway?”

“I didn’t lie,” she tells me, and she’s got her voice—and face—back under control. “I own this house.”

“Yeah, but you don’t live in it.”

“So what? I own several places around the world that I don’t live in.”

“Yes,” I concede, because it’s true. I’ve done the research. She does have several other homes around the globe, including an apartment in Paris and one in New York, a country house in Tuscany, a villa on a private island off the coast of Greece and a townhouse in Park City, Utah. “But you don’t lie about living in any of those homes. Just this one. So what’s the deal? And where do you live when you’re in L.A.?”

“That’s none of your business,” she snaps, striding over to the coffeemaker and pouring herself a cup. She doesn’t even glance at the sugar or empty creamer container before lifting the hot, bitter liquid to her lips and drinking it down in one long gulp.

Jesus. My mouth hurts just watching the display of bravado, but I don’t say anything. Not when she’s staring at me over the rim of the cup, daring me to make a comment. But I recognize a distraction technique when I see one, so I keep my mouth shut and wait for her to finish scalding herself. As I do, our conversation from yesterday rings in my head. She’d called herself a masochist then and for the first time I’m tempted to believe she actually meant it.

Neither of us says another word until she’s tossed the cup in the trash. Then, as she glances around the kitchen like she’s looking for something—anything—else to concentrate on, I ask, “What do you want out of this interview?”

“Excuse me?” The question is incredulous, and the tone it’s delivered in pure diva.

“When Vanity Fair asked me to do it, they said they were looking for two things. The publicity that came with having the man who discovered the Belladonna as a killer interview the woman who plays her in the movie, and the first totally honest portrayal of you. The woman behind the legacy. The truth behind the beauty. I thought, when you wiped your makeup away during the shoot earlier, that that was what you were getting at. But now I’m not so sure.”

She lifts a brow. “I told you yesterday that no one in this town is totally honest. That’s not how the game is played. So don’t come whining to me about it now.”

“I’m not whining. And you’re right. You did warn me.” I walk past her as casually as I can, settle myself in one of the chairs around the breakfast nook table. And wait for her to come to me.

It doesn’t take long.

“Look,” she says, standing next to the table with her eyes wide and earnest. “Whether I live here or not is no big deal in the grand scheme of things. I’ve been honest with you about everything else.”

“You haven’t been honest with me about anything. You’ve dodged and prevaricated and turned questions back on me and flat-out lied when it benefitted you. The only thing you haven’t done in the last two days is be honest with me. Which, fine. I can live with that if that’s how you want to play this. But can you? Because you may be a liar, but I’m not. And if this is all you’re going to show me, this is how I’m going to write about you.”

She’s pissed. I can see it in her eyes, feel it in the tension radiating off of her. I lean back in the chair, wait for the explosion I know is coming. And wonder what the fuck I’m doing. I need her to talk to me, need her to answer my questions—for this article I’m going to put my name on and, more important, for my research. So why the hell am I antagonizing her when I should be kissing her ass?

I don’t have an answer, except that it pisses me off just thinking that she played me. It shouldn’t matter—God knows, she isn’t the first person I’ve interviewed who tried to take me for a ride—and yet somehow it does. It really, really does.

It’s a feeling that she only exacerbates as she settles down in the chair next to mine, as she reaches out and strokes her fingers over the collar of my shirt. As she does, her fingertips gently brush against my neck and every nerve I have comes suddenly alive, as if it was just waiting for this moment. As if my entire being was just waiting for her to touch me.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her tone and body language soothing as she scoots her chair closer to mine. “It’s just that during promo season I get a little defensive. A little protective of my private life.” Her fingers tangle in my hair and tug softly. “Surely you can understand that?” She leans until our bodies are intimately close. “So many people want a piece of me, so many people want to be let in. I have to be careful until I get to know them. Until I can figure out who to trust.”

Her eyes are wide and guileless now, her lips only a couple inches from mine. For a second, just a second, I think of closing the distance. Think of putting my mouth on hers and taking what she’s offering. Only the knowledge that she’s playing me again—playing me still—keeps me from accepting her invitation.

