Chapter 6
JANE
“What’s wrong?” A sharp twinge of anxiety shoots through my chest.
The way Roman’s face pales then hardens strikes me in the stomach. He stares down at the ringing phone in his hand, silences it, and lets out a roar.
I jump and release a terrified squeak. “Roman, what is it?”
His expression shifts into something more conciliatory though still upset. At the same time, my phone chimes, startling me. A quick glimpse at the screen confirms it’s Monty.
Why the hell is he calling me now? He should be preparing for the game.
I send the call to voicemail but before I can turn it off an alert pops up at the top of the screen. Roman’s name catches my eye.
Though I’m not proud to admit it, when in the bathroom after the massage, I set up media monitoring on Roman Kingsley. This means I get an alert with any online mention of his name.
I was fascinated by his news of going into movie production, his family’s company, and also the sad fact that he was leaving acting altogether.
What’s happening between us this weekend may be a onetime thing, but I have no less interest in his new career path. I want to watch him succeed because I’ve no doubt that he will.
Before I can hit the alert and sneak a peek at the news on Roman, his voice pulls me out of my musings.
“There’s no easy way to tell you. Have a look for yourself.” He shoves his phone at me, and while I take his, I drop mine back into the pocket of my robe.
Pictures. The screen is a barrage of pictures, and at first, I’m not processing what I’m looking at. But only a few beats later all the images merge into one clear picture.
My stomach plummets to my toes like a rock dropping to the bottom of a lake. Thud.
Images of us. These are pictures from only hours ago, in this very suite.
“What on earth…” My blood cools, my internal temperature dropping fast, until I’m chilled to the bone.
Pictures of me in a bathrobe are on the Internet. I read the article, needing to understand how this happened and more importantly, what’s being said.
With each word I digest, a prickly sensation gathers at the back of my eyes, and the sensation grows stronger as I click on the related links within the article. Panic, maybe something more like anger, hot and unwieldy, robs me of all common sense.
The words jumble and I force myself to look at Roman.
Too tight and tingly, my body doesn’t feel like my own, and this foreign sensation zips through me when I stare at him, his expression flat and unreadable.
What have I done?
Bile rises up my throat.
Who is this man?
“Oh, no. Roman. Oh, my God. This can’t be—”
He inches closer, and his expression of concern and determination, as if he means to placate or soothe me, sends alarm bells clanging through my brain.
I jump away from him. “You’re seeing Palmira Lamont. You’re a…you’re a cheater just like Monty.” I vibrate with rage. “You’re no different, and to make matters worse, you made me an accomplice to your infidelity.”
Palmira Lamont is a Hollywood darling, like Julia Roberts or Jennifer Aniston, only younger. I think she’s a few years older than I am and a rising star. The daughter of an American tycoon and Italian mother, she has been linked to Roman in the past, if memory serves me right.
“Jane, no.” He lunges for me, but I’m just as quick and sidestep his hold. “I’m not in a relationship with Palmira.”
“Then what do you call this?” I shove the device at him and point to the words, the paragraphs about these stupid photos.
Not long into the story enters the mention of the beautiful, talented actress, and of course, not to miss the chance to hint at a scandal because everyone loves a good scandal, the reporter goes on to speculate what this mystery woman—that would be me—in a bathrobe in what looks to be a hotel suite with Roman Kingsley could mean for his relationship with his girlfriend, Palmira.
I click on a related article about the happy couple.
My finger furiously flicks through the countless images of Roman and the actress over the past many months.
The myriad of photos are a mixture of formal, regal almost, some on the red carpet, and casual and cozy, but all insinuate one thing—Roman and Palmira are an item.
“God, I’m such a fool. You’re an actor. Of course, I never stood a chance at catching you in a lie. Monty was one thing. I’d given him the benefit of the doubt because of my misguided belief that he was a good guy. I mean, I’ve known him for most of my life. He’d never hurt me. Yeah, right.”
My sarcasm and scathing bitterness cause both of us to tense, but he quickly rolls over any shock and resumes his quest to close the gap between us.
Muscles tight, stomach roiling, I hold up a hand to stop him. “You must be one hell of a liar. I can’t wait to hear how you explain all this.”
The scathing words spewing from me do as I intend. Roman stops advancing on me, and the way his face hardens at my comment punches me in the gut. I can’t feel sorry for him, or feel anything at all where he’s concerned.
He’s a liar and a cheat.
God, what am I? Some kind of magnet for a certain kind of human garbage?
“Jane, it isn’t what it looks like, and if you’ll calm the fuck down and give me a chance to explain, I will.”
In a jerky nod, my chin points at him, encouraging him to go on. I don’t want his lies, but in a bizarre, can’t-turn-away-from-the-train-wreck kind of way, I’ve got to see this through.
I ran from Monty only a day ago and what did that do? Only delay the inevitable. Delay the pain and anguish.
“All those pictures of Pal and me, they aren’t real.” Harshly, he rakes a hand through his hair. “They were planned, orchestrated for the media.”
