Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
I roll over, my eyes fluttering open as golden streaks filter through the windows, warm against my skin. Still half in a dream, I blink up at the unfamiliar ceiling. The bed beneath me is too soft, the sheets too luxurious, the quiet too absolute.
My stomach clenches. Where am I?
Then I remember. Matthew.
My body tingles with the memory of his touch—and clenches in frustration at the memory of him walking away.
I really need to get out of here.
I sit up, looking around for my phone and finding it on the bedside table. I check the time, then bolt upright when I see that it’s already ten past eight. I have to get home. Get dressed. Get to work.
Then a dose of sanity kicks me in the head. Considering whose house I’m in, I probably don’t have to worry about the boss looking askance if I drift in after nine. But after the night we had (almost had?) I’m not sure I want him looking at me at all.
I shove the covers down as I move to sit on the side of the bed. I’m in only a bra and a thong, and I look frantically around, relieved to find my wrinkled dress folded over the back of a chair.
I spy a smudge of mascara on the white pillowcase, then promptly flip the pillow. If only all my problems were so easy to hide. I stand up, knowing I have to make it from here to the front door.
I hit pay dirt when I pop into the attached bath. I almost jump into the luxurious shower, but I make do with the plastic-wrapped travel toothbrush and toothpaste I find in a decorative basket. There’s a hairbrush, too, and since I don’t know where my purse is, I use it to tame the rat’s nest that is now my hair.
I head back into the bedroom, then put on the dress, buttoning it from the very top to the very bottom. I glance around for my shoes, but don’t see them. Apparently, they’re out partying with my purse.
With a quick glance toward the door, I debate my options. Walk of shame? Slipping out quietly has its appeal. No awkward small talk, no “so, what now?” moments. No, “I wanted to beg for you to keep touching me like that … and more” confessions. But my stomach growls, a sharp, insistent reminder that I haven’t eaten since last night. Or was it yesterday afternoon?
Coffee.
I need coffee.
And I need it bad enough that I’m not sneaking out. Instead, I’m pulling up my big girl panties and heading out to find that elixir of life.
And Matthew.
As I head barefoot to the door, I smooth the wrinkled dress, or try to, anyway. Then I give up and tug open the door. Immediately, I’m thrust into Foodie Heaven as the scent of frying bacon wafts around me. My stomach growls, and I follow the aroma like a cartoon character being lured by an invisible hand.
But as soon as I can see the kitchen, I stop dead in my tracks. The splendiferous aroma of bacon can’t hold a candle to what’s in front of me—Matthew at the stove, his bare back to me, a tapestry of muscles and sinew that seem more like a sculpture than a living, breathing man.
And it gets better. The gray sweats he wears hang just low enough on his hips to make my fingers itch and my mouth go dry.
I must not have been as stealthy as I’d thought, because he looks over his shoulder at me, his face shadowed by morning stubble and his hair slightly mussed. I know he’s in his late forties, but right now he looks young and eager. And—though I’m not sure how it’s possible?—
even more attractive.
He looks like a man just starting out and knowing full well that he’s going to take the world by storm.
“Good morning, beautiful.” He points to a place setting at the counter. “Take a seat. I’ll bring you a coffee.”
The kitchen is even more stunning in the daylight. Open and bright, with sleek countertops and massive windows that let in the morning light. The kind of space that invites you to linger.
I glance toward the H.G. Wellsian machine that had brewed coffee for us last night, but it seems to be dormant.
“I know how much coffee you drink before noon. I thought a pot would be better.” He nods to a coffee maker with so many buttons and knobs it puts my Mr. Coffee to shame. But when he brings me a cup, I can’t deny that it makes a damn good brew.
“How do you know how much coffee I drink?” I ask after my first life-giving sip.
He flashes an enigmatic grin. “I pay attention,” he says as he slides two eggs—over easy—onto a plate, then adds bacon and a piece of toast before sliding the plate in front of me.
“To my coffee intake?”
“That, and other things.”
I study him, not sure what he means. Then I glance down at my plate. “Coincidence, or did you know that eggs over easy are my fave?”
“I knew,” he says, so casually it makes me pause.
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “How on earth could you know that?”
He leans against the refrigerator holding a piece of bacon. “Do you remember a brunch by the Starks’ pool a few years ago? A birthday celebration for one of their kids. There were Mickey Mouse waffles.”
I smile at the memory. “Sure. Nicholas wore that silly cat costume the entire party. That kid is just too adorable.”
