Fanfare (18 page)

“Unnamed source, my ass. Some idiots are just trying to drive traffic to their site,” I spat.

“You’re probably right. You’re not mad at me, right?”

“Of course not,” I stated in a much kinder tone. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Definitely. I just thought I should tell you before you got to L.A. I didn’t want there to be any nasty surprises.”

I knew exactly what she meant. For the first time in many months, I could feel that strange tearing sensation in my heart again.

“Thanks, Hana. Love you,” I murmured.

“Love you too.”

For the next five hours, the left side of my brain fought the right side with unceasing vigor.

Of course the “spin doctors” would try to attach an attractive actor like Tom with someone equally fascinating. It was nothing to be surprised about. If Tom fails to give them enough media fodder to suggest that his love life is red-hot and full of sin, the next step would be to challenge his sexuality.

But . . . Why was he at Jenna Morrow’s house in the middle of the night? Why didn’t he tell you about it? Was Jenna one of the girls he mentioned by the fire last month? You never asked him any of their names. Oh, God . . .

He’s not cheating on you.

You shouldn’t have waited this long to have sex with him.

Come on, Tom’s not just in it for the sex. He’s not that kind of guy.

Didn’t Brooklyn Beresford have a sex tape?

It’s not a big deal . . . just a few stupid pictures.

Pictures don’t lie.

Back and forth. Back and forth. The angel and the devil continued their war.

He’s an actor . . . you’re nobody special.

Tom is not Ryan.

A jolt of adrenaline shot through me as I considered the last, and most resonating, thought.

Tom is not Ryan, and you shouldn’t believe Tom would do something that repugnant just because Ryan did.

I tried to focus on that for the remainder of the flight and the subsequent taxi ride to Tom’s apartment.

I was just so . . . afraid, and I hated Ryan even more for making me this frightened of a few wayward photographs taken by people trained to make something out of nothing.

I punched in the security code to get into the apartment building and hauled my suitcase into the elevator. My reflection stared back at me in the mirrored doors, troubled and uncertain. I tried to quell these feelings as the elevator opened onto Tom’s floor. He was too observant, and he would definitely notice something was wrong if I didn’t do a better job of concealing it within the next few seconds.

The apartment door opened soon after I tapped tentatively on its surface. I plastered a smile on my face and walked inside, actively trying to conceal my mental siege. Tom yanked me into an embrace and pressed his lips to mine with breathtaking effect. I kissed him back as though I were trying to banish any trace of another woman’s touch from his memory—which is, all things considered, nothing more than an emotionally destructive form of branding. Desperation, thy name is Jealous Female.

He pulled away from me to catch his breath, and his eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement as he stared carefully down at my face.

I averted my gaze and strode further into the living room.

“What’s the plan?” I asked cheerfully as I gazed at nothing.

“Look at me.”

I took a deep breath and spun around to smile at him with forced merriment.

“Awful,” he sighed. “Just awful.”

“What’s awful?” My voice sounded shrill and manufactured.

“I think I should be asking you that question,” he said as he looped his arms across his chest and waited. I stared back at him in complete silence. There was no way on earth he would force me to admit how scared I was of “TomTom” and his California girls.

“What happened between last night and today to prompt that ghastly performance?” he demanded quietly.

“Nothing.” I cut my eyes and wordlessly asked him to leave it alone.

He walked over to me in two strides and grasped my chin between his thumb and index finger so he could tilt my head upwards and peer unobstructed into my face.

“Don’t play these silly games with me, Cristina. You’re far too self-assured for this. If you want me to beg you for the next hour to tell me what I did wrong, we can do that, but either way I’ll find out. Save us the time and just tell me so I can start to make it right.”

My heart jerked to a sudden stop as I gazed earnestly into his grey eyes. They were filled with an intense concern that leveled me. In that instant, I realized something even more terrifying than the news Hana had divulged to me hours before. I looked away as awareness washed over me.

I knew I was finished. My struggle was done. Every effort I had made to prevent myself from having to undergo further heartache in my life was now immaterial. I was in love with Tom Abramson. There was no way to deny it to myself any longer.

