Authors: Beth Kery
His expression shifted. “I waited for hours and hours for you by the statue after the shoot. I thought maybe you were held up, helping Seth, but when I went back inside, the studio was empty. Everyone, including Seth, was gone.”
“That’s not true,” she said, irritation melting away the haze of mortification and shock that had settled on her since Everett had greeted her like an old friend earlier. “Why would you bother to say that when you know perfectly well that I’ll know you’re lying?”
His expression stiffened. “Yeah, why would I? It would be stupid to lie about it. I was
at
that statue.”
“
I
was at that statue.”
Something flickered across his face. “How long were you there?”
“More than an hour,” she muttered after a pause, hating to have to admit the truth to him. “I thought maybe you’d been held up.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m serious. Why would I lie about . . .” She faded off as something struck her. “The statue of the seven muses, right? At the entrance of the studio?”
He shook his head mutely.
“There’s more than one statue at United Studios?” she asked, understanding dawning.
“If there is, I didn’t know it until now. I was talking about the statue of Leon Schuster,” he said, referring to the founder of United Studios. “The one in that little park area by the café?”
“I was at the statue of the seven muses. By the front entrance.”
“I’ve never seen it.” Something about the flat incredulity of his tone told her he was telling the absolute truth. She exhaled shakily.
Of course.
Superstar Everett Hughes wouldn’t use the visitor’s entrance to the large studio.
“But you were there,” he murmured. “You went to meet me.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And you went to meet me.”
Joy swallowed thickly. She’d been more affected by that heated encounter with a stranger than she cared to admit. Her behavior on that afternoon had bothered her deeply, as had being stood up in the aftermath. But in the weeks and months that followed, she’d been too caught up with treatment, too focused on survival to dwell on an uncharacteristic moment of sexual promiscuity for long.
Now all of it came back to her in a rush. Her embarrassment. Her attraction. The mesmerizing quality of Everett Hughes’s eyes.
“It was a misunderstanding,” Everett said, his nostrils flaring slightly.
She lowered her head. “All of it was.”
He touched her elbow and waited for her to meet his stare. “Not all of it.”
She swallowed thickly.
“Will you go with me to the premiere tomorrow night?” he asked.
She grimaced. “Everett, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have anything to wear.” It’d been the lame excuse she used with her uncle because she didn’t feel up to a huge public spectacle, but it was technically the truth, as well.
He glanced down at her figure appraisingly. “Katie and you are about the same size, even if you are a little taller. I’m sure she brought more than one dress—she usually takes the contents of a walk-in closet with her for an overnight stay.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even know her.”
“Wear what you’ve got on then. We’ll make a pact. I won’t change clothes, either. I hate dressing up for these stupid things.”
She studied him for signs that he was joking, but no . . . he was completely serious. She even got the impression he was hoping she’d agree with his proposal.
“If I go, I’m not going like this,” she assured him, thinking how out of place she’d feel going to such a high-profile event on Everett’s arm. She’d melt in embarrassment if she appeared under the microscope of the world wearing jean shorts and a T-shirt.
“Whatever you want. Just say you’ll go.”
“I don’t know,” she hedged, her thoughts swirling around her head like a jerky Tilt-A-Whirl ride. His fingers tightened ever so slightly on her arm.
“Please?” he murmured.
Her mouth dropped open. She knew it was foolish, but it was difficult to deny an entreating Everett Hughes. She dared any straight woman on the planet to try.
“Okay,” she whispered.
His mouth tilted into a grin. Warmth flooded her. She’d forgotten the impact of seeing that smile up close and personal. She found herself smiling back. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.
“First things first,” he murmured, tapping his thumb. “Give me your phone number. There’s no way in hell I’m going to take the chance of your disappearing for another fourteen months.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Everett stood in the shadowed entryway of a brownstone that was up for sale. He watched the entrance of Harry’s Brew and Bake unblinkingly. Katie and he had left with their coffees almost immediately after he’d won Joy’s consent to go out with him tomorrow night. He’d walked Katie to the Wicker Park townhome where Rill and she were staying with a friend this weekend. He’d told himself he’d catch a cab over to his hotel, but found himself retracing his steps back to the coffee shop. One surreptitious glance in the window told him that Joy was still in there with her friends.