“He is,” Matthew says. “But it was an adorable woman who drew my attention.”
It’s still early, and I’ve not made a dent in the coffee, so I cut myself some slack for taking a moment to realize that he’s talking about me. The moment I do, though, a kickline of butterflies start dancing in my belly. And despite how the moment makes me feel—flattered, special, seen —all I manage to say is, “Oh.”
From his small smile and the gleam in his eyes, I think my response was just fine.
“I don’t remember seeing you there,” I admit, the confession surprising me. Especially since I’ve had a little lust thing going for Matthew since I met him in that bar line … which was also at the Stark House.
How could I not have noticed him at a kid’s birthday party?
As if in response to my unanswered question, he shrugs, saying, “I only dropped by to give Damien something for an upcoming project. I had to leave right after to catch a plane. But I saw you.” His gaze softens. “You were ordering eggs at the cook station. Over easy.”
“Oh.” My mouth has gone suddenly dry.
“I remember exactly what you were wearing, too. A green dress with little white flowers. Strappy sandals. Your hair was shorter and darker, and the tips were pink and purple. You looked like a fairy princess sparkling in the sun.
My stomach flips, and not because of the food. “You noticed all that?”
“You caught my attention that morning,” he says simply, and there’s something in his tone that makes the air between us hum. “Actually, you’ve had it for a long time.”
My pulse quickens, and I suddenly feel exposed in a way I’m not used to. “Why?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitates, clearly searching for words. “Because you’re you,” he finally says, his expression open, as if he has nothing to hide from me. “Sharp, bold, unafraid to speak your mind.” His attention is so fully on me that I feel as if I’m under a spotlight. “But that’s not the only reason you’ve been on my radar.”
“It’s not?” The words sound lame, but I’m having trouble thinking.
He steps closer, until he’s only an arms-length away. “It’s because of what’s between us. The sizzle. The pop,” he adds, with just a tiny bit of humor. “I felt it the first time we met.” He reaches for me, his fingertips stroking my face as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I think you did, too.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. My chest feels tight, my skin too warm. “I?—”
I cut myself off. I have no idea where that sentence was going, and I need space—now. Grabbing my coffee and a strip of bacon, I push back from the stool and wander into the living area, which seems like a different room in the light of day. The huge windows offer a panoramic view of the Valley. Beneath the panes, bookshelves filled with novels, scripts, and rows of DVDs line the walls.
I sip my coffee, letting the rich flavor ground me as I scan the various titles. My gaze catches on an entire shelf of DVDs with familiar titles. I pull one out and see Vivien Lorainne’s striking face. I turn, holding the case up for Matthew to see. “There are so many. Do you have all of her films?”
“Every last one. I’ve been a fan for years.”
“Me, too. I love her movies. I was practically weaned on them.” Vivien Lorainne was one of the biggest stars during Hollywood’s Golden Age, an exceptional accomplishment considering her time in front of the camera was cut short when she was brutally murdered. An act which, some say, bore a curse.
“She was a brilliant actor,” Matthew says. “Range like that doesn’t come around often. We should watch one soon,” he adds. “A movie. Popcorn. My sofa’s comfy.”
I glance around at the plush seating and panoramic view. “Just one tiny problem. You don’t have a TV.”
“Don’t I? Huh.” He turns in a circle as if checking out his living room. “Well, that’s odd. And considering my job, that’s a little embarrassing.”
I bite back a fit of giggles. “Let me guess. There’s one in the bedroom.”
“Not at the moment,” he says. “But whatever the lady wants,” he adds, sounding more than a little lascivious.
I laugh. “Sorry. Bedroom’s off limits.” I smile sweetly. “I don’t think I can survive another night on the edge.”
“Oh?” He steps closer, his voice low and his presence magnetic. “Are you suggesting that you want fall ?”
My mouth goes dry, and my heart flutters as his scent—a mix of soap, bacon, and something distinctly him—fills the air between us. “You heard me,” I whisper.
His grin is as bright as the sun. “I think we can make that happen. Some wine. A movie. And so many possibilities.”
“And still, you have no TV,” I remind him, my tone teasing.
“Ye of little faith. Eight? You bring you. I’ll take care of everything else.”
I should say no. I’m supposed to be getting closer to him because I’m investigating Jenny’s death. Not because he makes me laugh. And certainly not because the memory of his fingers on me is enough to make me want to drop onto the sofa right now and say yes to everything.
