The Spellbinder (2 page)

Through it all he had remained surprisingly levelheaded, and each success had only fanned
the desire to better his next performance, increase his range, bring something new and fresh to each succeeding role. Still, Brody’s search for perfection didn’t make Cass’s job any easier. The actor could be demanding, single-minded, and scathing if he detected any lack of professionalism in the people surrounding him. Cass had no problem with that aspect of his character; it was balanced by a sense of fairness and the generosity to give whatever help was needed to reach the common goal of any production.

However, many people in the business didn’t share Cass’s view, and Brody’s ruthlessness had been as highly publicized as his many affairs. Well, that was their hang-up, Cass reasoned. He liked Brody as a man and respected him as an artist. He just wished to hell that the man would stop asking quite so much of himself and the people around him so they could all be more comfortable. Cass was getting too old for challenges. “I’ll call the service and tell them to have a woman in your suite when you get there.”

“Good.” Brody strode naked toward the bathroom door. “Thanks, Cass.”

“Just one of my wide array of services,” Cass said lightly. “One I’ve perfected over the years.”

Brody stopped with his hand on the doorknob to gaze curiously at his manager. “I’ve never asked you. Did you perform this particular service for my father too?”

Cass shook his head. “He preferred amateurs
and wasn’t nearly as fastidious as you about complications.”

Brody’s lips twisted. “So I’ve heard.” He had scarcely known his father. He was the child of Raymond’s second marriage and had visited him rarely during his lifetime. Raymond Devlin had been divorced four times and been involved in innumerable well-publicized affairs before his death eight years before. “To each his own.”

Two minutes after the door closed behind Cass, Brody was under the shower. The warm water whipping against his body should have been soothing, but it failed to ease the tension knotting his muscles. Once he had reached this point, not even sex could totally relieve it. It was too raw and abrasive to yield to sleep or exercise, and he wasn’t stupid enough to use drugs or liquor. If he could just hold on until he got back to the hotel, the woman in the suite should help. He would sink into her body and take the edge off both his abstinence and this damn tension, which was almost always with him. He should have sent for a woman before this but he had felt an unaccountable reluctance. He thought it might have something to do with the boredom that had been gnawing at him for the past few years. Bored with sex? He must be getting old. No, his physical arousal was as strong as ever. It was the emptiness he felt afterward that bothered him.

Still, sex helped more than anything else to defeat his nemesis. The tension would return after the act, but it wouldn’t be this bad for a while.
He would be fine as soon as he got to his suite and saw the woman.

He closed his eyes, thinking about the woman Marceline would send, and let the water pour over him. His instructions were always the same. The call girl must be blond, voluptuous, and versatile. She was given a key by the desk clerk and was always waiting naked in bed when he arrived at the suite.

The woman wasn’t blond, she wasn’t voluptuous, and she definitely wasn’t waiting naked in bed.

She was sitting fully dressed in the cane chair in the sitting room and jumped to her feet as soon as he opened the door. “Hello.” Her voice was breathless. “I’m Sacha Lorion. I’m very happy to meet you.”

The words held the faintest hint of an accent of some kind. French? Well, it didn’t matter. She was all wrong. What the hell could the service have been thinking of to send someone like this teenage Lolita to him? She looked about seventeen in those beat-up jeans and jacket, and she was staring at him with the fearless wide-eyed curiosity of a much younger child.

“I’m Brody Devlin and I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. You’re not what I wanted.”

“No?” She moistened her lips with her tongue. “You don’t like me?”

The accent
was
French, and her husky voice was vaguely erotic, Brody noted, stroking him like
a whisper in the dark. Maybe … No, conversation was seldom required from his partners, and he would feel guilty as hell taking this big-eyed child to bed. “You’re too young,” he said gently.

“I’m twenty-one.”

He should have known Marceline’s service wouldn’t deal with children. Marceline’s women were all skilled professionals of the highest order. No doubt some of her customers preferred the kinky imagery of bedding a budding nymphet, but she would never risk supplying the actual goods. He closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry, you still won’t do.”

“You think I’m ugly? I know I’m not to everyone’s taste.” The question was asked with no coyness, only that same bold curiosity he had noted in her expression.