After the hot, oppressive day, a storm brewed. Dark gray clouds on the southwestern horizon rushed toward the city. Thunder rumbled ominously. He took a step back in the entryway when a hot wind rushed down the street, bending some of the young saplings lining the sidewalk until he wondered if they’d snap. The air—his very blood—felt charged with electricity.
Joy walked out of the café with her friends when the dry squall remitted slightly. She planted her long, bare legs as she shouted a cursory good-bye. The Weismans did the same, clearly as intent on getting home before the storm hit as Joy appeared to be. He heard Max’s deep voice before it was carried away by another gust of wind. Joy’s short hair whipped around her head, and the T-shirt she wore plastered against her breasts. She nodded, waved and hurried in the opposite direction from the couple.
He sprang out of the entryway. He ran down the street holding his hat in his hand, hurling himself against the wind like a running back against a monster defensive line, keeping Joy’s pale T-shirt in the center of his vision the entire time.
He was behaving purely on instinct.
It started to rain when he got halfway down the block. Thunder cracked, and a second later it started to pour so heavily he was blinded. He flopped on his hat, the bill providing his eyes the chance to blink out the water so he could see. Joy opened a wrought iron fence gate and dashed between it, her head ducked against the torrent.
“Joy!”
The rain pounded on the pavement so hard, she couldn’t hear him. She raced toward the front steps of a brownstone. He was about to lose her . . . again.
“Joy,”
he bellowed, running down the wet sidewalk, holding his hat in place.
She still didn’t appear to hear him. She opened the heavy wooden door and ducked her head out of the downpour. His heart dived. He opened his mouth to give one last desperate shout, but she paused suddenly on the threshold and hesitated. She turned and looked back. The wind whipped water into his eyes, but even in his half-blinded state, he felt her stare on him. For a second as he ran, he held his breath.
Would she turn away?
She backed into the doorframe, her front facing him, waiting. Electricity made the hair on his forearms stand on end. Lightning split the gray sky, and thunder boomed. He raced up the front steps, squinting to see her. Her exquisite face gleamed with moisture. Water dripped from her lips. Her hair spiked onto her cheeks and clung to her head. Her new haircut emphasized her elegant neck and the graceful shape of her skull. Earlier, when he’d been talking to her at the café, he’d felt an urge to cup the back of her head in his palm.
“Come in,” he thought he heard her say when he stomped up the last step.
He entered a stuffy foyer with a hallway to the right and a flight of stairs to the left. Joy shut the door behind him, and the roar of the rain became a muffled hum. He took off his hat and wiped his face of dripping water before he turned to her. She was watching him, her arms crossed loosely beneath her breasts. He read the question in her large eyes.
“I’m not usually so impatient,” he explained, swiping his hand over his wet hair. “But tomorrow night started to seem like an awfully long time when I’ve been waiting since last year.”
Her lips quivered. He found himself longing to witness her full-out smile. There was something a little sad about her . . . poignant. Lovely. Looking at her was like glimpsing a crack in the matrix of the universe. The world really was a larger, more incredible place than he’d ever considered. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She dropped her arms, and his gaze dropped to her breasts outlined in clinging, wet fabric. He felt his body stir.
“I’m upstairs,” she said, pointing, her voice tickling in his right ear. She had a low, melodic voice that reminded him a little of the actress Kate Winslet’s, whom he admired greatly. But Joy’s voice was even sultrier . . . sexier.
“You’re sure it’s okay?”
“Yes.”
She walked in front of him and headed up the stairs. Her legs looked smooth and damp, well-muscled and slender. When she got to the landing, she dug in the pocket of her jean shorts, the action tugging wet fabric against the juncture of her thighs. He stared at the numeral 3 on the front of her door and made himself consider the Dodgers-Mets series opening in New York today.
The door swung open and he followed her inside. Cool air hit his wet body.
