Chapter Sixteen
Sterling
Luckily, I made it home before I got sick.
Our perfect night—and yes, I called it that but only in my mind, never to be spoken out loud—had been ruined as soon as Denis asked me about Dahlia.
“How the hell did he find out? How much does he know?” Wild with panic and anxiety, I’d become physically ill, and couldn’t stop the pain shooting through my stomach.
I changed into pajamas, but sleep was a faint memory, though it was after one in the morning. I paced my living room, frantically replaying the words he’d flung at me.
“How are you and Dahlia Dumont related?”
“Okay, okay. So he doesn’t know anything. He’s fishing. Somehow he’d made a connection between us. It couldn’t have been the profile piece on me—I made sure to clear it with production. If I say nothing, he’ll get bored and forget about it. Denis only cares about hockey and sex.”
It would be harder to forget what happened tonight between us.
If I’d had a hint I’d become this panting, sweaty mess of need the moment he touched me, I would never have agreed to sleep with him.
For weeks, my brain short-circuited from our single kiss.
That alone should’ve been the first clue that Denis would be trouble.
“Who are you kidding?” I muttered. “You wanted it as much as he did. More, even.” Denis showed me tenderness.
A sweet gentleness I hadn’t known he possessed.
I’d thought we’d have sex and I’d walk away.
Instead, I found passion, and somewhere in the muddle, I lost my peace of mind, while strugglingly valiantly to hold on to my heart.
Growing up in Hollywood, sex had been everywhere.
Dahlia was always falling in and out of love with her leading men, and Marisel would bring boyfriends to the house if Dahlia was making a movie and was away on location.
No one ever thought about the young boy wandering around the giant house in Bel-Air, hearing and seeing things not meant for a child’s ears and eyes.
I figured I was strong. Never easily swayed by the physical.
I could appreciate a good-looking man. Sex was nice, but it had its place.
The rare times the tension built up from working too hard without a break, I’d find someone from the discreet service I’d joined.
I’d rent a hotel room, and they’d come for the night.
The men had served a purpose, and I’d been set for another few months.
So why did Denis have to be the one to turn me on my head? My plan should’ve worked. I’d had it all figured out—sex with Denis would be like with every other man I’d been with. One shot and good-bye.
Instead, I wanted to hold Denis tight and never let him go.
Even as I dressed and walked away, my body ached to remain in his bed, wrapped in his powerful arms. I wanted the kisses that made me weak and that sexy French accent whispering in my ear.
The wicked grin that melted my bones and turned me into a puddle of desire.
I couldn’t even use the excuse that I was drunk, like I’d been at Adrian’s wedding. I’d initiated this—practically threw myself at him. Of course he’d be happy to oblige. What man would turn down sex when offered?
I sank into a chair with my head in my hands.
I never imagined a man like Denis Bouvier could be such a generous lover.
He could have anyone he desired. He’d been voted one of the most eligible men in sports, handsomest hockey player, a gay icon of the league.
He’d modeled in Paris and walked in New York Fashion Week.
My humiliation was complete. I’d made it so damn easy for him.
Everyone at Adrian’s party knew we’d left to have sex—would Denis brag about how I couldn’t keep my hands or lips off him?
I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my fists.
Stop thinking about him. It’s only sex. More important was what the hell to do with Denis’s question about Dahlia.
I could make light of it, tell Denis he needed glasses or that I should be so lucky to be related to one of the most famous faces in the world. The fact that we both had dark hair and blue eyes was a pretty flimsy connection.
My best option? Ignore him completely.
It was three a.m. before I finally closed my eyes, and I didn’t wake up until close to noon. I checked my messages and had three texts from Adrian—the first saying he was sorry he didn’t say good-bye, a second asking if I’d had a good time, and the last asking if Denis and I were now friends.
“Friends.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “How the hell do I answer that?” My body still hummed from his touch, and my ass was sore, but I loved it.
Of course we’re friends. He fucked my brains out, but I ran away because I was scared of how he made me feel.
Oh, and he mentioned my mother who no one knows is my mother because she won’t admit she ever had a child.
I laughed so hard I cried.
“God, I’m a reality show in the making.”
