Hollywood Hit (23 page)

“Let me look at you,” he whispered. His voice rasped thick and low.

A tremble coiled deep in her belly and the pull of want clutched the V between her legs. His eyes traced along her body and the heat of his gaze tingled over her skin. She closed her eyes as he pulled her hands from under her chin and stretched out her arms so that he might view her entire form.

“You’re perfect.”

His fingertip pressed under her chin and tilted her face upward. He touched no other place on her body but under her chin, and still every bit of her skin tingled and her nipples pulled tight with desire. His nearness, the want for his touch, the complete and utter desire her body had for this man.

“Look at me.”

Nikki lifted her gaze and met Rush’s eyes. Vulnerability set within his deep desire. A desire that exceeded the simple thrill of sex.

A want opened in her chest bigger and wider than simple lust. A want to know this man, to keep this man, to be his. The reflection of her own wants inhabited Rush’s eyes. He stepped forward and ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. Her tongue flicked out and over her lip, chasing his thumb. She wanted to be kissed. She wanted to feel him pressed against her and inside her and encompassing her. She wanted to be his in a way she’d never known or experienced or accepted in all her life.

His lips grasped hers. Rough with an underscore of tenderness—he teetered on the edge of his passion as though he resisted his most base urges, if only to protect her from the roughness and want that crept through his blood. His fingers drifted along her ribs to her thong and with a quick twist, he snapped the lace and her barely there panties dropped to the floor.

He lifted her onto the bed and nestled her back into the pillows. Then he pulled away from her and examined her in the candlelight. Her blood called to him, singing with the want of him and the icy chill that danced along her skin in the absence of his touch.

He placed one hand on either side of her head and leaned over her. His hard cock, while still enclosed in his pants, pressed hard against the hot wet spot between her legs. Her hips hitched upward as his lips pressed upon her mouth, and then his tongue slipped inside, exploring.

Her hands grappled at the edge of his pants and she unbuttoned him. Unzipped him. She pushed his pants down over his hard, muscled hips. His skin was so taut and hot beneath her fingers, and she couldn’t get him free of his clothes fast enough. Her hands plunged into the top of his pants, finding his long, hard cock. She grasped him. A gasp rattled through his body. Rush's kiss deepened. He pulled back and pulled his shirt over his head.

His body was perfection. She’d imagined it since the first time they locked eyes at Soho House. She’d dreamed of this, wanted this, and now in the moonlight all his hard, rippled muscles and olive-colored skin stretched above her. His eyes glittered with a deep desire. A desire that frightened her and went straight to her core. This. This moment now—there would be no return. There would be no more boys, no more rockers, no more pretenders—here was a man, a true man, with ease and power and grace, a man she wanted to keep.

She stroked him and with her touch a hiss whispered over Rush’s lips and he bent forward, nearly unable to contain himself. She pulled at him, stroking long and hard and he keened forward and pushed his lips onto hers. He settled onto his forearm and pulled his other arm around her, pressed her back, took both her hands and pinned them over her head. His lips traced down her neck and his hard cock pressed into the hot, wet crevice, the tiny spot that pulsed with heat and with want.

His lips found the tight bud of her nipple and he pulled it into his mouth. Heat seared through her. His teeth pinched at her nipple, then his tongue stroked over the flesh. His kisses trailed down her belly and he held firm to her wrist with one hand and his fingertips eased open the swollen, wet, and ready flesh between her legs. His fingertips teased the spot between her legs, the tight button that caused hot threads of desire to trail through her body. She bit her bottom lip and her hips bucked with the pressure of his fingertips. His fingers slipped inside her, gliding through her wetness as his hand released her wrists and his mouth pulsed between her legs. She soaked up the deliciousness of the moment. She rode the wave of an orgasm over the edge. He pulled upward as her body quivered. For an instant he was above her, his face emotionless and fixed as his gaze traveled across her body. With one deep thrust he was in her and on her and pushing upward, widening her wet flesh, stretching her and pulling in the hard, gentle throb. His body was steel muscles and hard rhythm. She moved with him. He pushed deeper into her, her body widening to let him into her. The heat barreled upward and with each of his hard thrusts her fingers clamped to his back as she clutched him, then went over the edge once more.