“Oh . . . I’m sorry,” she said, kicking off her sandals and rushing through the foyer. “I left the air-conditioning on high. It was so stifling when I left this morning.”
He stood there, dripping. He could see Joy straight ahead of him, standing in a hallway, fiddling with a thermostat. She turned to him, shivering.
“Come in,” she said, beckoning.
“I’m going to get your floors all wet,” he said, nodding at the gleaming hardwood.
“I already did. It’s nothing a towel won’t dry up.”
He entered a large expanse, consisting of a living area to the right and a kitchen and dining area to the left. Three windows at the end of the living space had a long, cushioned window seat beneath them and were bracketed by two well-stocked, built-in bookshelves. Water pounded against the windowpanes and on the roof above them.
“Come on,” she said with a wave, sounding breathless. She led him down a dark hallway and took a left. She flipped on a light. He poked his head through the doorframe and saw her pulling out towels from beneath a bathroom sink. When she stood, towels in hand, her gaze ran over him dubiously.
“I’m not sure I have any dry clothes that would fit you,” she said.
“That’s okay,” he assured her, wringing his soaked hat out in the sink. He took one of the towels and started to wipe off. “I’ll be fine. You get into something dry. Get in the shower. You’re shivering,” he said, gesturing toward the tub while he rubbed the towel over his wet head. “I’ll go to the kitchen and drip on the tile there.”
She laughed, and he paused in his toweling motions. She really did shine brightly in his eyes.
“No, I’ll find something for you. That was some downpour. We’re both soaked. Hold on.”
She disappeared down the hallway. He continued to dry himself off, feeling the cotton chafe against his oversensitive skin. He glanced around her tidy bathroom. The fragrance from Joy’s earlier shower still hovered in the air, teasing his nose.
“What about this? I think it’s the best I can do,” she said apologetically from behind him a moment later. She held up a dark blue bathrobe. “It was large on me, so I never wore it. It’ll be small on you, but it’ll . . . cover you up.”
“Sure. It’s great, thanks.”
She seemed relieved that he hadn’t turned down her offering. “Feel free to jump in the shower, if you need to.”
“You should get in the shower. You’re freezing,” he said quietly, noticing the pebbled skin on her upper arms.
She shook her head and took a step back, but lingered in the doorway. “I’m fine. I’ll just go dry off and change.”
He supposed you would call her eyes hazel. He didn’t know what else to call them. They were singular. A cobalt blue ring enclosed brown, blue-green and amber shards of color. Similar to when he’d looked down at her while she gave him the tattoo, he saw a mixture of desire and wariness in her eyes.
“Sorry to be such a pain. All because I couldn’t be a little more patient at the idea of finally being able to talk to you.”
“Talk about a buildup. I haven’t got much interesting to say, Everett. I’m bound to disappoint you,” she said, donning a rueful smile.
He chuckled. “I’m very easy to please.”
She gave him a half-incredulous, half-amused glance. “Everett Hughes—easy to please?”
“When it comes to you, it’ll be easy as breathing.”
A delicate pink color spread in her cheeks. He watched the puffy flesh of her lips part. A vivid image popped into his mind’s eye—unwanted, but uncontrollable—of arrowing his cock between her lips while she was restrained and her cheeks were flushed with desire. A tingling sensation flickered across his cock and segued into an ache. He blinked and glanced away.
“The washer and dryer are in there,” she said, pointing to a double folded door a few feet down the hallway. “Go ahead and put your clothes in to dry them off. I’ll meet you out there in a minute,” she said, waving vaguely to the living area.
He nodded and closed the door. He accepted her offer and took a minute-long shower, waiting for his unwanted erection to dissipate. How was it that Joy Hightower managed to remind him of a living, sacred poem and raw, elemental sex all at once?
So much for the existential not being sexy.
Three
She changed into a cotton, floral print summer dress that was pretty without being overtly sexy. Joy didn’t want to send the wrong impression, although she was so confused about Everett being in her apartment, she wasn’t precisely sure what impression she
wanted
to give.
She passed the hall bathroom quickly. The sound of the shower curtain being whipped back struck her pitched ears. She came to an abrupt halt.
