Butterfly (16 page)

“Love you back, baby.”

Wiping her tears with her fingers, Seneca walked out of the bedroom to the bathroom to wash her face. During the taxi ride from Booth’s condo to her apartment, she’d called Luis
to tell him that she was flying to L.A. to shoot a commercial and had nothing to wear. Luis had laughed, then told her to come over and see what she could find.

She returned to her bedroom and scribbled a note to Electra, inviting her and Jayson to come to Long Island for her twenty-first-birthday celebration. Booth had made all the arrangements for a car to take her to the airport, the hotel reservation and having a driver available 24/7 once she arrived in L.A.

Instead of Phillip coming to New York, she was going across the country to see him. Booth had asked if she liked him, and she was forthcoming when she confirmed she did. However, there were times when she was unable to distinguish between what was real and what was fantasy.

She had to be very careful or she would blur the lines between acting and reality. Phillip Kingston was too potent, too masculine to play with and then run away from. Maybe she wouldn’t find herself in an emotional dilemma if she hadn’t slept with him. But it was too late to turn back the clock. Even if she didn’t consciously crave him, her body did.

Each and every time she replayed their lovemaking, her body betrayed her. She’d awake moist, with the area between her legs pulsing with the aftermath of orgasms so strong she had to clench her teeth to keep from crying from the pleasure shaking her from head to toe.

She was looking forward to going to Los Angeles with the excitement of a child waking up on Christmas morning, not only for the experience of shooting a commercial but also to sleep with Phillip Kingston again.

S
eneca strutted toward the baggage claim area at LAX to meet her driver, ignoring the admiring glances directed at her. She could’ve been wearing haute couture instead of a pair of fitted jeans, a man-tailored shirt, a pullover thrown over her shoulders and tied at the neck and four-inch pumps. There was just enough sway and dip in her slender hips to capture the attention of most men and a few women. Oversize sunglasses shielded her eyes from the curious onlookers as she stared straight ahead.

Within minutes of touching down, she’d called Phillip to let him know that she was in Los Angeles and give him the name of her hotel. Something in his voice indicated she’d disturbed him, and she hung up quickly rather than imagine that she’d interrupted his making love to a woman.

She entered baggage claim and spied Phillip wearing a base ball cap and sunglasses standing behind a black-suited man holding up a sign with her name. A smile spread over her
face like the rays of the rising sun. When she’d called him he hadn’t been at home but at the airport waiting for her.

“I’m Seneca Houston,” she told the driver, handing him a garment bag and oversize tote.

The driver lowered his gaze in order not to be caught openly gawking. “Do you have any other bags?”

Seneca shook her head. “No.” She stepped around the man and found herself molded to Phillip’s hard body. Tilting her head, she brushed her mouth over his. “Thank you for meeting me.”

Phillip deepened the kiss, caressing her mouth. “Welcome to the City of Angels. I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

Curving her arms under his broad shoulders, she attempted to get closer. “Thank you.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Phillip whispered against her lips. Someone had recognized him, calling him by name, but he hadn’t turned to acknowledge him. They hadn’t taken more than half a dozen steps when a flashbulb went off.

“King Phillip, who’s the girl?”

Heads snapped, necks craned, as people turned to stare at Phillip and Seneca when they quickened their pace to follow the driver. People were reaching for cameras and camera phones, flashes lighting up the area like a light show. They were practically running to the area where the chauffeur had parked his car, and Seneca prayed she wouldn’t turn an ankle in the heels.

“Is it always like this?” she asked Phillip once they were seated in the rear of the limousine. “Having to run from the paparazzi?”

Taking off his cap, Phillip ran a hand over his cropped hair. His face was flushed with high color. “No.”

“No?” she repeated. “I didn’t know that being with you I would have to run track,” she teased.

“What can I say, baby. This is L.A.—land of the paparazzi.”

“They usually don’t bother people in New York the way they do here. I’ve lost count of the number of actors, models and sports figures I’ve seen strolling the streets of the Big Apple.”

“That’s because people who live in New York believe everyone’s a celebrity—including themselves. No one is more important than a native New Yorker.”

“Which do you prefer, Phillip? New York or L.A.?”

He took off his glasses and stared out the side window at the passing landscape. “I like them both. L.A. is my home, while I do enjoy the modicum of anonymity New York offers.”

Seneca slumped against Phillip while attempting to smother a yawn. Her body was still in East Coast time. “I hope you don’t mind if I use you for a pillow.”

Reaching over, he cradled her head against his chest. “Go to sleep, baby. I’ll wake you when we get to the hotel.”