*

Rush was screwed. Every which way. He looked over his shoulder, away from the full moon that cast a glow across the Ojai Valley and toward the girl who slept in the bed. Her face was relaxed in the moonlight, a pale alabaster with her pretty rosebud lips still bee-stung from his rough kisses and her wild hair a fiery halo that framed her face.

Nikki got to him. Her combination of naïveté, innocence, bravado, and pain-in-the-ass nature got to him, pulled him tight, closer than he should have been or ever expected to be. This was not what Ted Robinoff had in mind when he’d told Rush to get close. A sick feeling clenched through Rush’s gut. No, Ted hadn’t intended that Rush should bed his niece. A deep inhale of breath pulsed through Rush. What was this? What had he managed to do—his weakness to this silly, sad sort of girl would cost him his job, might cost him his cover, might cost him his entire career.

He closed his eyes. You couldn’t build a relationship upon a lie. And Nikki knew nothing about him other than his lies. He was meant to protect her; this was a finite gig. A gig that was meant to end and he was meant to slip seamlessly into her past as she found a future with her type of guy. A guy who really wanted to be in entertainment or a doctor or lawyer or perhaps an executive that rolled with Ted.

Not with a man who lied for a living. Not with a man who used his body, his mind, his smarts, and the money of the man he worked for to ferret out the deepest secrets people never wanted exposed. Finding secrets, exposing lies, was Rush’s specialty, and that was not the type of man Nikki Solange should ever be in a relationship with—Rush didn’t want her to be.

He turned back toward the cathedral window beside the bed. Shadows bounced around the edges of trees. They would return to Los Angeles tomorrow. He would tell Ted what had happened. There was no other way but to shed this guilt and take the hit. Ted would decide how to proceed because Rush was too damn close to even see.

Christina slipped her gold Bruno Frisoni sandals from her feet. Her toes were numb. She’d worn the three-inch heels all day and all night. She stooped, picked them up, and dropped them beside her closet door. Tomorrow she would put them away, but tonight she wanted to relax. She needed to read three scripts before tomorrow morning—Lydia would be reading. Even after the successful premiere earlier in the week for
Concession to Her Delight
, even while the opening-weekend numbers for the film were tracking over forty-five million, even though Lydia was successful and probably tired, she would be reading tonight. Therefore, Christina should be reading too.

She picked up her phone from her bed and glanced at the screen.

How are you?

She and Bradford had been texting for days. She hadn’t seen him since the after-party in Malibu where he’d saved her from herself. And maybe, she wanted to believe, she had saved him too. That night on the ride to his grandfather’s place, in Bel Air, where Bradford had decided to stay until he felt stronger, they’d not spoken. Silence had filled the car. She hadn’t spoken to him since she dropped him off and turned back toward Beverly Hills. He sent texts and pictures and funny tidbits from his day, but he didn’t ask to see her or to get together or to hang out. Christina was sad and thankful all at the same time. She liked Bradford. The liking Bradford was the primary problem. She wanted to hang out with him. She wanted to see him laugh and talk and drink coffee and do all the things that friends did, but Christina also wanted so much more. She wanted to press her body against his and feel his arms wrap around her.

She couldn’t be with him. She didn’t trust him. He’d shredded her heart and she didn’t want to feel that horrible feeling again. Bradford would soon be at full star power and when he reached his maximum starness he would no longer want her. There was always a new starlet to bed, a new model to date, a new musician to grope.

Good. Missed you at premiere.

