Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
It’s seven fifty-nine, and I’m sitting in my car on his street. I’ve been here for fifteen minutes already, forcing myself to clear out emails on my phone rather than skip to his front door and blatantly reveal just how much I’ve been looking forward to tonight.
Not because I love Vivien Lorainne’s movies.
Not even because this is a chance to get close to him and maybe learn something about Jenny’s death. And, yes, that should be my motivation. Hell, it is my motivation. I’m not going to give up on Jenny—not ever.
But as much as I want those answers, that’s not why I’m so eager that I spent forty minutes deciding what to wear. It’s not why I arrived far too early. And it’s not why there are butterflies doing a wild dance in my belly.
I want him .
No great revelation there. After all, I’ve been attracted to this man for a very long time, and after the other night, I’m certain he wants me, too.
But Matthew Holt is a man I shouldn’t want. A man whose secrets I’m trying to discover.
A man who may be complicit in the death of my friend.
But so help me, I do want him. More than that, I want him to be innocent.
If he’s guilty, going back into his home to suss out answers could be the last bad decision I ever make.
If he’s innocent, going back into that house to suss out answers could be a betrayal he’ll never forgive.
And there it is . The real reason I’ve been sitting in this car. I’m damned if I do, and I’m damned if I don’t. And no matter how this whole thing shakes out, I can already see the end.
Matthew Holt will never be mine.
I blink back tears as I tell myself that’s okay.
I tell myself that I’m doing this for Jenny.
And I tell myself that even if I only get one night with him, that will be enough.
Fortunately, I’m a good liar. And the person I’ve always lied best to is myself.
I glance at the clock. Five after eight. Now or never time.
I suck in a breath, check my hair and makeup in the visor mirror, then climb out of the car and head for his door, trying desperately to look like a woman who’s there only for a movie … and whatever delicious interlude might come after.
I press the buzzer, and the door opens so quickly that my heart does a little leap from the knowledge that he must have been waiting for me.
“I saw you park the car,” he says, apparently seeing my surprise.
“Oh.” A wash of heat spreads over me in what I’m sure is a full-body blush. “I, um … oh, hell. I was wasting time. Checking emails and then checking my makeup.” I smile up at him. “I didn’t want to look too eager.”
“I get it,” he says, ushering me inside. “I only noticed because I’ve been checking the exterior cams for the last ten minutes. So if it’s a competition to see who’s more eager, I think I may have won the trophy.”
His smile is warm and teasing, and my stomach does a little flip. “Maybe we’ve both won,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” he says, closing the door behind me. “I wonder what we’ll get as a prize?”
I turn back, smiling at the devilish gleam in his eyes. “Something fabulous, I hope.”
For a moment, we just stand there, both of us taking the other in. It should be awkward—like teens on a first date who aren’t sure where to go in the house to avoid mom and dad. Except it’s not awkward at all. Just the opposite. It feels like a welcome. Like in some weird way, this is my space, too.
I shake my head, certain my thoughts are getting way ahead of his reality.
I remind myself to be careful. I know the man I want him to be. I know the man he seems to be.
But I don’t yet know the man he really is. Or what that man may have done.
“You look stunning,” he says, sending a warm rush of pleasure careening through my blood.
I flash a quick smile. “What? This old thing?”
The dress is one I’d picked up on sale about a year ago. On a hanger, it looks plain. Even dull. A bit like a long, clingy, sleeveless shirt with a deep scoop neck and criss-crossing straps across the back. It’s midnight black and made out of some stretchy blend, that hugs me in all the right places.
The neck is low enough to show a hint of bra, but the material is tight enough that a bra’s not really necessary. I’d considered showing a daring hint of red lace but decided that letting the girls roam free was more fun. From the way Holt’s eyes keep dipping to my cleavage, I think I made the right choice.
As for the rest of the dress, it hugs my hips and thighs, but not so tight that it reveals the band of the silky thong he’d given me with the contract. I figured it was only fair for him to have a peek.
But where it really shines is on my ass, because the material perfectly hugs and accentuates those curves. More important, the same Louboutins I wore to Masque are on my feet, adding a bit of height and a bit more curve to my rear end.
All in all, I think I look hot. And from what I can see, Matthew agrees with that assessment.
“Come on,” he says, extending his hand. I take it, then let him lead me to the kitchen where a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon sits on the counter next to a carafe of coffee.
I raise a brow as I turn to look at him, sure my awe is reflected all over my face. That shit is both rare and pricey.
He shrugs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer. I also have Coke, Diet Coke, possibly Dr. Pepper, a full bar if bourbon’s not your poison tonight, and a variety of wines.”