A revelatory moment that should have brought pure joy instead brought with it unadulterated fear. If I loved him, he could hurt me. Irrevocably. I couldn’t take it. Not again.

“Jenna Morrow,” I choked out pitifully as I forced myself to look up at him.

His shoulders sagged a bit, but his face relaxed considerably as his mouth curved into a wry half-smile.

“You were looking at the net again. I warned you about that,” he said sardonically.

“Look, I hate myself for this, but if I don’t ask you . . . it will just get worse. I’m ill-equipped, shall we say, to deal with this shit again,” I whispered.

“I understand,” he responded.

“I just need to know: what were you doing at her house in the middle of the night?”

“Firstly, Jenna is a really sweet girl, and I don’t want you to be mad at her for any of this. Her boyfriend broke up with her that night, and she had a lot to drink. She just needed a friend, and I wanted to make sure she got home safely. The same morons who said I left her house in the middle of the night also knew I was there for no longer than fifteen minutes, but that information isn’t racy enough, so they neglected to report it.” He waited patiently for me to digest the facts.

My cheeks started to flush as I absorbed the foolishness of the situation in its entirety, but I still needed a moment to come to terms with the fact my fears were unfounded. “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

“Not good enough?”

“I guess you were too much of a gentleman to tell her to take her drunken paws off of you. I just need a minute to banish the image of what I was planning to do with her angelic blonde hair if I got my hands on it,” I mused acerbically.

He pulled me into his chest, and I felt a rumble of laughter against my cheek. “Don’t hurt her. The poor girl’s been through hell this week.”

“I’m sorry,” I said in a muffled tone as I buried my face against him.

“Don’t be. It’s a little ridiculous that everyone thinks I’m shagging every girl I talk to . . . if only I could be that lucky,” he joked.

“Hah!”

“At least you didn’t mention the blurb about that reality star, Brooklyn Beresford. I like it when women know basic geography . . . it’s sort of a small pre-requisite,” he continued.

“God, you’re picky. If basic geography is a pre-requisite, I think I should know the proper way to refer to your country on a map. England? Great Britain? The United Kingdom? I have a suggestion: How about ‘Island of Scones and Bangers’?”

“I like it . . . since you’ve already taken ‘Island of Twice-Fried Fatback.’ ”

I laughed loudly as he leaned in to place a kiss on my forehead. “I still don’t know why you’re single, Abramson. You’re a riot,” I teased back at him.

“Just so you know, I’m not actually single, and maybe it’s time the public knew that.”

“Because that would be such a good idea,” I stated dryly. I could not help the smile that made its way onto my face to hear he no longer considered himself single.

“Eventually they have to find out . . . why not now?”

“Want me to hold a press conference?” I said with bright sarcasm.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he merely grinned knowingly before glancing at his watch.

“Are you supposed to be someplace?” I asked.

“You’re supposed to be someplace after lunch. Let’s get something to eat, and then I’ll take you there.”

“What’s going on?” Suspicion laced my words.

“You know better than to ask, but I’m taking you out tonight, and I forgot to tell you to bring something to wear, so we need to take care of that.”

“I brought a dress,” I said carefully.

“Humor me . . . and that’s all I intend to say on the subject.” He ruffled my ponytail affectionately before turning towards the kitchen to find our trusty delivery menus.

After lunch, I followed Tom to his car, and he proceeded to drive us to the back entrance of a red brick building off a highly trafficked thoroughfare.

“Is this a dress shop, or am I being questioned by the police?” I asked in confusion as he held open the door to a small flight of stairs we climbed.

“You’ll see,” he said with mirth.

At the top of the stairs, Tom swung open another door to a brightly lit room with scuffed hardwood floors.

“You’re late.” The testy, accented voice of Esteban Alvarez rang from the opposite end of the space. Tom merely shrugged glibly in response.

Racks of clothes spanned the perimeter of the room, and Esteban was next to a large mirror with makeup and other styling products strewn about him. Another individual patiently stood and waited while studying me with an unabashed gaze of curiosity.

“Dude, I know you didn’t like my clothes last time, but I didn’t come here to be a contestant on ‘What Not to Wear,’ ” I stated firmly to Esteban.

