Picture Perfect (8 page)

Jack slices through the water and glides over to me. “See, not too cold is it?” He moves in front of me, wrapping his hands around my upper arms.

I employ every bit of strength I have not to look down at the singular appendage protruding pointedly from his body and squeeze my arms tighter around myself. But Jack’s stealthy hands slip from my upper arms to my forearms and he delicately lifts them off and away from my chest.

“You’re beautiful, Lauren. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I know that,” I snap, flapping my arms back into place across my breasts and backing away from him. I don’t need any man to tell me I’m beautiful. Six hours of cycling and pilates every week assures me I am as tightly toned as any cover girl, even if I do manage to eat my weight in reduced-fat lemon blueberry muffins on occasion. “It’s just—we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? For one thing, you’re an actor in my film. It isn’t right. And secondly, I don’t get involved with my co-workers.”

“You got involved with Alan.”

“That’s different.”

“How is that different?” he begs, sliding his hands up and across my shoulders.

“Alan and I are married.”

“You weren’t always married. And you’re certainly no longer together. So, what’s the problem?”

“Things aren’t that simple. I barely even know you.”

“What do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything,” he says, moving in so close that his larger-than-life erection simply cannot be ignored anymore.

“Oh God,” I squeak, swishing in the water and edging away from him. Lord knows I want nothing more than to feel his firmness inside me, but I also know that getting involved with Jack Ford could lead to career suicide. Who in Hollywood would ever take me seriously again? Oh, sure. Male producers sleep with their actresses all the time. For some it is even a hobby. But for a female filmmaker to bed her actor, it just looks sleazy. 

“Lauren,” he scolds, hands on his hips. “Come here.”

“You think I’m going to come just because you tell me to?”

“No, I think you’re going to come because you want to.”

“Pfft.”

He lowers his chin, looking up at me through his thick lashes. He sticks one hand out of the water and motions for me to come. I shake my head. “Come here. I won’t bite.”

I stare at the rippling span of water between us. Only a few feet separate me from a night of pure bliss with one of Hollywood’s hottest hunks. But more than just being great looking, he is a true talent. I wouldn’t have the slightest problem rebuffing the advances of a lesser gifted hottie, but Jack is far more than a hard body and a pretty face.

I don’t know if it’s my jumping hormones or his sultry stare that finally moves my feet in his direction, but against all my better judgment, I soon find myself tiptoeing across the pool floor and walking straight into his arms.

“There. That’s better,” he says, running his hand through my hair.

I press my lips together, not sure what we’re really doing here, what he really wants from me. I mean, honestly, what could this gorgeous boy want with
me
? I’ve gotta be at least a decade older than him. And surely he’s got plenty of sexy, barely-legal girls to choose from what with his impending fame, his boyish good looks and that unbelievably hard body currently pressed tightly up against mine.

“You worry too much,” he says.

I bite the inside of my cheek. How does he always seem to know exactly what I’m thinking?

“Just be in the moment.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I’m not that kind of person.”

“Yes, you are. You’re just denying your true spirit.”

I cock my eyebrow. “My true spirit?”

“Yes, the one that lives here,” he says, placing his finger over my heart.      

I watch as he traces a path down to where my arm is covering my breast. A squiggle tugs deep down in my belly as he slips a finger between my arm and my chest. Almost of their own will, my arms drop to my sides. His finger glides over my plump flesh to draw a circle around my now erect nipple. My breath catches in my throat as he cups my breast in his hand and his lips cover mine in a fiery kiss. He pulls me tighter to him, encircling me in his arms. His thick shaft digs into my belly, and I throw my arms around his broad back, clinging to him with a ferocity I haven’t felt since my first time with Alan.

When he tears his lips from mine, a low, hungry growl emanates from him and the only word he utters is, “Lauren.”

Never has my name sounded so fucking sexy.

***

Draped in a couple fluffy beach towels, Jack and I hurry up the stairs to the master bedroom. I flip on the lights, illuminating the king size bed I used to share with Alan in a soft amber glow. The room is perfectly made, as if it were ready for a photo shoot in
House Beautiful.
Jack leads me over to the massive bed and throws the covers back. He tosses his towel on the floor and sits down.