“Pal? Well, it sure sounds like you know her well. Go on. I’ll admit, I’m curious to see just how creative you’re gonna get with this made-up story of yours.” I cross my arms over my chest, less as a barricade and more out of fear that I might crumble if I don’t hold myself tight.
Why did I let myself get swept off my feet?
I fell for all of this. The suite. The movie star. His swoony smirks and wicked tongue.
Gah, I really need to give up on men and sex altogether. I have the shittiest taste in men.
His cheek muscle tics, and it’s plain to see how tightly he’s clenching his jaw. His dark eyes are almost incendiary, locked on me, and threatening to burn me to ash. There’s no doubt he’s determined to make me see things his way.
Why, I don’t know. This was never meant to last past the weekend. It doesn't make a difference anyway. That’s why I don't understand why it hurts the way it does.
We stand off, both of us tense, when the ringing of his phone cuts through the silence. Roman looks down at it, hits the screen, and groans.
Frustrated and wanting this over, I snap at him, “What now? Who is it?”
“My father. He’s probably calling about this. He’s already texted. Fuck.”
He paces, and my heart pinches, somewhat sympathetic to his situation after what he’s shared about his father.
No. No. No.
His problems shouldn’t matter to me. I shouldn’t care.
I steel my spine. “You know, you’re going to have to face him eventually.”
“I will. I want to see if he leaves a message.” His phone chimes, and on a long exhale, he taps the screen and follows the prompts to enter his passcode.
“You’re playing his message on speaker phone?” This surprises me.
“Yeah. It isn’t going to be pretty, maybe even embarrassing because my father can be an asshole, but Jane,”—he pauses in hitting the number to play his new message and captures my gaze—“I don’t have any secrets from you.
I’m not lying to you about Palmira. Those pictures—they were just for the media.
At first, it started as a way to generate buzz for our upcoming movie.
The lead actors getting involved is so cliché but great for the press and to get people wanting to see the movie. ”
His tone and gaze are both so sincere and something else, something raw and imploring, that they stoke the barely flickering flame of hope low in my belly. Hope that this time with him won’t be tainted with lies and infidelity.
My silly heart knots and flips, and despite no more proof than his word, I nod and he presses the screen.
Do I believe him? I want to.
A deep, booming voice, loud and insistent like the beating of drums, blares from the phone. “Roman, what the fuck is this? I’m so goddamn tired of this bullshit.”
Alexander Kingsley’s voice is velvety conviction, and despite how upset he is, I can tell where Roman gets his commanding confidence from. “I told you not to make me regret bringing you into AKS. Fucking call me. You said you were serious—”
Roman taps the screen and ends the call. “He’s going to kick me out of AKS before I even have a chance to show him what I’m capable of. Shit, I wouldn’t put it past him to get on a plane today and come to Houston.”
Spinning away from me, he tosses the phone onto the sofa and marches toward a window. “I fucked this up. Goddammit.”
At a loss for how to comfort him, I pull up the latest Roman media notification on my phone and stare down at the same article that was on his, or more specifically, the pictures.
The two of us in bathrobes, standing close. They are grainy, poor quality images but loaded with sexual overtones and innuendo. I recall the instant the shot was taken, and the irony is that nothing was going on.
An innocent moment.
We were only talking. We weren’t even alone, though whoever took the picture was smart enough not to get the massage therapists in the picture.
Like he said about all the shots with Palmira, so much can be misinterpreted and easily give the wrong impression.
With his back still to me, his fingers interlace and lock behind his neck, every fiber of his being rigid. When I glance down at the pictures again, I’m instantly knocked back on my heels.
The solution is obvious.
Suddenly fizzing with hope, I venture closer to him. “So this arrangement you have with Palmira, does that mean you know her well?”
He peers over his shoulder at me, skeptical and intrigued. “Yeah. Why?”
Still unsure if we can pull off my idea but growing more confident as the seconds tick by, I take another step toward him.
“I think I know how to fix this.”
Once more, I flip the phone around and show him the pictures of us. If he’s like me, he doesn’t need to see them—they are emblazoned on the inside of my eyelids—but it’s important for him to be looking at them when I say this next bit.
“This could be you and Palmira.”
“What?” He takes the phone from me and further examines the pictures.
“Look at them. The quality is shit, which works to our advantage, and though Palmira’s a little taller than I am, I think you could say it’s her. Tell the media that whatever hacks wrote this story should do their homework before publishing because they got it wrong.”
Slowly, he raises his head to me, eyes sparkling, and a slow, triumphant—even a little dirty—grin skates across his face.
“The only thing is, you’d have to talk to Palmira. Make sure she would back you up. Do you think this is something she’d go along with?”
His body jolts to life, humming with an energy that wasn’t there a beat before. “Holy shit, yes.”
Closing the gap between us, his steps are self-assured and his gaze never strays from mine, bright and marvelous. “Fuck, you’re a genius. This might work.”