Читать книгу Love Me True - Ann Major, Ann Major - Страница 11

Two

Joey. Daniella. Mac.

Superstar. Supermodel. Superagent.

The fallout from what Joey had said and done on stage surrounded the three passengers in the stretch limo like a poisonous gas as they sped through the night dark. Mac’s handsome black face smoldered with enigmatic misery as he stared out the window at the whizzing headlights.

If Joey was red-faced and guilty with self-loathing, Daniella’s dark silence was equally oppressive as the sleek, black car pulled up in front of L.A.’s trendiest restaurant where Mac was throwing Joey a party.

Her dark brows knitting, Daniella turned on Joey. Then the screaming crowd rushed the car, their hoarse cries drowning out her outburst.

Thank God. Joey was in no mood for another tongue-lashing.

Joey had slouched against the door while Mac had tried to cajole Danny out of her mood by praising her latest Vogue cover, but she’d stiffened and notched her exquisite nose even higher.

Finally, even Mac lost patience. “Honey, give him a break. He’s gonna have a hard enough time living that sappy speech down.”

Daniella’s glossily painted mouth had tightened. “His fans’ll love it! Poor, poor Joey, pining for some long-lost love—How does that make me look?”

Joey had had it with Daniella. She hadn’t even waited for the ceremony to end before she’d attacked.

As if he didn’t despise himself enough. He didn’t know why he’d thanked Heather. She was the last person he should have mentioned. She was marrying Larry Roth. He didn’t give a damn about her anymore.

This was supposed to be the happiest night of his life. Instead, he’d stood on that stage, drinking in the applause, feeling the heat of the lights only to wonder why he felt no rush of exhilaration. He’d come so far, in such a short time. No way would he ever forget growing up as the town drunk’s son, or his jobs as dishwasher, waiter, and bouncer. Or the cockroach-infested apartments in dangerous neighborhoods, or that awful opening night when he’d sunk so low he’d stripped naked in that back-alley play and then lost his nerve and leapt offstage. A producer had chased him with a video camera and caught a full frontal view. Joey had grabbed a lady’s sweater and jammed it against his crotch while she shrieked. From time to time that clip was still played.

But Mac had been in the audience that night and had thought Joey was magic. Mac had tracked him down, gone to his apartment and rammed a fist on the front door.

“Who the hell are you?” Joey had demanded, putting the chain on at the sight of the huge, muscular black man looming in his doorway.

“Your agent.”

“I’m through acting.”

“Can we discuss that?” Mac’s bright grin had been infectious. “You impressed me m Hanging Out.”

“You’re impressing the hell out of my downstairs neighbor—”

Mac’s dark face paled when he saw the plump little girl in black pigtails squatting on the top step, her big black eyes popping out on stems.

Mac glowered. “Quit eyeballing me, girl. Go beat a drum or play with a doll—”

“Selena,” her mother yelled. “Get in here now.”

Defiantly Selena marched down the stairs. When Mac stuck out his tongue and waggled fingers over his ears, she ran to her mother. “Mama! There’s a man out here scaring me!”

“You gonna let me in before that woman calls the cops and they haul me to jail?”

Gut instinct made Joey lift the chain.

“How’d you know Selena’s a drummer?”

“I’ve got three rug rats of my own.”

“You’re married?”

“To my high school sweetheart.”

“True love...in this city?”

“Titania keeps me sane in this insane business.”

Joey cracked the door wider. “I won’t ever take my clothes off for a part again.”

“How about a beer?”

They’d talked for hours. Mac had sworn he could make a big difference in Joey’s career, and he had. Mac had seen that he met the right people, had taught him to quit overacting

“Read the part a time or two, no more,” Mac had commanded in his bullying, enthusiastic way. “Then just get out there and wing it. What you’ve got to do is play along with the other actors. Live it when you do it. Don’t think so much. You’re a natural.”

Because of Mac and Titania, who were overzealous about handling every aspect of Joey’s life—his moods, his women and his money—Joey was at the top.

But other than Mac and Titania and their kids, Joey had no real friends. Suddenly on that stage tonight he’d felt as alone and empty as he had at the bottom, maybe lonelier.

Mac and Titania had each other. Sometimes their happiness made him even more aware of what was missing. Maybe that was why he’d started buying land in Texas.

“You could have thanked me up there—” Daniella had said to Joey in the limo.

God. Everything, everything was always about her.

“So—Thanks.” Joey bit out the word.

“You treat me like I’m nothing to you, Joey.”

“He sleeps with you, doesn’t he?” Mac inserted.

Joey flinched and hoped Mac wouldn’t catch the subtext in Danny’s sudden silence and sly look.

What the hell was wrong with him? He was supposed to be a Hollywood superstud. Danny was one of the most beautiful women in the world. And he had no interest in sex. Before her, he’d dated girls a night or two, always dropping them when they demanded to be more than a decoration on his arm.

He could have anybody. Women were always handing him room keys, phone numbers, business cards. So—how come he didn’t want them?

“You don’t care about me though,” Daniella persisted.