“Are…are you staying with your parents?” she slurred.

Phillip ruffled her hair. “No. We have adjoining suites at the hotel.”

“Oh.” That was the last word she said before slipping into the comforting embrace of Morpheus.

Seneca woke, not knowing where she was or the time of day. She rolled over, encountering an unmovable, solid object. She sniffed the air, inhaling what was now a familiar aftershave. “Phillip?”

“She awakens.”

“What time is it?”

Going on an elbow, Phillip peered at the clock on the bedside table. “Four-fifteen.”

She moaned softly. “That’s seven-fifteen in New York.” Pushing into a sitting position, Seneca saw a sliver of light coming through drawn drapes. Phillip had undressed her but hadn’t removed her underwear.

“Is that your belly talking?” he asked.

Seneca buried her face against his bare shoulder. “I guess it is.”

“Didn’t you eat during the flight?”

She shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see her in the darkened room. “Not really.”

Swinging his legs over the side the bed, Phillip flicked on the table lamp. “Do you want room service, or would you prefer to eat at the hotel’s restaurant?”

Seneca stared at the corded muscles in his broad back. Phillip Kingston’s body was so beautifully proportioned for a very tall man. He was all muscle and sinew. He probably had less than two percent body fat.

“I don’t mind eating in the restaurant.” She had to get out of the suite or she would end up back in bed. She met Phillip’s gaze when he peered at her over his shoulder and winked at her. “What are you thinking about?”

“My shower or yours?”

Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade. “You shower in your suite and I’ll shower in mine.”

“Are you scared something’s going to happen, baby?”

Seneca wrapped her arms around his waist. “No, I’m not, baby. You know if we share a shower we’re going to end up making love
and
ordering room service.” She trailed tiny kisses down his spine. “Go, so I can get up.”

A change in his breathing told her that Phillip was becoming aroused. He eased her hands from his waist, stood up and
walked across the room to the door connecting her suite to his. He opened and closed the door with a soft click, and Seneca slipped out of bed, retrieved a change of clothes and walked into the en suite bathroom.

Seneca dabbed her mouth with a cloth napkin, folded it, and then placed it beside her plate. She hadn’t realized how hungry and thirsty she’d been until she’d sat down to eat. Having to get up at an ungodly hour to be ready for the car service to drive her to airport had put her out of sorts.

Then there was the interminable waiting to go through airport security and another ninety minutes of waiting to board the jet. Despite flying first-class, she’d been too exhausted to eat, preferring instead to drink water during the six-hour flight. The three-hour time difference also played havoc with her body’s circadian rhythm.

Phillip had made reservations for them at the hotel restaurant. Jaan featured modern French cuisine with Indochinese and California influences. They’d waited in the Writer’s Bar enjoying predinner cocktails until their table was ready. Seneca had enjoyed sitting in the private area that boasted a working fireplace.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked Phillip. They’d hardly exchanged a word over dinner.

His smile grew wider. “You.”

“What about me?” Seneca questioned defensively.

Placing his left hand on the tablecloth, Phillip stared at his outstretched fingers, fingers that could easily palm a basketball, and fingers that he prayed he would someday use to help heal sick and broken bodies.

“Do you realize that you’re very anal? That everything has to be in its own place?” He pointed to her napkin. “Take that napkin. It looks the same as when we first sat down. You even folded it where smudges of lipstick can’t be seen.”

Although Seneca’s mouth was smiling, her eyes weren’t. “Perhaps it’s because I’m a neat freak.”

“It’s more than that, baby.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “If it is, then you tell me what it is,” she challenged.

“You feel this need to be in control.” Phillip ignored her soft exhalation of breath. “Even during the photo shoot you were controlling the action.”

“Perhaps it was because I have more experience in front of the camera than you do.”

Phillip shook his head. “It’s more than that.”

Propping her elbow on the table, Seneca rested her chin on the heel of her hand. “I thought you wanted to go into rehab medicine, not psychiatry.”

“Don’t try and change the subject, Seneca. Why does it always have to be your way?”

She didn’t like the timbre of Phillip’s voice, and where the topic of conversation was going even less. “Where is all of this coming from, Phillip? Are you upset because I’m not falling all over you, because as basketball phenom King Phillip I should be grateful that you even look at me?”

His right eyebrow shot up. “You need to watch your mouth, Seneca. Some of the things that come out of it aren’t very becoming.”

Lowering her arm, Seneca glared across the small expanse of the table separating her from Phillip. “Don’t ever tell me what I can or cannot say.”