She couldn’t believe Everett Hughes was standing in her bathtub at this very moment, stark naked. The graphic memory of holding his heavy, shapely penis in her hand exploded into her mind’s eye.
Had it really happened? It seemed so unlikely and strange . . . so compelling.
She entered her kitchen and filled the tea kettle. A moment later she heard the bathroom door open over the sound of her heart beating loudly in her ears.
“Would you like some hot tea?” she asked without removing her gaze from an opened cabinet when the wooden floor creaked behind her a moment later.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said. She glanced around and did a double take when she saw him in the robe. He grinned and double-pumped his eyebrows.
“Sexy, no?” he said. The robe was gender neutral enough, but his shoulders were too broad for the fabric, leaving a V shape of his chest exposed.
She suppressed a laugh and turned away to fill the teapot. “I understand you’re known for a . . .
colorful
style of dressing,” she said tactfully after a pause, “but I don’t know how well this getup would go over with your adoring public.”
“Colorful, huh? I thought the magazines said I dressed like a slob,” he said distractedly as he noticed some of the artwork she had displayed in the dining and living room.
She smiled to herself as she opened a box of tea. “Those same magazines also seem to name you the sexiest man of the year for I don’t know how many years running, so I guess dressing like a slob works.”
“Do you mind if I have a look at your paintings?” he asked, pointing at a collection of three canvases arranged in her dining room.
“No, of course not,” she said, her torso twisted so she could look at him. Had she offended him with the sexiest man of the year comment? No, it wasn’t that, she realized as she watched him wander away. He just hadn’t considered the topic vaguely worthwhile. His entire focus had shifted to her paintings.
“They’re yours,” she heard him say once he stood before them.
“Yes.”
She approached him a few minutes later in the living room, carrying two steaming cups. He now studied the oil mounted above the fireplace, his focused attention almost tangible. Her gaze ran over him from behind. How could he possibly appear so comfortable—so masculine—while wearing a woman’s bathrobe? His strong-looking calves were dusted with light brown hair. The fabric outlined muscular buttocks. The artist in her wanted to remove the robe and memorize every inch of him with her brush. The woman in her longed to make the study using lips and fingertips.
He turned as she approached and blinked.
“I love your stuff. Reminds me a little of Rousseau—meticulous, primitive, yet dreamlike—but your femininity civilizes it,” he reflected, taking the cup she offered him. “What?” he asked, pausing when he noticed her small smile.
“Do you ever do or say anything without total confidence?” she wondered aloud, taking a step back and setting her own tea on the table behind her couch. She walked around the couch and sat down.
“Does that mean I sounded like a pompous ass just now?” he asked, a grin twitching his mouth as he followed her around the couch.
“No, not at all,” she assured him. She stiffened slightly when he sat down on the cushion next to her. She swore he noticed—did he miss anything?—but he said nothing. “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I studied Rousseau extensively while I was at art school in Paris.”
“Did you study undergraduate there?” he asked, taking a sip. His wet hair waved around his temples and on his forehead, a glorious mess.
“Just my junior and senior years.”
“I studied art history for undergrad at UCLA,” he said, surprising her.
“Really? I would have thought acting.”
“Nah, I just fell into that by accident. I needed some cash for Christmas presents for my family senior year, and did a walk-in audition for a commercial.”
“And your fate was sealed,” she murmured, picking up her tea to take a sip. He glanced at her and they shared a smile. “What did you plan to do with your art history degree?”
“I thought I’d travel the world, collecting art for a gallery or museum. Turned out, the part that appealed to me the most was the travel, not the art collection. No offense.”
“None taken.” She set down her cup and settled back on the couch. Did one ever become accustomed to his sexuality? It was like a third person in the room, a guest Joy wasn’t sure if she should ignore or welcome. Her gaze skittered over the opened portion of the robe he wore. The hair on his chest wasn’t a pelt, by any means, but it emphasized his potent masculinity. Hollywood golden boy Everett may be, but he was the polar opposite of an effeminate fop. He seemed about as aware of his looks as he was his own skin.