“Nice,” he says, sliding his hand across the silk sheets. He gazes up at me, “Nicer with you in it.”

I pull the towel tighter around myself and bite my lip. This is like a scene out of a cheesy porn flick. A younger man seducing a reluctant older woman. A divorcee. A moonlight swim. Silk sheets. God, how cliché! I almost laugh at the image of the two of us. If I received a script with a scene like this, I’d toss it in the trash deeming it unworthy of my producing talents. But here and now, seeing Jack’s beautiful form before me, beckoning me to join him in the bed, I can’t imagine anything hotter. 

He tugs on my towel, and it drops to the floor. “Come here,” he says, running a hand up my outer thigh. I lean into him as he embraces me and pulls me onto the bed.

“Very nice,” he whispers in my ear. Little goose bumps sprout across my flesh as he kisses my neck.

He tosses his leg over my hips and slowly rolls me onto my back. Like a lamb being led to the slaughter, I open my legs as he slides between my thighs. His erection presses against me, and I know this is my last chance to stop this. One more kiss, one more caress, and I will be lost to him, unable to restrain my prurient desires any longer. Desires that, if I’m truly honest with myself, have been lurking just below the surface ever since I first met him three weeks ago.

He lowers his lips to mine, slipping his tongue in and out of my mouth with the artistry of a Greek satyr. And just as I yield completely to him, closing my arms around him, wrapping my legs around his hips, the sound of a faint sing-song bell chimes in my ear. I knit my brows together trying to determine whether the sound is the ethereal “ringing bells” so often used to describe a lover’s passionate kiss or if it is something far more earthly.

Like the doorbell.

I shove Jack’s shoulder and pry his lips from mine, squirming my way out from underneath him. I fly to the closet and find Alan’s silk kimono (a souvenir from a trip to Japan for the premier of one of my films that made it to Japanese airwaves three years ago). I tug it on and turn to Jack who is staring blankly at me.

“Wait here,” I command, holding my open palm to him like one of the Supremes about to burst into a rendition of “Stop in the Name of Love.”   

“Okay,” he says with a shrug of his shoulder, appearing all too disappointed as I leave him with a towering erection and no one to play with.

I scramble down the stairs, the silk fabric of the kimono billowing around my legs. When I reach the bottom, I trip over the skirt of the robe and nearly fall head first into a giant potted palm. Fortunately, I grab onto the stair railing and instead of making a header into the flora, I land hard on my ass with a loud smack as my flesh collides with the cold marble flooring. 

“Jesus!” I shriek as I pick myself up, rubbing my butt cheek.

“You okay?”

I turn to find Jack at the top of the stairs looking down after me, his glorious erection no longer commanding center stage.

“Go back,” I shout with a wave of my hand. “I’m fine.”

Sheepishly, he retreats, and I head for the front door. Pulling it open, I find Jeff Zimmer in his blue mechanic’s uniform standing on the front step.

“Ms. Tate,” he says deferentially. “I’ve got your bimmer loaded up on my truck.” He motions toward the driveway where my car is indeed sitting on his trailer. “Now I just need the keys, and I’ll be outta your hair.”

“Of course,” I manage with about as much calm as a cat burglar dangling from a three-story window. “Wait right here, and I’ll get it for you.”

I scurry into the kitchen, grab my purse off the counter and dig out my keys.  I slide the car key off the ring and return the remaining bundle to my handbag. I dash back to the foyer and hand it to Jeff.

“Thanks,” he says with a courteous nod. “Shall I bring her to your office tomorrow after I’ve repaired her?”

“Uh, yes. That’s fine,” I say, urging him along as I pull the door closed. But before I manage to get it shut, Jeff raises his hand to stop me.

“Is everything all right, Ms. Tate?”

“Yes, perfectly fine.”

“It’s just that there’s a motorcycle in your driveway, and I’ve never known you or Mr. Tate to drive one.”

“Oh.” I peer over his shoulder to see Jack’s vintage hog parked next to a planter of roses. “That belongs to a friend of mine.”

“A friend?”

“Yes, a friend. A co-worker.”

“I see,” he says with that quizzical tone that tells me a c-note will ease his fears.