“No, you’re actually quite … attractive.” It wasn’t the right word, but her appeal was difficult to categorize. Her skin was truly magnificent, Brody thought, rose petals on velvet. Her ebony hair shone clean and healthy in the lamplight, falling to her shoulders and curving under in a simple page boy to frame high cheekbones, slightly pouty lips, and light blue eyes faintly uptilted at the corners. There was something vaguely familiar about those eyes, he thought absently. “I’m afraid you’re just not my type.”

She smiled and he inhaled sharply. Not attractive. Beautiful. Her face was suddenly illuminated from within by a warmth and vitality that was near incandescent. “Then of course, I won’t do at
all,” she said cheerfully. “I’m sorry. There must have been a mix-up. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” She strode briskly toward the telephone on the desk in the far corner of the sitting room. “I’ll call Marceline’s right away and arrange for a replacement.” She paused with her hand on the receiver and glanced back over her shoulder. “At this time of night it may take an hour or so, but I will take good care of you until she gets here. Have you eaten yet?”

“No, but—”

“Then I will cook you a fine meal.” She made a shooing motion with one hand as she picked up the receiver with the other. “Go to your bedroom and rest. I know you must be tired after your performance tonight. I’ll call you when the food is ready.”

Brody felt his lips twitching with amusement. “Do you always supply chef service to your customers?”

“But you are not my customer.” Sacha smiled sunnily. “You are a hungry man who has been badly treated by my employer. The least I can do is to see that you are fed and pampered
un peu.
”

“You’re French?”

She shook her head. “Hungarian mother, American father, but I grew up in Paris.” She made another shooing motion. “You go rest. All will be well, I promise you.”

Brody found himself meekly obeying her command. As the bedroom door closed behind him he took off his tan Windbreaker and tossed it on the bed. It was odd, but the tension and boredom
gripping him had eased since he had entered the suite. The little Sacha had surprised and amused him, but he had definitely not been bored.

He sat down on the king-size bed and looked around in discontent. Why the devil had he let the woman banish him to the bedroom? He wasn’t tired. The energy was coursing through him as it usually did after a performance.

“Brody?” The door opened and Sacha’s gleaming, dark head poked around it. “I’m sorry, but I will need you in the kitchen. Those idiots in the hotel have stocked the refrigerator with only milk, eggs, cheese, and bacon.” Her face lit with a gamine grin. “But all is not lost. I found”—she paused dramaticaly— “
mushrooms.
We will have a magnificent quiche, if you will only dice the mushrooms while I brown the bacon.”

He rose swiftly to his feet, feeling as if he had been reprieved. “I think I can manage that.” He followed her to the small, gleaming kitchen, noticing she was taller than he had first thought. It must have been her slenderness that had created the illusion of lack of height. She had discarded her denim jacket, and he smothered a smile as he saw the pink T-shirt she wore had D
ISNEY
W
ORLD
printed on the back and a huge Donald Duck on the front. Lolita, indeed.

Then his amusement vanished as his gaze lingered on her small breasts, outlined with such loving detail by the T-shirt that it was evident she was wearing no bra. He had a sudden impulse to lift the shirt and cup her breasts in his hands.
That creamy rose tinting her cheeks was very alluring, and the texture fantastic. Would her nipples be as velvety as—

“There will be a replacement here as soon as possible,” Sacha said. “Marceline’s manager apologizes profusely and hopes you will accept any small service I can do for you until she can make reparation.” She shot him a mischievous glance. “So you see, since she’s paying me, you must let me make you comfortable. I regard it as my duty, and I always do my duty.”

“Do you?” Annoyance as unreasonable as it was strong suddenly jabbed through him. His tone became caustic. “I bet you’re damn good at those duties too.”

Her smile faded, and he felt as if he’d slapped a child. “Sometimes. I try very hard.” She motioned to the red plastic and chrome chair beside the Formica table. “If you will sit down, I will get you the mushrooms.”

“Sacha …”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry.” The words came haltingly. “That was uncalled for. Sometimes I can be a complete bastard.”