She noticed his stare on her. Her gaze bounced off him and landed on her coffee table.
“Why did you move to Chicago?” he asked.
She paused before answering. She’d moved to Chicago because she’d been haunted by the idea of seeing all the old places she’d used to visit with her mother following her own bout with cancer. She’d been haunted by the idea of her only family member—her uncle, Seth—being forced to witness another round of chemo or radiation, or another excruciating wait for a doctor to give them results.
Joy’s physician had declared her completely healthy on her last several visits, but the fear of the cancer returning—of inflicting further misery on Seth—had been what had instigated her move across the country. She didn’t want to put Seth through what her father had been through when her mother had been diagnosed with cancer.
She didn’t want Seth to suffer like she had when she’d been a child, watching as the cruel disease stole away a loved one bit by bit until there was nothing left but insubstantial memories.
“I needed a change of pace,” she said quietly. “The Steadman School is one of the finest preparatory schools in the country for art.”
“Davis is considered the same,” he pointed out, referring to the prestigious high school where she’d taught gifted students in Hollywood. He noticed her expression of surprise. “Oh—Seth told me the name of the school where you taught. That was before I . . . we . . .” He cleared his throat. “Met. Like I told you earlier, Seth pretty much clammed up whenever I asked about you after that.”
A strained silence ensued. She couldn’t tell him that after their electrical, impulsive tryst, she’d informed her uncle about her cancer diagnosis. Seth had become as anxious and protective as a mother bear after that. She hadn’t told him specifically about her sexual encounter with Everett, because she hadn’t even known it
was
Everett at the time. Apparently, Seth had taken it upon himself to deflect Everett’s interest in his niece because he’d been aware that Joy had more crucial things to focus on for the next several months than an affair with America’s heartthrob.
“So . . . why the desire to transfer schools?” he persisted after a moment.
He knew she’d sidestepped the original question, she realized. She sighed. “Sometimes we just need to wipe the slate clean. Start somewhere new.”
He nodded. “Begin a new chapter. I get that. I’m jealous,” he added after a moment.
“Why would
you
want to wipe your slate clean?” she asked. He glanced at her calmly. Joy realized she’d just asked him the question she’d hoped he wouldn’t ask her. She reached for her mug of tea. “Never mind. You don’t have to answer that. It’s just that you seem to be at the height of a very successful career. I would have thought . . .”
“What?” he asked, when she faded off.
“I would have thought you would be one of the last people in the world to want to make a fresh start. You have a pretty impressive body of work on your slate to consider erasing it all,” she said with a smile.
His brow creased into a slight frown as he stared at her mouth. Joy dropped her chin and studied the surface of her tea. “Thanks,” she heard him say. “But sometimes, success can lock you into a certain pattern. You can’t help but wonder if things would be different if you just knocked over the whole house of cards and started from scratch.”
I can tell you what it’s like: it’s lonely,
she thought before she had the opportunity to censor herself.
“Joy?”
It felt like all the tiny hairs in her ears and on her neck stood on end at the sound of his quiet voice.
“Yes?”
“You asked me earlier if I ever wasn’t confident. I’m not right now. You don’t want me here, do you?”
Her gaze zoomed to his face. “No. I mean, I
do
want you . . . here,” she added quickly.
“Then why are you so skittish?” In the distance, she heard the drone of the dryer spinning. The tightness she’d been experiencing in her chest rose to her throat.
“You don’t know?”
“You’re embarrassed?” he asked slowly, as if he’d seen the answer with those sharp eyes of his and plucked it right out of her consciousness. “About what happened at the studio?”
“I’ve never done anything like that before. I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t even know your name.”
His facial muscles convulsed slightly. He set down his cup on the coffee table and suddenly he was touching her cheek with one hand while the other cradled her neck. A silent spasm of emotion went through her when she felt his fingers slide into her hair and rub her scalp. Her lungs seemed to have locked up.
“It shocked me, too,” he admitted. “Maybe not in the same way it did you, but still. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Joy.”