“A full service host.”
“We aim to please.”
I eye the bottle of Pappy. “Is that the fifteen year? Isn’t that almost impossible to get?”
He moves to the counter and pulls out the cork, then pours just a taste. “Anything can be had for a price,” he says. He holds the glass out for me. “Even rare and delicious things.”
A shiver runs up my spine at his words, and I almost turn away. Almost tell him that this is a mistake and I shouldn’t even have signed on as his PA. But I don’t know if I’d be running because I fear him or because I want him.
Probably both.
Both are a reason to stay as much as they are to go. I want answers, after all. And, yes, I want him, too.
I sniff the bourbon, then take a small taste, letting it sit, feeling the burn. I don’t know much about bourbon—or any alcohol, really. But I know what I like. And this is exceptional.
He chuckles. “Give me the glass and I’ll pour you a full shot.”
I do, then watch as he pours double shots of Pappy for both of us. “Guess the coffee will come in handy later,” I say, pointedly looking at the bottle he’s picked up along with his glass.
“Won’t hurt,” he says, and we share a smile as we head into the living area.
As soon as we’re in the middle of the room, I come to a stop, then turn in a full circle. It looks exactly the same as before. I take a sip of my drink, put the glass down on a table that runs along the back of the sofa, then turn to him. “False pretenses, Mr. Holt?”
“Excuse me?” He takes a seat on the sofa, gesturing for me to do the same.
I comply, then recover my drink from the table before I point at the huge windows and the view of the Valley beyond. “Unless Vivien Lorainne filmed Public Service Announcements about living in the Valley, I’m going out on a limb and saying nothing has changed.”
He makes a show of looking around. “Damn. you’re right. Same old living room. How the hell could I have forgotten to buy a television?”
He slides closer to me, then meets my eyes. I stifle a sigh, enjoying the way my heart starts racing. Then enjoying even more the way my skin heats as he traces a fingertip down my bare arm, so slowly I think I’m going to go a little mad. When he reaches my hand—now holding my drink—he slides his finger in, dampening the tip.
“Matthew …” My voice is low. Needy. “What are you doing?”
“Hush,” he says, then traces his finger over my lips in a caress that ignites a flurry of sparks inside me. Sparks that sizzle and pop and want and need.
He leans closer. “Who needs a television when we have other forms of entertainment?”
“But we—” My words hang there, part of me wanting to lecture him about luring me here under false pretenses. Another part of me wanting to surrender completely, loving the fact that he got me here under false pretenses.
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “Close your eyes.” I do, then feel the pressure of his finger beneath my chin. I expect him to turn my head toward him, then melt me with a kiss. All around us, soft music begins to play. Something romantic and familiar. Something I?—
Starlight Serenade.
I open my eyes and find myself looking at the opening scene of the movie on a huge screen that’s descended from the ceiling. The musical score seems to surround us, and all the lights in this exotic treehouse have gone dim.
“You rat,” I say, laughing. “You tricked me.”
“Mad?”
I shake my head, absolutely delighted. “Furious.”
He grins, then puts his arm around my shoulder, and I lean against him, sighing happily as I settle in to watch the innocent Darla Parks turn the tables on that bitch Veronica, thus catching the attention of Peter Cain, the roguish mob boss and nightclub owner who confesses his crimes and goes straight—well, mostly—in order to win Darla’s love.
By the time it’s over, I’m praising whoever invented waterproof mascara and trying very hard to hide the tears that are trickling down my cheeks. Matthew passes me a tissue, and I grimace. “I thought I was being subtle.”
“You were,” he assures me. “That’s why I didn’t pass you the entire box.”
“It’s not fair,” I say. “Now you know I’m the type of girl who cries at everything.”
His brows rise, amusement lighting his face. “Everything?”
“You think I’m exaggerating. But I’m not.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Uh-huh.”
“You know that car commercial with the broken down Chevy on graduation day that dad and the daughter fix up together?”
He lifts a dubious brow. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. I bawl like a baby. And that toilet paper commercial with the little kid running half-naked through the formal dinner party. And that dog food one, with the huge bulldog who lets the little terrier eat first.” I press a hand to my heart and try to blink back the tears the last one has conjured.
“Now you’re just messing with me.”
“I wish I were,” I say, wiping away a tear that got away. “I’m a total softy. So don’t hurt me, okay?”
The words are out of my mouth before I can call them back, and I regret them immediately. Too much, too fast, and what the hell was I thinking? “I’m sorry. I don’t have a lot of filters, and I?—”
But he presses a finger to my lips before I can get the words out. “I won’t. I promise.”