She smiled. “Then we must work to correct that condition. Right?” She took a large bottle of mushrooms from the refrigerator, snatched up a cutting board from a hook on the wall and a paring knife from the drawer beneath the sink. She carried them to him and set the objects on the table. “If you do this job very well, I will consider it
suitable penance.” She met his gaze steadily. “And you are not a bastard, Brody. I think you could be very difficult, but that is a different thing entirely.” She turned away, strode to the cabinet, and got down a mixing bowl. “Now, I must obviously feed you quickly. Probably hunger makes you bad-tempered.”

He wasn’t so sure. When he had thought of Sacha in bed with one of her nymphet-loving clients, he had experienced a surge of rage that had caught him off-guard. He found the image lingering distastefully even now. “Probably.” He opened the jar of mushrooms. “I see by your T-shirt that you were at Walt Disney World. When did you go?”

“A few weeks ago.” She was breaking eggs into the mixing bowl with economical efficiency. “I had a wonderful time. It’s truly a magic place. Have you ever been there?”

He shook his head. “We played Orlando last month, but I didn’t bother to go.”

“You should have. I know you don’t like crowds but—”

“How do you know that?” he asked idly.

She paused in the motion of breaking an egg. “I must have read it somewhere.” She cracked the shell. “I know people recognize you wherever you go, and that must bother you, but you can’t hide away when there are so many wonderful things to see.”

It had been a long time since he had experienced the eagerness he saw in her face. He suddenly
felt terribly old and cynical. “I’ll see it next time.” His gaze went to the front of her shirt. “You like Donald Duck?”

She nodded decisively. “Oh, yes. He’s my favorite cartoon character, but I had trouble finding a shirt with his picture. Everything was Mickey Mouse. The salesgirl at the shop told me he was more popular.” She scowled. “Bah! Who would like a meek, bland character like Mickey over Donald Duck?”

Bah?
He didn’t think he’d ever heard the expression outside of vintage movies, yet he found the word entirely natural and even charming coming from Sacha’s lips. “Since Donald is irascible, crafty, vengeful, and underhanded, I could imagine a few misguided souls who might prefer Mickey.”

“But he can also be affectionate and rather sweet, and it’s no wonder he behaves badly when he’s persecuted by those dreadful chipmunks. I feel quite sorry for him. He can’t help it if he’s difficult.”

He chuckled. “You seem to make it a habit of forgiving difficult types. Not that I put myself in the same elite class as Donald.”

She wrinkled her nose as she glanced at him over her shoulder. “It isn’t kind of you to laugh at me. I’m entirely sincere. I can’t help it if I’ve always found difficult people more worthwhile in the long run.”

“Are you flattering me, Sacha?”

“Bah! I do not flatter. If I can’t be honest, I do not speak at all.” She paused. “Well, that’s not
exactly true. But if I lie, there’s always a good reason.”

The smile of amusement lingered on his lips. “I see.”

“Are those mushrooms ready? You’re being very slow.”

“Sorry. I’ll try to do better.” He looked up. “In my job I don’t get much practice at cooking.”

“That’s no excuse. In my job I don’t either.”

Another flash of burning irritation surprised him as a vividly obscene picture flashed through his mind. What the devil was wrong with him? She was a high-priced hooker who was obviously content with her profession. Why should he care who she slept with after she left him tonight? “Maybe you have an affinity for it,” he said curtly, pushing the cutting board away. “I don’t think I’m hungry after all. You eat the quiche when you’ve finished and then run along.”

She turned to face him, her expression clouding. “What did I do wrong? I was enjoying myself, and I thought you were too. I thought we were being very … companionable.”

He felt a flicker of remorse. It wasn’t her fault he was being pricked by these weird emotions. “You didn’t do anything wrong. And we were being very companionable.”

“Then what …?” She trailed off, looking at him pensively. “I know what it is. You didn’t like it that I criticized you.” Her expression softened. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I had no idea you were
so sensitive. I will be careful not to do it again. You will stay?”

He was having trouble tearing his gaze away from her pleading face. It was getting out of hand. He couldn’t remember ever responding to a woman on the multitude of levels he was to Sacha. Surprise, amusement, tenderness, and the burning possessiveness that had been bothering him whenever he thought of Sacha in bed with another man. Jealousy. Talk about dog in the manger. He couldn’t desire this big-eyed street urchin.