“Jeff, I appreciate your quick response this evening. You will be richly rewarded for your service.”

He gives me a half smile. “My pleasure, ma’am. Always did like doing business with the Tates.”

With that, he heads for his truck, and I slam the door closed and dart back up the stairs, careful to keep the kimono’s skirt from tripping me up. Rounding the corner, I see Jack lying on his side on the bed, one knee bent, propped up on his elbow and resting his head in his hand. He looks like a Roman emperor awaiting a clandestine lover. All he needs is a bowl of grapes and a goblet of wine to complete the picture.

The very corner of my mouth turns up ever so slightly.
Fuck Alan and Jennifer,
I think to myself. Why should I be so all-consumed with appearances when they don’t give a damn? Their tawdry little affair will be on full display soon enough. What’s one night with a sexy star-in-the-making compared to Alan and Jennifer’s conniving, conspiratorial treachery? Besides, it’s not like anyone will ever know. I’ve taken care of the only possible leak moments ago.

Now it’s just me and Jack.

And that king size erection.

***

     “You’re bad for me,” I mumble into Jack’s ear as I sprawl across his broad chest. His tangled mass of brown curls spill onto the wine-colored pillowcase beneath his head, and I loop my fingers lazily around one of his chestnut-hued locks.

     “No, I’m good for you,” he says before wrapping his hand around the back of my neck and pulling me in for a kiss. His silky lips sweep across mine, and he adds, “Very good for you.” 

I rest my head on his shoulder, my body still humming from our two-hour tumble, having discovered Jack’s talents are, gratefully, not limited to stage and screen alone. It’s been months since I’ve enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh quite so enthusiastically, and I’m quite content to luxuriate in the afterglow as long as possible. Lying in his strong arms, listening to the sound of his breath, hearing the beat of his heart, feeling his smooth skin against mine. I could stay here forever.

Except that I can’t.

This is no longer my house,
I remind myself with a lazy glance across the soft down of Jack’s chest to the bedroom door. I close my eyes and curl up tighter against the young lover currently lying on Alan’s side of the bed. He wraps his arms around me and caresses my shoulder. He smells of soap and sweat and sex, and I want nothing more than to close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

But I can’t.

I push up onto my elbow and gaze down at Jack’s beautiful face. The kind of face I’d never imagined myself falling for. The kind of face that belongs on the side of a billboard, not on my pillowcase. Not that I don’t like a beautiful man, of course, but this kind of beauty seems almost unearthly. Almost
angelic
. And certainly too naïve to have grown up in Hollywood.

“Where are you going?” he asks with half-lidded eyes.

“We can’t stay here all night.”

“Yes, we can,” he declares, pushing me onto my back and rolling on top of me. “We can do whatever we want.”

The silver medallion hanging from a chain around his neck dangles over my face as he hovers above me. I wrap my thumb and index finger around it.

“What is this?”

He looks down at the pendant in my grasp. “Saint Nicholas. He’s the patron saint of children.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be wearing that?” I tease.

“Probably,” he shrugs.

“Are you Catholic?” I ask curious as to why a grown man would be wearing a Saint Nicholas pendant.

“Not really. My grandmother gave it to me because I don’t have a father. So, I wear it for her mostly.

I crinkle my brows together. “You don’t have a father?”

“Nah. My mom got pregnant when she was 18 and her boyfriend ran out on her. So, she raised me by herself.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, wrapping my hands around the back of his neck. “That must have been hard.” All of a sudden I want to adopt the guy. What is wrong with me? One minute I want to ravage him and the next I want to mother him.

“It’s not a big deal. I never knew him, so I never missed him. You know?”

I nodded even though I couldn’t really imagine not knowing who my own father was, not knowing where I came from, my ancestry. Regardless of who I choose to be today, I am fully aware of the fact that I would not be who I am if I had not been born into a lower-middle class family in the Midwest. It was the confines of that small town life that drove me to excel, to be better than my peers, to set my sights on lofty goals.

But as I look into Jack’s soulful brown eyes, I know he is who he is because he had no father. He’s strong and warm and caring despite the fact that he had no role model to look up to, no guiding force to mold him. He found his way to manhood on his own. And I am sure whoever his father is, he’d be proud to call Jack his son.