What did she expect? What was he to her but a celebrity stud she’d used to put herself on the map?

He hadn’t asked Daniella to jump into his pool naked and scream she couldn’t swim. She’d probably hired that paparazzi piece of trash to climb his tree and take that shot of her without a stitch on just as Joey had dragged her out of the water.

The next morning their “affair” and the incriminating photograph of him giving Daniella mouth to mouth resuscitation had made every tabloid cover in the civilized world.

Then she’d come on to him at a party with the line, “Everybody already thinks we’re doing it, so why don’t we?” Before he could cut her for being so pushy, she’d kissed him.

Second photo of their mouths and bodies glued together. More tabloids.

No use denying his involvement with her after that. The media had given the world a gripping image. Truth didn’t matter. Would his fans believe photos they could salivate over with their own eyes—or what he told them?

A week later Daniella had bribed his gullible maid out of his beach house key She’d climbed into his bed naked and kissed him. That night he’d almost lived up to his reputation as Hollywood’s number one sex symbol.

So, she’d used him. Big damn deal. His fame made him fair game.

“You’re a star. I’m a star. How come you say you’re nothing,” he murmured in her ear.

“I want more, Joey.”

For no reason at all he thought of the drowsy summer afternoon he’d taught a golden-haired Heather to skim rocks across the creek. His stones had skipped to the other side; hers had gone plunk. But, oh, how they’d laughed—together. And, oh, what they’d done later in bed.

She was getting married in a week.

Maybe he wanted more, too.

“I’ve heard that before,” he said to Daniella.

“I mean more...like a diamond ring.”

“Marriage?”

Her silent face was as easy to read as a red neon light blinking YES!

“No way, baby.”

Daniella’s eyes went white-bright as she glared. “Go to hell, Joey.”

“Been there. Done that. For six damn years.”

He didn’t know why the hell he’d said what he’d said on that stage. He’d just been standing up there with those hot kleig lights, sweating like a pig. His knees had buckled. He’d been so damned scared, he’d felt so damned alone. He’d blurted out the first stupid thing that hit him.

Heather—Again he saw Ben’s bright, broken red car, saw her bend over Ben. When he’d tried to comfort her, she’d pushed him away, crying it was his fault. Then she’d let that cold, blue-blooded bastard, Larry Roth, fold her into his arms and lead her away.

Damn her hide for carving his heart out, for driving him to these crazy, airless heights to prove he wasn’t just a worthless nobody.

After a pause he said to Daniella, “When I want to get married, I’ll ask.”

The fans’ screams outside the limo roared louder. A young brunette hurled herself at his door and beat the glass with her fists.

“Let me in. I love you, Joey.”

Join the world!

The fan mashed her breasts against the glass and squirmed.

Mac grinned. “Titania would skin me alive if she saw this—”

Mac was popular with the ladies. Not that he ever did more than look. Titania was notoriously jealous.

Joey became aware of the shrill cacophony of the crowd yelling for him to get out. Fans of all sizes and ages screamed.

“Stardom,” Mac purred. “Your big dream’s come true.”

Joey laughed shortly.

“Be careful what you wish for?” Mac murmured. “What my other clients wouldn’t give—”

This craziness was the price Joey paid, for doing the work he loved, or would have loved, if they’d give him roles with more depth. He was tired of his warrior roles even though all his movies had been smash hits. He was tired of every woman thinking he was a god in bed.

Louie, his bodyguard, opened the door and told them to run. A blonde hurled herself at Mac. Gently, Mac deflected her and flashed his wedding ring toward the cameras.

Joey dragged Daniella out of the car through the throng behind him, shielding her from the worst with his muscular body.

Flashbulbs popped, blinding him.

“Faster,” he hissed over his shoulder when she stopped and began to pull her dress down and stick her chest out, simpering and flirting with the cameras.

“Smile for the nice man, Joey,” Daniella ordered.

“Hug her!” a girl screamed.

“Kiss her!”

Encouraged, Daniella’s hand snaked around his neck, her red, gooey mouth covering his. “Kiss me, you undersexed bastard. Make it look good. After all, you’re an actor.”

He fought her. For a second more her lips and arms imprisoned him before he broke free.

Inside it was no better.

Mac’s party was frantic. When Joey stepped through the door, the music stopped. Everybody froze and stared. This awkward interval was followed by a spontaneous burst of applause started by a radiant Titania. In a room filled with gazelle-thin beauties, Titania’s buxom figure in her white-sequined gown made her seem larger than life.

Joey nodded to her and then waved the guests to go back to whatever they’d been doing. For a moment longer he lingered at the entrance, watching Mac’s endless number of guests, mostly starlets—coming and going. They crowded around Mac and Titania, standing three and four deep at the bar. Mac and Titania were soon having the time of their lives. Then the band started playing, and rock music hit Joey like a tidal wave. Above that roar, people started yelling.

“Speech! Speech!”

“Thank me, Joey,” a pretty girl teased.

Everybody laughed except Joey, whose grim smile got harder.

“Lonely, lonely superstud.”