“Did I lose you?”
“Just trying to remember if I had plans tonight.” I flash a playful smile. “You slid right into the only empty slot in my very active social calendar.”
“Did I?”
“Yup. It’s a good thing you didn’t suggest tomorrow. That’s when I have to clean the breadcrumbs out of my toaster and shave my legs.”
“And how could I compete with that?”
We share a smile, and I realize that I don’t want to leave. “My family actually knew her.” I blurt it out without preamble, but he knows exactly who I mean.
“Really? How?”
“My great-grandfather made the tiara she wore in Starlight Serenade . Well, it’s really a diadem. But when I was little, I called it a tiara. I was so in love with it. The diamonds were real, not paste. It was a gift from the studio to Vivien. A thank you for bringing in those box-office dollars. Well, all the stones except for that huge yellow diamond at the point of the diadem. That was from her private collection. Some prince gave it to her before she turned down his marriage proposal. Apparently, it was priceless.”
He’s actually taken a step back, and I do a mental fingernail buff, because how many folks can blow the mind of a guy like Matthew Holt?
“That’s incredible,” he says, and I hear genuine admiration in his voice. “I remember reading that it was lost after her husband murdered her.”
“It wasn’t.” I put a finger to my lips, indicating a secret. “She’d given it to my family a few years before she died, humongous diamond and all.”
He shakes his head slowly. I’m not surprised. For anyone who’s a fan of Vivien Lorainne and knows any Hollywood lore, this is one of those Cool Industry Stories. To me, it’s a tale of trauma and loss. But everything’s about perspective, isn’t it?
“Why did she give it to your family?” Matthew asks. “The curse?”
“You believe in that?”
“In curses? I do,” he says. “But I think most people are under a curse of their own making.”
He’s right about that . As for his question…
“Honestly, I have no idea why she’d want to give away something that valuable. My mom said Vivien had a dream and knew she had to. Another theory is that there’d been whispers of a heist, and she wanted to make sure it was safe. There’s even a rumor that she’d had an affair with my Great Grandpa and just wanted him to have it. All I know is that everyone in the family says that having that diadem seemed to bring him back to life. I guess he’d been depressed or something. Out of work, broke. The diadem changed things for him. It changed things for my entire family.”
“How?”
I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I wasn’t even born when she gave it to our family. All I know are the stories. But the way my family talks … well, it was more than a diadem. It was hope.”
I shrug again, as if to emphasize that this really isn’t important. “But that was a long time ago.”
Something shifts in his expression. It’s subtle, but I catch it—a flicker of tension, I think. Or maybe that’s his forced to look interested expression. I wince. “Sorry. I’m probably boring you with family history.”
“Hardly. I’m just … awed.” There’s a weight in his words I can’t place. “I didn’t know any of that.”
“Why would you? Anyway, it was stolen. The Cat took it. Fucking bastard.” I grimace. “Sorry. Touchy subject.”
I look around for my phone, but don’t have it. And I don’t see a clock. “We should get going, right? I mean, Lila might not give you the stink-eye …”
“Trust me. She gives everyone the stink-eye. But she’s a damn good gatekeeper. And a lifelong friend.”
“Even so …” I start to turn toward the guest room, but he reaches for me, his fingers finding my bare arm. Even that simple touch is enough to send my senses reeling.
“Matthew,” I whisper, “we have to go.”
“We will. But don’t leave me in suspense about this Cat thing. I’m picturing Garfield in a diadem. You have to save me from that image.”
“A jewel thief,” I explain, frowning as I remember the stories my parents told. “There was this cat burglar active in New York when I was a kid. My parents always thought he was the one who took it.”
“It was stolen.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I nod. “Doesn’t matter. The diadem’s gone, and so is he. Fucking cat-bastard destroyed my family.”
“Destroyed?”
I sag a little. “For a while at least, yeah. We almost lost everything—our house, our stability. My parents fought constantly. Apparently, my dad had arranged to borrow money to keep us from losing our house. The diadem was going to be collateral, but before the deal went down, it was stolen. And we were fucked.”
I glance at Matthew, expecting polite sympathy. Instead, his jaw is tight, his blue eyes locked on mine with an intensity that humbles me.
“I know,” I whisper. “Vile. And if I ever find out who he is,” I add, my voice low and hard, “I will fucking destroy him.”
Matthew’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “That’s exactly what I’d do.”