Christina texted back. Earlier in the week she’d put him plus one on the list for the premiere. She’d hoped but not expected that Bradford would make an appearance although she knew he wouldn’t. She didn’t think he was ready to walk the red gauntlet, and while he could have tried to sneak into the premiere party by way of a side entrance, with all the photogs dotting every door it would have been tricky for him. This public an event wasn’t where he seemed to want to be, not yet. Maybe once he was back to full Bradford-ness, maybe then he’d be waltzing into every scene, every party, every premiere, every club… or maybe not. She sensed a change in Bradford. A change that seemed to deepen him, make him more vulnerable and yet somehow more strong. Christina’s phone beeped.

Not my scene.

Bradford forgot two important words; Not his scene,
right now
. A smiled curved about her lips. She really liked him. Sometimes she desperately wished she wasn’t so attracted to him, because if she wasn’t attracted to him, Bradford would most definitely be her best friend.

Want coffee?

Did she want coffee at ten p.m.? If Bradford brought coffee to her, in her empty home, while Nikki was off sexing it up with her hot new man, Christina wasn’t certain she wouldn’t start sexing it up with Bradford.

Kind of late
.
She texted back. Let him chew on that. How badly did he want to have coffee with her on a late weekday night? She dropped her phone onto her bed.

Christina pulled the clip from her hair and let the thick black wave fall about her shoulders. The only reminder of the violence inflicted upon her room was the Hummel angel figurine, a gift from her mother, which now bore a chipped wing. Everything had been fixed, replaced, and remade. A chill tingled down Christina’s spine. Her heart accelerated ever so slightly. She glanced toward her open window where a breeze wafted through the screen and her sheer drapes danced on the wind. She refused to be fearful in her own home. She’d locked the doors. She’d set the alarm. She’d even made certain the security guards were posted out back and out front as Lydia had promised. Christina reached for her window and pushed it closed, making sure to hear the click of the lock.

She’d never been a scaredy-cat type of girl. She could watch horror films and laugh. Dark places didn’t bother her. Snakes, spiders, and rats didn’t make her flinch. But the idea of someone uninvited traipsing about her home, pawing her things, ripping her clothes, breaking her personal treasures, not only made her mad but caused a cold curdle of fear to soak into her belly. Both Lydia and Zymar had asked her before she left the premiere party if she wanted to come and stay with them. She did want to. But she was afraid if she didn’t stay in her own home she might never return. She had to face the fear in her gut, because once she faced it, she knew that she wouldn’t be nearly as afraid.

Christina pulled off her silk blouse and black skirt. She draped both over the chaise in her bedroom. Her flannel pajamas with pictures of leaping sheep imprinted upon them were warm and soft against her skin. Her phone lay silent on her bed. No coffee with Bradford.

Christina turned toward her bedroom door. Perhaps tea would help. Tea and a really boring script. She was certain there was at least one (if not many, many more) horribly written scripts amongst the pile she’d brought home to read. She pattered down the stairs. The air was cool and a shiver raced down her spine. Christina turned the corner to the kitchen and flipped on the light.

The back door was open.

A sick, hollow feeling widened deep in her gut. The back door hadn’t been open before, before she armed the alarm, before she went upstairs to change, before she shut her bedroom window. The alarm pad beside the door was meant to flicker red when the alarm was set. Her eyes locked on the light. The alarm light was green. Panic burst in her chest like a silent bomb. Where was her phone? She stood frozen, unable to think, unable to move. The hair on her neck tingled and rose. There was someone in the town house with her. She was certain, at this moment, she was most definitely not alone.

One of the benefits of working behind the camera was that no one recognized you. Lydia clutched her giant tub of hot buttered popcorn in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. This was her forever ritual, to sneak into the back of a theatre, preferably in the Valley, and watch the opening-night audience’s reaction to her latest film. She settled into her seat and placed the tub on her lap. Let the calories flow. Every woman deserved a night off from her low-carb hell. She slurped her soda as the score for
Concession to Her Delight
swelled and the opening credits rolled across the screen. A tiny thrill pulsed up her back when her name flashed across the screen. No matter the pain involved in making a film, she would never get tired of this moment, seeing her name on the screen, watching the audience be swept up in the story, knowing she had created, yet again, something that would live forever.