Chasing Stars (25 page)

Wearing a fluffy bathrobe, Portia regards me from across the table in the suite’s dining room. Hell, yeah, the suite has a dining room. She has dark circles under her eyes. I know she is tired, but she refused to go back to bed.

Her hair is damp from the bath we took together. It took all of me to resist making love to her in the chromatherapy tub. Goose bumps rise on my body as I recall each time our skin touched. Her wearing an indecent bikini did not make any easier on me. I still have a hard-on. Thank God, I had the shitty excuse of having to shave, which gave me time away from her soft body.

“I have three interviews, but then I am free. What you want to do for the rest of the day?” She takes a bite of her smoked salmon.

“Oh. I thought of checking out the Tate Museum while you are doing the interview. They have a great collection of Joseph Turner.” I sip from my fruit juice. “But I won’t drag you to a museum and bore you out of your mind.”

“If you don’t mind waiting, I would love to go with you.” I can tell Portia is anxious.

“But you look so tired, baby. We don’t have to go; we can just hang out in the room.” I adjust my pants, at the thought of spending the day in bed with her.

“I googled you,” she says.

“What?” I ask, confused.

I hear someone knocking at the door. Two long and two short. “I’ll get it,” she says, jumping up and rushing to open it. Yep, she is definitely nervous.

“Hey, bella,” Stefan’s cheerful voice floats in. “I’ve got today’s copy of a tabloid—you need to take a look at this.”

“Hey there, Stefan.” I walk out of the dining room. He glances my way, blanching when he sees me.

“Will?” His hand swiftly puts down the newspaper. “Good to see you, man. I thought you weren’t coming.” He appears to recover from the surprise, strides my way, and shakes my hand.

“Couldn’t stay away.” I nod toward Portia, who is twisting her sweater in an adorable and childish manner.

“I am glad you came, someone has been very grumpy on this trip.” He smiles sincerely, but I can sense that something is off.

“Clara and Mauricio will be here in five, and the first interview is an hour.” He turns toward a desk by the window, shoves the magazine inside the drawer, and pulls a manila envelope from it. “Did you go over the questions I approved for the interview? Where is Damon? He should be here by now.” He pulls out his cell and begins typing.

“Yeah, Stefan, the questions are fine,” Portia says and turns to me.

An involuntary yawn escapes me. “Go get ready, baby. I will rest in the bedroom. I didn’t sleep at all on the plane.”

There is a knock. Stefan opens the door with one hand, while continuing his ferocious typing with the other. The hairdresser and makeup artist enter the room, hauling two trunks of beauty gadgets and supplies. I take that as my cue to leave.

“I’ll be done soon.” She smiles at me.

“See you in a few, baby.” I kiss Portia’s lips and drag my sorry and tired ass to her room. I sink into bed and close my eyes. I do not want to sleep, but my body gets drowsy and the sound of the people entering the suite becomes a distant sound filtered through the closed door. I snooze.

I wake up to the click of the bedroom door shutting closed. A light from the bathroom allows me to see Portia snapping her bra in place. My eyes roam along her back, pausing on the curve of her lower back. I suddenly freeze when I see a guy’s hand emerging from behind her. “Hey baby,” he says, reaching for her hips.

I clench my jaw and my fingers curl into a tight ball as fury burns through me. The hell, that’s my girl. I jolt from the bed and, before his hands are around her, I grab his wrist and yank him away from her.

“What the fuck?” he yells. Then my fist connects across his cheek. Confused, he sways and his hand reaches for his face.

Portia lunges toward me. “Will, no,” she yelps. Her hands sprawl on my chest. I pant in his direction, but she blocks me from jumping at the asshole, who is now staring at me.

“Portia, who the hell is this ass, trying to paw you?” I growl through gritted teeth. My nostrils flare.

“Will, calm down. This is my costar Damon.” There is desperation in her voice.

“Explain, why the hell, he is inside your room?” My voice is strained, and I am about to snap.

Stefan slides inside the room, quickly closing the door behind him. “What’s going on? The reporter and his crew are still out there.” He scowls at the tension resonating through the room. Stefan gathers a bathrobe, tosses it to Portia, and switches on the light.

“It’s been a misunderstanding,” Portia says.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” Damon asks, rubbing his cheek.

“This is Will,” Portia says.

“Goddamnit, I’m out of here. Caveman is having a moment,” Damon utters.

“I will walk you out,” Stefan volunteers and then turns to Portia. “Will you be OK?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure, thanks,” she assures him.

I turn to Portia.

“What was that all about? Are you out of your mind?” she asks and glares at me. She starts to rummage through the closet.

“Oh, no, Portia, I am the one to ask what that was about,” I spit, furious.

“Nothing,” she shouts, retrieving a dress.

“Hell, there was something happening right before my eyes. What the hell was he doing? A man does not just walk into a woman’s room.”

“Please, Will. That’s just the way Damon is. We had a brief fling during filming, and he tries going back there sometimes, that’s all,” she pleads. A gut feeling screams that there is more to it, but I drop it.

She pulls a green mini-dress over her head and slides into stiletto boots, keeping the fancy updo hairstyle. I think it is much too sophisticated for a museum visit, but whatever. I am not in the mood to discuss her fashion choices.

“Let’s go, the driver must be waiting.” She starts for the door.

I grab her arm as she nears. “Wait.” I look down at her eyes. “I am sorry,” I offer.

