Bound to Her: Three Dates With a Billionaire (5 page)

Few people knew that I was dating Troy, Cindy being one of them. Tonight that might change. Did I go backstage after, or just come home? I’d bet on coming home. I hadn’t heard from him since our encounter earlier in the day, and I was still shivering from the memory. It had kept me from concentrating on my work all afternoon, but I’d managed to finish the pattern I was carefully recreating. I was lucky that none of the schoolgirls had helped themselves to the little stones while I’d been—otherwise occupied.

Cindy turned. She’d opted for classy black pants, much better than mine, and a pale blue sleeveless silk top. And gold jewelry. Cindy was still working as an escort for Madame X. Technically I was too, but I’d refused a couple of dates that had been offered me, even though Madame assured me I wouldn’t get a date with Mr. Witley, who Troy had rescued me from. I didn’t tell her I was with Troy, cautious because he seemed to want to keep us quiet. Until today. Today he’d warmed me from the outside in by claiming me in front of schoolgirls with cameras, and then from the inside out, in private. He’d done me good, to misquote Mae West.

Excitement bubbled inside me. I hadn’t been to the theater since I’d arrived in New York. No, wait, I’d gotten cheap tickets for
Wicked
once. Right at the back of the top gallery, the same week I got here. I’d loved it, thought I was on my way. That was before reality set in. Two waitressing jobs to pay rent on an apartment in Brooklyn didn’t give me much spare money. Troy lived a couple of blocks from the museum uptown, in a swanky building. but I didn’t resent that. The knowledge that such places existed gave me the urge to get one of my own. One day. Even on a curator’s pay I should be able to afford something decent.

Here we had a one-bedroom place with a living and kitchen area, a bathroom with a tiny shower barely enough to get clean in, and a sofa bed. That was mine. Cindy was working her way up in the modeling world. She was making headway, too, she’d had a job last week. Meantime, the job with Madame X kept her in clothes and makeup, necessary for her job, or so she claimed. Escort work must be lucrative, but I wasn’t a naïve fool, not any more at any rate. The best tippers were the ones who got ‘extra services.’ Cindy was generous with her figure-hugging outfits, too. She was much better than me at dealing with clients.

We set out, feeling great, but throwing jackets on over what we were wearing. We didn’t want to attract attention on the subway. We might treat ourselves to a cab later. That was if Troy didn’t—I had no idea what would happen, but I had a twenty I’d put aside as my contribution to the cab. Just in case.

We got to the theater with twenty minutes to spare and we went in, flourishing our tickets. Like Troy had said, we had great seats at the front of the circle, out of Troy’s immediate eyeline. Would I make him nervous? I was feeling nervous enough for both of us.

The theater was in midtown, one of the historic places that had built New York’s reputation as a center of the performing arts.

I stopped before we went in. “Wow.” Pictures of Troy in character as Antony, staring with lovelorn longing at his costar were emblazoned on the outside. He had to pass these every time he came in. Where was the stage entrance? I swallowed my excitement and tried to act cool as we went into the marble-flagged lobby and worked our way through the throng to the stairs that led to our seats.

I’d never seen the inside. It had been built in the early thirties, so it was all geometric shapes and glass shaded lights. I loved it, from the traditional red-curtained stage to the gold-edged balconies. People chattered, the gossip growing as the time for curtain up came and went. As my anxiety levels rose, I couldn’t imagine how Troy felt.

Then the curtain rose and I thought I was going to vomit. Shit, how did actors do this?

We settled to watch.

Troy didn’t look my way once. He was engrossed in his work, playing against one of the best actresses to come out of England this century, and that was saying a lot. She was brilliant, scintillating as Cleopatra. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Even when she got hot and heavy with Troy I lost myself in the scenes.

At the interval, I turned to Cindy. She held out her hand, palm down, and waggled it from side to side. “Eh, it’s interesting, but I can’t say it’s my thing.”

I’d wanted more than “Interesting.” I’d wanted her to be blown away. Fuck,
I’d
wanted to be blown away, but I just wasn’t. I loved seeing him on stage, and I loved the setting. They’d used Roman settings, with a touch of exotica when they moved to Egypt, and it was beautiful. They proclaimed the lines clearly. So what was missing?

I got it half way through the second act. Engagement. It was as if Troy was phoning it in. I wanted to cry, but only for him. I’d still tell him I was proud of him.