“That was a stupid thing for me to say.” I shake my head, feeling like an idiot. “I mean, that’s not the kind of thing you say on a first date.” I bite my lower lip, then cock my head as I look at him. “This is a first date, right?”
“It’s a date,” he says. “It’s not our first.”
“Really?” I lean back, amused. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember if we’d gone out before. And considering I came over uninvited last time to give you grief, I don’t think it counts. No matter what direction the, um, encounter ended up going.
“Fair enough. But there’ve been dates. At least a half dozen times.”
I gape at him. “Did each goodnight kiss steal my memories? Because I’m a hundred percent sure I’d remember going out with you.”
“Well, the dates might have only been in my head.” He grins. “But they were so vivid I would have thought you’d remember them, too.”
I laugh, delighted by this man. “So they were good?”
“Damn good. Beyond good.”
I let out a long sigh. “Well, that’s a relief. It’s those imaginary dates that you really want to rock. If you can’t come across as awesome in someone else’s fantasies, you’ve got some pretty big problems.”
He chuckles, then moves a bit closer and rests his hand on my thigh.
I’m suddenly extremely aware of my body. And in the best possible way. “So, we’ve had all these dates,” I say, my voice low. “Tell me about them. Especially the first one. How did that happen?”
For a moment, I think he’s going to blow off my question, but just when I fear I’m going to have to come up with a new topic, he says, “I’ve watched you for a while, Aria.”
“Oh.” I lick my lips. The truth is, I’ve watched him, too. But since he’s so often in magazines and on entertainment-related news, that’s not too hard. Or too odd.
“Um, was that watching in a creepy, stalker way?”
He laughs. “No. Wait,” he adds, his brow furrowing. “Are the cameras I planted in your house creepy?”
I use the pillow in my lap to smack him, making him laugh, and definitely lightening the moment.
“I just mean that I’ve seen you out in the world. And I might have asked Nikki what you’re like.”
“Really? No wonder she gave me the—never mind.”
He laughs. “The masks for Masque? Yeah, I should send her some flowers for that.”
“What can I say? I wanted in.”
“Why?”
I open my mouth to tell him—then I remember that he’s still on my suspect list. He’s falling further and further down the list with each moment our banter goes on, and I tell myself sternly that I have to be strong. I can’t trust him just because I’m hot for him.
But maybe I’ll be able to learn more since he’s hot for me, too…
“Masque,” he urges. “Why did you want in?”
“I just … you know.” I lift a shoulder. “You hear stories. I didn’t even realize it was your place. I just thought it sounded … interesting.”
“It can be,” he says. “And sometimes it’s interesting just staying home.”
“Yes,” I say, meeting his eyes as my heart does a little squeeze. It’s a heated moment, full of possibility, and I have no idea why I break it, but I do, dropping my eyes, then looking back up at him with a slightly embarrassed smile. “When you asked Nikki what I was like, why didn’t you ask her to set us up?”
He takes my hand, the action so smooth and natural I’m almost certain he doesn’t even realize he’s done it. “You haven’t exactly been alone,” he says.
“Oh, believe me, I have.” I think of Dexter and my other guy friends, some of whom are more friendly than others. “There’ve been some guys on my arm now and again, but nothing was going anywhere with them.”
“Well, I didn’t know that. Besides,” he adds. “I’m twenty years older than you. I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“Oh.” I lick my lips. “You should have asked.” I hold his gaze, then boldly climb onto his lap to straddle him. “Because it’s actually only nineteen and a half years. And I am interested. I’m very interested.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Don’t,” he says, even as his hands move to cup my ass in a way that feels warm and familiar and enticingly naughty. “Don’t play games with me.”
“I don’t play games,” I tell him. My skirt has ridden up my thighs and is now bunched up at my hips. “A couple of decades don’t scare me. I like a man with enough experience to know who he is. Who knows how not to play games.”
“Except we are playing games.”
“No,” I say, though the word is a lie. Or a partial lie, at least. My need isn’t a game. The heat between my thighs isn’t a game. The craving for his mouth on mine isn’t a game.
And yet, this whole night is a game. Because wanting and craving and needing be damned. No matter how I feel about this man, I came here to get close enough to push open the door to his secrets. To find out the truth about Jenny.
And then—if I have to—to bring Holt and anyone else involved down.
But now … oh, god, right now I don’t know anything about the meet-and-greets. I know nothing about what truly happened to Jenny. I have theories and suspicions but no facts I can act on.
The only thing I have that’s one-hundred percent real is the way I feel about this man. The way he’s looking at me. The intensity with which he wants me.
Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe I’ll regret it.
But tonight, I’m going to take it. And I’m pretty sure that Jenny would understand.