“Your reaction to Damon was kind of hot.” A small smile dances on her lips.

“Oh, really?” I kiss her. “I’m sure Damon disagrees with you.”

“Come on, caveman. Let’s go, before I decide to stay in the cave for the rest of the day.”

Hand in hand, we descend in the elevator. Her heels tap on the stone floor of the opulent lobby attracting attention. All eyes are on us. I frown, wishing to make myself inconspicuous. The moment the concierge opens the hotel’s door, Portia’s reality hits me. Flashes from all angles strike us.

The mob of paparazzi yells at her, asking intrusive questions, “Who are you fucking today?” I hear someone say and my muscles tighten. I can’t believe she has to go through this crap. Their bodies press against us, leaving a nonexistent path through which we can go. I get very protective. Well, I guess territorial is a better word for it. Her fingers squeeze my arm, a silent plea. I glance at her, but her oversized sunglasses hide her eyes. Two of the uniformed hotel staff, open a pathway. The limo driver and I stand beside her, escorting her into the car.

I slide onto the seat after her, grateful for the tinted windows of the Mercedes.

“I’m sorry, Will,” she mumbles. “By this time tomorrow, your face will be attached to every kind of bullshit and will be on every blessed newspaper front page.” She removes her sunglasses and glances at me apologetically.

“Don’t worry, baby, I don’t give an iota about what they print,” I say. What kills me is the helpless feeling I had standing there and listening to the nasty things some of the paparazzi said, without defending her. I don’t say anything because it’s not as if we have a choice. I can see she is devastated for placing me under this limelight.

As she removes her boots and shovels them in a shopping bag on the seat, she retrieves jeans, a pair of Converse, and an oversized sweatshirt from the same bag. I chuckle as she pulls on the jeans under her mini-dress. I am happy I hadn’t questioned her wardrobe choice earlier.

After putting on the sweatshirt, she strips her face of any makeup. She pulls her hair into a ponytail, dons a cap, and slides on a pair of reading glass. She turns to me with a childish grin spreading across her face.

“What you think?” she smirks.

“Genius.” I lean down and kiss her smiling lips.

“Here, Stefan got you these.” From the same bag, she retrieves a new pair of Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses and a baby blue Life is Good cap. I put them on. And right about now, life with Portia is as good as it gets.

I watch Will peruse paintings that, in all honesty, I don’t really understand. But understanding oozes from him. He tilts his head and his eyes examine the painting in front of us. He then nods, as if he were having a telepathic conversation with the paintings.

“The world today doesn’t make any sense, so why should I paint a picture that does?” Will quotes Pablo Picasso and points to a painting by the artist. “Amazing how after all these years, the same principle applies.”

“Do you feel that way too?” I ask him.

“I guess we all do at certain point in our lives.” He stares at me. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.” I lean on his shoulder. We ramble through the galleries with Will studying different paintings. Occasionally, we stop and Will’s serious and intense green eyes extensively examine a piece of art. He is in such synchrony with the paintings that it appears that they are having full-blown, two-sided conversations. I kid you not.

We are standing before an oil painting by Joseph Turner. I remember reading an article comparing Will’s ability to recreate light to that of the famous painter. “What is it about painting that you like so much?” I ask.

“Landscaping or a face vibrates with the cadence irradiated from our own lives. Why do people like a certain artwork, is the artisanship and ability to capture the pulsing anchored by a place, or the observer’s own ideals and perceptions?”

“Wow, I didn’t know you could be so philosophical.” I muse.

“Too intense, huh?”

“No, Will, it’s your passion.” I admire his intensity for his craft.

“I read a lot about your work,” I say, and he tenses a bit. “There are debates in which some people appoint you as one of the best artists of our time.” His mouth is agape as he stares at me.

“I think they miss the point. It is beyond your innate talent. What you convey is your passion for the craft, the scenario, and your audience,” I say. He remains silent as I continue. “When I look at your paintings of a sunset, I sense the heat emanating from the sun. You capture the elements with each stroke and then transport it out of the canvas. And when you distort a painting, you bend the minds of your audience.” I am not into the deep crap of analyzing art. But Will is awe-inspiring and an artistic genius.

We stroll through the gallery, hand in hand.

“Why have you never told me?” I ask him.

“Told you what?” he glances at me, puzzled.

“That you are this sort of prodigy?” I add.

“Because, I am just Will.” He frowns.

“But you are incredible.”

“Hey, the shitload of photographers back at the hotel, were not there for the wonder of me,” he chuckles, and I sense he is changing the subject.

We spend hours—and I mean hours—at the museum. My feet and legs are aching, and I am beat.

“Baby, sorry for being an insensitive ass, but we must leave. You’ve seen enough art for today, I am getting too tired to follow you.” He smirks.

“Oh, you don’t say.” I kiss him hard, and then let out a throaty laugh. God, I will pass out if I have to look at one more painting.

“If this painting gig doesn’t work out, you ought to try a career as a masseur,” I moan as Will massages my feet. He flashes a smile and nibbles on one of my toes.

“I knew you were using me for my maddeningly good hand skills.”

“When are you going back home?” I ask him.

After buying lunch from a street vendor, we are in Hyde Park watching ducklings swim at the lake. Seated, his back is against a tree trunk and my feet are propped in his lap.

“Same flight as you, thanks to the miracle maker, Stefan.” He grins.

“So, you will be going to France with us?” I ask, unable to hide my excitement.