T
roy

After leaving the museum, I knew I could do it. Antony had been bothering me for weeks, nagging at me to get him right, but I couldn’t get hold of him, hadn’t found that seed inside him that I needed for the connection. At this rate the show would belong to Sonia. She was a great actress, and a great costar, but I wanted more.
I could do it.

Before I’d become superhero Foxman, I’d worked on smaller budget movies with big ambitions. I’d gathered a reputation for edgy, exciting acting. Fuck, I should have kept with them instead of letting a franchise swoop me up and put me in front of a fucking green screen. I’d gotten lazy. For the first time in years I was working, instead of walking through my part, letting the costume and my looks do it for me.

And I couldn’t get it. Sonia had worked hard with me, but although we’d managed competence, we weren’t there yet. We were both praying that we’d work it out in the previews. A play sometimes came to life in front of an audience.

When I’d left the museum earlier, part of what was missing slotted into place. When I’d fucked Cassie in that little room, it was because I couldn’t help myself. I’d
needed
her. It wasn’t the danger that had driven my libido right up to the sky, it was her. Like a compulsion, or an addiction.

Antony had Cleopatra like that. She’d made herself irresistible to him and it wasn’t just that she was leading him around by his dick, it was—something else.

Fuck, I was nearly there. At least I had one more piece. I started from the inside out, which was why I always stunk in early rehearsals. It was also why I worked hard to be word perfect before rehearsals started, so I could concentrate on the character.

While I was frantically working shit out, that idiot Steve was talking, and talking. Yeah, I knew the museum meant a lot to my old man, which was why I behaved myself here. Well, within reason, at any rate. I nodded and smiled, and that seemed to work out for him, but I didn’t dare leave my train of thought, because it would go. I needed to get to my phone and note a few things down, but if I did it now, I might not be helping Cassie’s case.

I would work for her to get what she wanted—a paid job at the museum. If she had that, she’d be so much happier, and less tired. She had circles under her eyes today. She was working too hard, and she wouldn’t let me ease her burden. While I respected her for that, it also frustrated me that she wouldn’t let me help.

After refusing lunch with Steve, pleading pressure of work, I headed out. The back rooms of the museum were a lot like backstage in a theater. Lots of wrapped parcels, drawers and draped paintings, looking like scenery. It even smelled familiar, of dust and age. I could have lingered, if I weren’t with Steve. The man got on my last nerve. I knew it was his job to fundraise, but did he have to be so fucking tactless about it? And while he was at it, he should be more respectful to his staff. He was too short with Cassie. She deserved better. She was more qualified than I’d ever be.

I left the building and walked quickly away. School groups I did not need. They could keep me busy for hours. I was never more sure who they wanted more—me or Foxman. Maybe I’d find out once the play opened, once they realized Foxman was good and dead. Because one thing was for sure—I wasn’t going back. Even if the franchise begged me. They could cast somebody else in the part. They’d done that shit before, when an actor had died on them.

Once I was a block away, I let up. People didn’t bother me much in New York. they didn’t assume I was always on, always working. I could go into restaurants, even take someone out for the evening, and I fully intended to, once I’d settled into the run. One special someone. Smiling, I carried on walking. The important thing was not to let anybody snag your attention, meeting you eye to eye. Then they thought they had you. I wasn’t one of those pissants who insisted nobody looked them in the eye on set or off, but I understood the reasons.

Today was one of those crisp, Fall New York days I enjoyed, but I was too wound up to enjoy anything. Except Cassie, of course. That woman had gotten right under my skin and I couldn’t see an end to us. Didn’t want to.

My apartment was half a mile from the museum, probably a touch less. I nodded to the concierge and headed upstairs to my place. It was almost our place now. I could smell her sweet, feminine perfume in every room, and the sight of the toothbrush I’d bought for her, nestling next to mine in the bathroom never failed to make me smile.

I had time for coffee and a bite to eat before I had to get to the theater. I wanted to block a scene out one more time, especially with what I knew now. What Cassie had taught me. I missed her when she wasn’t there. I could get drunk on her body.

Just the way Antony felt about Cleopatra. It wasn’t just his political ambitions. He’d been heading for the top before he’d met her.

But there was something I wanted to find first.

By the laptop in the living room lay a leather binder I hadn’t opened since I arrived here. I did now. Leafing through the papers I found what I was looking for. Cassie signed the fucking agreement.