“I’m not telling you what not to say. I’m just commenting—”

“Don’t,” she said, cutting him off. “Don’t comment, Phillip.” Pushing back her chair, she stood up and walked out of the restaurant.

Phillip popped up like a jack-in-the-box, staring at her retreating figure. He glanced around the restaurant to find every man looking in the direction where Seneca had been. Seneca Houston was the most exciting and exasperating woman he’d ever met. Signaling the waiter, he signed the check and left the restaurant.

He returned to his suite, literally tearing off his jacket and tie, throwing them on a chair. His frustration level was off the chart. Seneca wasn’t making it easy for him to, as his father would put it, court her. As per her directive, he called her several times a week. Then he had a standing order from a local florist to send her flowers every week. That was something he’d never done with any other woman.

Phillip had wanted to tell Seneca that he was falling in love with her, but he shuddered to think of her response to his passionate revelation. It wasn’t ego that told him that he could have his pick of any woman he wanted but a fact. He’d slept with women old enough to be his mother and some who were unadulterated freaks. Those were the ones who let him do whatever he wanted with them.

Although he wasn’t the first man to sleep with Seneca Houston, he felt as if he had been. Her response to him was natural and unrehearsed, and that was something he hadn’t found with the other women who’d shared his bed.

There were times when he’d believed it was her effortless, timeless beauty that had him lusting after her, but a separation of three thousand miles and sleeping with another woman had proved him wrong. Even before getting into bed with the aspiring actress, Phillip realized she’d become a mere substitute for a woman who’d touched him as no other. He’d had sex with her, got out of bed to shower and then walked out of her North Hollywood apartment, knowing he would never return. A few days later, he dropped by the restaurant where
she waited tables and gave her enough money to pay her rent for the next six months. When she asked him if it was over, he hadn’t lied and told her he had fallen in love. She kissed him, wishing him the best. What Phillip hadn’t realized at the time was that the best would walk away, leaving him staring at her back in a hotel restaurant. Walking across the room, he tapped on the door connecting his suite to Seneca’s.

“What is it?” came her muffled reply.

“May I come in?”

“The door’s unlocked.”

Phillip smiled. She hadn’t locked the door, which meant she hadn’t shut him out completely. Turning the knob, he walked into Seneca’s suite to find her standing at the window staring at the lights of nighttime L.A. She’d taken off her shoes but still hadn’t removed the body-hugging black dress that revealed every curve of her slender body.

“I’m sorry, Seneca.”

“I’m sorry, Phillip.”

They’d apologized in unison. Turning from the window, Seneca stared at the broad shoulders filling out the breadth of the doorway. “I don’t know what it is about you that sets me off,” she whispered.

Leaning against the door frame, Phillip crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s called passion, baby.”

A smile tilted the corners of her mouth upward. “Is that what it is?” He nodded. She took one step, then another, until they were less than an arm’s-length apart. “What are we going to do about it, Phillip?”

Staring down at Seneca’s upturned face, he committed her features to memory. “We’re going to get married.” He knew he’d shocked her, because her mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Married?” she finally gasped.

His arms came down and he cradled her face as gently as he would’ve a newborn. “Yes. I’m in love with you, Seneca Houston.”

Seneca blinked as if coming out of a trance. “But…but I don’t—”

Phillip stopped her words with a kiss that communicated everything he felt for the woman who’d turned his world upside down. “Shush, baby. The only thing I want you to say is ‘I do’ when asked if you take me to be your lawfully wedded husband.”

Seneca did speak when she asked, “When?”

“Tonight. Pack an overnight bag. We’re going to Vegas.”

The princess-set diamonds in the bangle on Seneca’s right wrist competed with those in a matching band on the third finger of her left hand. She hadn’t believed she’d consented to become Mrs. Phillip Kingston until the official at one of Vegas’s many wedding chapels had announced that they were husband and wife.

The world appeared to have stopped spinning on its axis when she changed into a conservative pantsuit while Phillip made arrangements for a car to drive them to the airport where they’d boarded a private jet for Las Vegas. Her heart had beaten a rapid tattoo against her ribs when the sleek jet circled over millions of lights as nightfall descended on the desert.

They hadn’t bothered to check into a hotel, because Phillip wanted to acquire a marriage license before midnight. She’d followed Phillip as if in a trance to a jewelry store where he’d purchased the bracelet as an engagement gift and the wedding band. She slid her plastic across the counter when she paid for an unadorned gold band for her groom. Two hours after
stepping foot on Nevada soil for the first time, she’d become a married woman.