He rolled his eyes. “¡Callá y vení, monstruito!” How nice . . . Shut up and come here, you little monster.

“Someone needs to tell me what’s going on,” I demanded.

“Do me a favor and trust me,” Tom replied with a smile.

“And do me a fucking favor and just obey for the next three hours.” Esteban motioned for me to hurry the hell up. “I don’t have time to deal with your emotional issues and your appearance at the same time.”

I took a deep breath, shot Tom a look of frustration, and marched to Esteban’s side to “obey” with Tom closely in tow.

“There are a couple of things I need to take care of for tonight. Do you mind if I run out for a bit?” Tom asked as he rubbed my shoulders soothingly.

“Thanks for asking this time, Thomas,” I said with snide irritation. It really did drive me bonkers that he wasn’t the consultative type. He was really trying to drive home the point that I couldn’t control my life so implicitly. One of these days I would let him have it.

He grinned at me and leaned down to plant a lingering kiss on my neck. Esteban’s eyebrows shot up at Tom’s open display of affection.

After Tom left, Esteban yanked my hair out of its ponytail unceremoniously with little concern for my resounding “Ow!”

“Look at this hair.” He groaned and ran his fingers through my wantonly misbehaving waves. “It will never stay put for an entire night!”

“Tell me about it,” I agreed.

“We could just put it up, like this.” The other man wrapped his fingers in my hair skillfully to wind it into an intricate twist. “By the way, my name is J.D.”

“Hi J.D. I’m Cris.” I reached over to shake his hand.

“I know . . . I’ve heard a ton about you. He’s so incredibly into you,” J.D. gushed with enthusiasm.

I blushed in response.

“Oh, how adorable. Looks like you’re really into him too. Oh my God, Esteban. Did you see how he kissed her? Completely in love,” J.D. continued.

“¡Callá, por favor! Focus!” Esteban yelled as he fidgeted with my hair and prodded at my face studiously.

“Ugh, can I at least find out what I’m wearing?” I asked with imploring eyes.

Esteban opened his mouth with the clear intention of refusal before J.D. shot him a look.

“Fine,” Esteban groaned as J.D. blurred into the next room excitedly.

A moment later, he rushed back to our sides. I turned as he held a dress out with gusto.

“Isn’t it gorgeous? Tom picked it out himself. The man has terrible taste when it comes to his own clothes, but this is impeccable. You can’t go wrong with Marchesa,” J.D. pronounced.

I honestly had no words. The dress was gorgeous: strapless with layers upon layers of tissue-thin, bright turquoise fabric draped from a gathering at the bust line into an elegant flare that pooled spectacularly on the floor. The sweetheart neckline had a row of intricate crystal work woven between threads of silver and gold that reminded me of Indian embroidery. It was the most beautiful dresses I had ever seen.

“Where is he taking me?” I whispered in undisguised horror.

“Someplace nice; so we need to get to work, if you don’t mind,” Esteban retorted with finality.

For the next two and a half hours, Esteban and J.D. argued as they nitpicked over the slightest details. With deft hands and Esteban’s artful direction, J.D. swept makeup onto my skin and tortured my hair into the elegant up-do he had envisioned when he first saw me. They slid my feet into strappy, gold heels by Rene Caovilla and placed thin gold and silver bangles on my left wrist.

“Thomas left these for you.” Esteban handed me a small velvet box.

I opened it to find teardrop-shaped, blue sapphire earrings encrusted with pavé diamonds. The color of the sapphires matched the dress with thoughtful intention.

“He didn’t buy these, did he?” I stated in a near-whisper.

J.D. handed me a small index card. “Of course. Esteban forgot to give this to you.” He rolled his eyes at Esteban.

It was a simple, hand-written message:

I hope this gift helps you forgive me for what I’ve done . . . and what I’m about to do.

~Tom

“Jesus Christ. These are huge!” I muttered in awe as I held them up to the light.

“Give them to me, sweetie,” J.D. said and plucked the box from my hand.

After he carefully looped the earrings through my earlobes, J.D. and Esteban took a step back to admire their handiwork.

“I think I see it now,” Esteban announced with the first smile I had seen on his face all afternoon.