My phone pinged, and by this time I was afraid to look, so I decided, sore or not, I needed to ignore everything, get out, and keep to my routine. Half an hour of mind-clearing yoga, plus a good run, would reset my focus.
I winced at my reflection in the mirror. “Late nights are terrible for the skin.” I’d retained enough of the Beverly Hills mindset to be vain about my appearance and vowed to spend the afternoon giving myself a much-needed facial and skin treatment.
Feeling more rejuvenated with these decisions made, I did my half hour of yoga and could feel the knots of anxiety melt from my shoulders and neck.
I laced up my sneakers, grabbed a water bottle, and set off for my run.
Forty-five minutes and five miles later, I returned home, a sweaty mess but with my self-control on the right track.
I showered and ate, planning to watch some television.
I sat on the couch, the news playing in the background, but my thoughts were on Dahlia.
In a way, I felt sorry for her. I couldn’t imagine growing up in such an insular community, then being forced to run away from everyone I knew to keep my freedom.
She could’ve left me behind or given me up.
Nowadays single actresses routinely had babies without being married, and had high-profile adoptions, but forty years ago the industry wasn’t as open-minded and enlightened.
Did I have a right to judge her decisions?
But immediately, I rejected any sympathy for her.
Growing up, she’d barely been present in my life.
Her lovers had received more attention than I ever did.
I’d never received a single birthday or Christmas present.
No one had shown up to my school plays. Dahlia steadfastly refused to acknowledge my existence and would rather pay me off than admit I was her child.
People could claim she’d taken care of me, given me food, clothing, shelter, and medical attention, and it was true.
But there’d never been a good-night kiss or someone to hold me when I was sick.
No family pictures of me growing up—at Christmas or any holiday.
Rejection was a hell of a hard pill to swallow, and five million dollars couldn’t make up for wanting a mother’s love.
“Why couldn’t either of them at least have pretended to care?”
None of this reminiscing was getting my work done for the week. I read through production reports and made notes. The city was gearing up for an election next year, and it promised to be an ugly one.
Later on, feeling claustrophobic, I went for a walk, heading down to Riverside Park.
I stood, watching the gray waters of the river flow past. I wondered what Denis was doing.
I wondered why I cared. I was happy he’d left me alone.
Obviously, he had no desire to run after me, since here I stood alone. It was what I wanted.
Wasn’t it?
I’d only worn a sweat shirt and shivered. Time to go home.
I turned the corner to Central Park West, and my heart leaped seeing Denis under the awning, chatting up the doorman. A shopping bag dangled from one hand, and I watched as Denis pulled out a sweat shirt and cap and handed them to him.
I strolled up. “Bribing my doormen, Denis?”
He turned the full force of that charming smile on me, and damned if my traitorous body didn’t respond.
“No, Mr. Forest, he wasn’t,” Carmine protested, and I shook my head.
“I’m only joking, don’t worry. Thanks.” I walked through the door Carmine held open for me.
Of course Denis followed, and as much as I wanted to tell him to get the hell away from me, I couldn’t form the words. Now that I’d tasted the forbidden fruit, I was addicted and craved more.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right. You ran away so quickly last night.”
“You’re so kind and considerate.” I pushed the elevator button.
He put his hand on my shoulder, and I gazed up at his surprisingly serious face. “I am. What made you leave?” His voice dropped to a husky rasp. “I thought it was special.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. “It was good.” The doors slid open, and I entered, Denis coming with me.
“Good?” He crowded me into the corner, and I couldn’t move. All that thick golden hair lay in long waves to his shoulders, and he skimmed his fingers across my cheek. “It was better than good. You felt it too. I know you did.”
I forced my lips to a smile. “I bet you say that to all the guys. I’ve heard the stories.”
Anger turned the gentle warmth in his eyes into hard chips of onyx. “I thought you were a legitimate newsman. Don’t you know not to believe everything you read on the Internet?”
We reached my floor, and I took out my keys. My damn hands shook, and to my utter horror, I dropped them when I tried to unlock the door. He picked them up and did it for me.
Without a word, I opened the door a crack. “Thanks. But you can’t come in. I have work to do.”