She just stared at him, mute, all those old feelings flooding into her awareness, a wave of fear for her own life, a lightening flash of lust . . . Everett’s eyes watching it all, a bright beacon she couldn’t quite interpret, but couldn’t help seeking.
She was healthy now, at least the doctors said so . . . alive to face another day, another moment. Who could possibly not relish
this
one?
His head dipped toward hers.
“I don’t want to make you feel strange or guilty about this.” She inhaled him, her floral-scented soap transformed by his male essence. “Is it okay?”
Her gaze came unglued from his moving lips and glided over his nose, meeting his stare. Maybe he read her bewilderment . . . her enthrallment.
“Is it okay that I’m so attracted to you?” he clarified somberly.
Her mouth dropped open in amazement. She nodded.
“So you’re not going to back out of going out with me tomorrow night?”
Uncertainty reared its head, breaking through the surface of her lust-addled awareness. This was her chance to back down. Everett may understand what was happening here—he probably had this effect on every woman he encountered. For her own part, she was quite sure this whole thing was a bizarre mistake. His fingers found a sensitive spot on her scalp. She stopped herself from purring in pleasure when he rubbed it.
“No. I’m not changing my mind,” she whispered.
His smile stunned her—a quick, unabashed flash of distilled happiness. He leaned down and brushed his mouth against hers before she’d recovered. She felt a shock go through her at the unexpected contact. His mouth caressed hers like his fingertips had her skin earlier, a tender exploration. She closed her eyes and trembled. His kiss wasn’t a ravishment to trigger lust and make her forget everything else.
It was better. Much better.
He lifted his head a moment later. She cracked open her eyelids and saw that he was watching her.
“If you had any idea about the things I’m fantasizing about doing to you right now, you might change your mind about tomorrow night.”
“I don’t think so,” she said slowly, surprising herself.
His nostrils flared slightly. Joy had the thrilling thought that she was about to be sexually consumed.
“I hated the fact that I wasn’t able to touch you that first time,” he said in a hushed tone. His hands spread along the sides of her rib cage, distracting her. “I hated the fact that you probably were left thinking I was single-minded and selfish—”
“I didn’t think that,” she interrupted him.
He brushed her lower lip with the tip of his thumb, his features tightening. “I
was
selfish. I
was
single-minded. That’s not the part I regret. I just regretted not being able to give you the same unselfish pleasure you gave me in return. Let me do that now, Joy. Let me show you I can give as well as get.”
Her brain stalled. It took her a moment to realize he was watching her expectantly, his face tense, his eyes reminding her of the starburst tattoo—fire in water.
“Okay,” she whispered.
His hands moved gently to her back. He found her zipper and lowered it, his gaze remaining on her the whole time. His hands brushed over her shoulders, lowering her dress below her breasts. He removed her bra and tossed it aside so quickly, one second she possessed meager protection, and the next her breasts were bared to the cool air and Everett’s hot stare.
“So lovely. So perfect. I knew you would be,” he murmured, touching a peaking nipple with the tip of his forefinger. Her breath stuck in her lungs as she watched him detail both crests at once, looking fascinated by the changes he wrought in her flesh with his drawing, plucking fingertips. Prickles of pleasure spiked along the surface of her chilled, pebbled skin. She gasped softly when he pinched at her lightly and seemingly pulled an invisible cord of sensation that led all the way to her womb.
“You’re cold?” he asked, running his hand along the tiny goose bumps rising along her chest and breasts.
“No,” she managed to say. “Well, maybe a little.”
He smiled and covered her breasts with his large, warm palms. The next thing she knew, he’d seized her mouth with his own. For a few seconds, she was stunned at the onslaught of his kiss. His former nibbling at her mouth was a mere tiny sampling of his passion. He gave it to her now in full force, his lips molding hers hungrily, his tongue plunging between her lips, searching and probing. Liquid heat surged between her thighs. God, he knew how to kiss. Joy had never considered her mouth to be a sexual organ on par with her pussy, but when Everett kissed her, it suddenly felt like it was. She moaned shakily beneath his heat, her tongue sliding against his, joining in a sensual duel. His hands moved on her breasts, shaping her flesh to his palms.