Well, that and the fact that she actually thinks I’m stupid enough to fall for it.

Still, this is a game I’m intimately familiar with, one I’ve played several times through the years in my hunt for information, which is why I don’t call her on it right away. Instead I give her a little more rope, a little more of a chance to hang herself when I ask, “So, have you figured it out?”

She leans in a little more, her full, red lips parted in invitation. “If I can trust you?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.” She slides her hands from my collar to my chest, toys with the buttons of my shirt. Her face is right next to mine and I can tell she’s waiting for me to make a move, waiting for me to kiss her.

She’s emanating desire, all but trembling with it as she leans in so close I can feel her breath against my skin. My dick responds—of course it does—and if this was any other time, any other place, any other woman, she’d already be in my arms. Already be beneath me with her skirt around her hips, her panties around her ankles and my tongue buried deep inside of her.

But this isn’t some other woman. This is Veronica Romero, Hollywood’s sex goddess extraordinaire, and she is still playing me.

The knowledge infuriates me even as it turns me on. Which then infuriates me even more, considering she’s not turned on at all. Considering this is all an act.

I’m close enough to her—and have enough experience with women—to tell the difference.

She’s a brilliant actress, one who can fake a lot of things flawlessly. But not this. Not real, honest desire.

Oh, she’s got the breath hitches down, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the trembling hands and oh-so-open body language. But her eyes aren’t dilated, her skin isn’t flushed and the pattern of her breathing—though fast—is far too even for this to be anything but her using the same tricks on me that she used on Marc earlier.

Which is why, when she finally leans into me—finally brushes her lips against my own—I let her. Once, twice, a third time.

But that’s it. I don’t deepen the kiss, don’t put my hands on her and pull her body against mine, over mine. Don’t do anything that can be mistaken for me making a move on her, even as my dick hardens to the point of pain and my hands clench into empty, aching fists.

She kisses me once more—a soft, glancing thing that invites much, much more. It’s a good move, and if she meant it, I’d be all over her. But she doesn’t and I’ll be damned before I grab on to a woman who doesn’t want me.

She waits several long, drawn-out seconds, her eyes level with mine. But when I still don’t take what she’s so deliberately offering, she pulls away in obvious confusion. Not that I blame her. I can’t imagine that the great Veronica Romero gets turned down very often.

“It’s okay,” she tells me, her tongue once again running over the seam of her lips. Even as I call myself a fool, I can’t help following the motion with my eyes. “You can kiss me.”

“Who says I want to kiss you? I’m here to do an interview.”

It’s a bold move on my part, one that’s either going to tip the scales in my favor or send her flying into a rage that ends with me being kicked out of her house for good. At this point, both scenarios seem equally likely and though I know which one I’m rooting for, I’m willing to wait and see how this round of the game goes.

“Oh, you want to,” she says, her fingers tightening in my shirt as her palms slide over my chest and she glances down at my very aroused cock. “We both know it. So why don’t you go ahead and just do it?” Her hand slides lower, over my stomach, and for a second, I think she’s just going to go for it and wrap her hand around my dick right here in the middle of her kitchen.

Because I do want her despite everything—and because I’m not sure I’d be able to resist that—I grab her hand before it can slide any further down. Then I’m standing up, pulling her to her feet and whirling her around so that she’s pressed up against me but facing away from me, her back to my chest.

“Because,” I tell her even as I rest my hand on her abdomen—right between her hip bones—in an effort to keep her in place. “I don’t kiss women who don’t want to kiss me. Ever.” I lean closer so that my mouth is right over her ear, my breath brushing against the sensitive skin there. “So, what do you say we stop this game and get down to what we’re really here for?”

A shiver runs through her at my words—or at the feel of my breath coasting over her ear. I don’t know which. And frankly, I don’t give a fuck, because it’s the first real reaction I’ve gotten from her today. And like all good things, it only makes me want more.