The morning after our first date, when I’d left the hotel thinking she was another whore, employed to keep me happy, she’d signed it before she left. I hadn’t known.

It was a long time since I’d met anyone so true, so honest. She hadn’t lost that essential core of integrity. I decided she wouldn’t lose it ever, if I could help it.

When I’d been blown all over the media, when the last whore had blabbed about my kinky behavior to anybody who paid her enough, I thought I’d hit rock bottom. I’d been wrong, because I got caught. It took everything my father had, all his influence, to keep that quiet. After that I turned myself around. I took huge care to be discreet, and when I took a woman to bed, which wasn’t often, I did it doggy-style, and acted careless, so she wouldn’t guess.

Now I’d met someone better than me by miles. If I told her that she’d never believe me.

I sat, one ankle crossed over my knee, reading the document through. My Dad had made me use it. Anybody talking about my private life would face the might of his attorneys, which meant Charles Manson would come out of jail before they did. I had to make all my friends and all the women I took to bed sign it.

No more. I wouldn’t take that particular humiliation again. If my father wanted the document signed, he could do it himself.

I tore the document up and just to make sure, put it through the shredder instead of stuffing it in the trash.

As the last corner of the paper was eaten by the hungry machine, my phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket, and glanced at the ID. Fuck. But I’d better answer it, or she’d just carry on pestering me. How had she got hold of this number? I thought she’d lost all interest in me. I’d prayed that she had. My Dad kept tabs on her, so I knew what her current name was and where she lived. I didn’t want to know any more.

I went over to the window, staring outside as I answered and the walls closed in on me. “Hi, mother.” I’d stopped calling her mom years ago.

“Hello, Troy. How are you?”

All the better for not seeing you.
“I’m fine.” I deliberately didn’t ask how she was.

“My reading group is full of talk about you. Why didn’t you tell me you were in town? I’d call that disrespectful.”

“We haven’t seen each other in ten years.” And even then it had been because I couldn’t avoid her. She’d insisted on the meeting. “I don’t even know your last name.” I crossed my fingers. I didn’t want her to know my Dad was keeping her under observation.

“I married again recently. I’m Mrs. Martin Wetherspoon the third.”

The name meant nothing to me. “I can’t say I know any Wetherspoons.” That included her.

“You do now.” She’d always been that way, refusing to take a hint. Maybe she thought nobody could resist her, that all she had to do was crook her finger and people came running. They did. They ran the other way. All but the sycophants who refused to see any harm in her.

My mother was thin, fashionable and a socialite. None of which interested me. “Did you want something, or was this just for a chat?”

“No dear, I just thought I’d catch up. Remember the old days, before your father took you away from me?” More like I begged my father to take me away. I repressed my snort of derision. “You adored me then. And my friends. They adored you right back.” I froze. I could have been an icicle, or a victim of the Ice Man in the movies I used to act in. My feet had turned to blocks of ice.

I cleared my throat. “I remember.” I wouldn’t give her the pleasure of hearing the quaver in my voice.

She continued cheerfully. “Well, the Wetherspoon family is one of the oldest in New York. I’m back home.”

Bad news. My heart plummeted to my boots. My mother had been one of the leading lights of New York society in her youth. She’d attended Bryn Mawr and married the day after she graduated. Her family considered she’d married below her station. Nobody was good enough for a New York socialite, except another New York socialite.

“Guess what?” she said brightly. “I’m coming to see you tonight. I’m sure if you knew I was in town you’d have sent me tickets, but never mind, I have them anyway. We’re sitting right at the front, in the stalls. I’d have taken a box but not even I could get one. You’re very popular, it seems.” She sounded disapproving, but then the bright tone returned. “It’s the first night of your preview, isn’t it? You can introduce me to Sonia Riley. I’ve heard she’s simply magnificent as Cleopatra. I guess all you need to do is follow her around like a puppy. I’m bringing Joyce Grant and Bunty McFall with me. They can’t wait to see you again.” As if nothing was wrong, she carried on. Her voice took me right back to that terrible apartment on the Upper West Side, a part of the city I never willingly revisited these days. My apartment here was on the East Side. Even that was too close. “My husband is too frail at the moment. He’s recovering from a heart attack.” With her as his wife that news didn’t surprise me. I felt sorry for the poor sap. “He’ll be so pleased to meet you when you visit.”