God—Suddenly a fierce yearning for bleached limestone hills and the creek with its woodsy smells made him ache for the peace and sanity of his Texas ranch.

“I’ll go home with you, Joey,” another girl whispered.

Joey’s gut coiled tighter; his mouth twisted. Would he ever learn to handle this inconvenient side of fame—the constant stares, the never-ending invasion of his privacy? He walked straight into the room, engaging no one’s eyes, especially no female’s.

“Could I get you something, darling?” The girl who pounced had glossy black hair. Her laser-bright eyes made too many promises.

“I’m with someone.”

“Not any more, lover.” She pointed at the dance floor.

Joey spun. Daniella was dancing cheek to cheek, body to body with Zachary Ranch, his director.

Joey charged toward them. He hated like hell to be rude to Mac and Titania, but the strange, sick-at-heart mood that had gripped him on that stage had him wild with panic again. The only way he could stay here was to get wasted or stoned. He didn’t do drugs, so he had to get out of this town. Out of this state. Back to Texas where people cut him down to human size. Back to Texas before Heather got married.

Joey pulled out his cell phone and punched in his pilot’s number. His orders were brief.

Joey pocketed his flip-phone. “Let’s go, Danny.”

She snuggled against Zach.

Joey tapped her arm.

When Zach tried to ease her free, she clung like a magnet. “Zach and me, we’re having fun.”

“Stay then.” Joey’s dark tone implied he didn’t care what she did. He was a little surprised when she followed him.

Outside, they had to run the gauntlet of his fans again. Much to Louie’s dismay, when the mother of a little girl on crutches thrust a notebook toward Joey, he patiently signed it. Even though the crowd mobbed him, and Louie screamed for him to get in the car, Joey gave the little girl an encouraging word and a hug.

It took them thirty minutes to reach the airport. Howard, his pilot, was climbing aboard the Learjet and settling himself into the cockpit when the limo zoomed up.

Joey joined Howard and guided the jet down the runway until he got clearance to take off into a black, starlit sky. Reluctantly, he handed Howard the controls and went back to Daniella, who snapped her eyes shut and ignored him. He tossed his Oscar into a seat and sprawled at the other end of the jet He slept all the way to Texas.

With only a few hours left of the night, they walked through the door of his ranch house

He was opening windows to let in the smell of cedar and the warm, night air, when the phone rang.

Daniella grabbed it and then slammed it down.

“Who—?”

“Some creepo breather.” She sashayed, hips undulating, to the bathroom.

Joey checked his Caller ID.

No name.

No need.

He knew Heather’s number by heart.

Damn. He flushed at the memory of his idiotic, inexplicable confession on stage. She was the last person he wanted to talk to. He’d been half out of his mind. Fame made him crazy. Millions of people loved him. Millions of strangers.

Not that he wanted the real thing. His coming home didn’t have anything to do with Heather Wade.

He’d flown home to ground himself. The press had printed so many damn lies about him, he didn’t know who he was. It was as if the real Joey Fasano had ceased to exist. Posters of his tough face and body papered the world. The media made him into a sexual god, a macho warrior. But the real man felt even more invisible than he had when he’d been a nobody. When had his own life gotten so out of hand? What the hell could he do about it?

Heather. She’d called.

He felt a weird sensation inside his chest. It was as if his flesh were being flayed, sliced.

Forget her.

An uneasy stillness descended over him. He wanted to hate her, to forget her—but it wasn’t that easy.

Joey sighed. Despite his own meteoric climb to fame and fortune, despite his pretense at style, he was just an actor which meant he was upstart trash in Heather’s world. Her fiancé was a blue-blooded prince from old money. Joey played bad-boy outlaws that thrilled shallow, mass audiences. He didn’t know squat about opera or deep literature. He couldn’t stand tea parties or debutante balls.

The bathroom door opened and Daniella, having shed everything except her black, stiletto heels, swayed toward him.

Her blond hair was wild and unrestrained. She was gorgeous, and it worried him that he wasn’t aroused.

He shucked his clothes and opened a drawer. Yanking out a pair of pajamas, he pulled them on. In a panic he buttoned the shirt to the neck only to realize he’d started wrong and was a button off. He leapt into bed and doused the light.

“I’m tared,” he said grumpily. “So, good night.” He rolled over.

She got in beside him. He stiffened when he felt her warmth oozing nearer. Then she curled her luscious body against his back, mashing her breasts against him. He lay still, his muscles strained and taut. When her fingers groped inside his pajamas, he shoved her away.

“Not tonight, babe.”

“You pathetic bastard!” She jumped up. “What if I go to the tabloids and tell your fans about your...little... problem?”

Violence rose in him. “Go ahead.” His bluff was lethally soft. “That’ll be a refreshing switch from their usual fare.”

He shut his eyes.

When he got up the next morning, she was gone. So were the diamonds he’d borrowed for her to wear.

Joey punched his Caller ID, and Heather’s number came up again. He went to the fridge. Since he hadn’t warned Cass, there was nothing in it but beer and a coffee canister. He shook the canister and found it was empty.

He slammed the door and pitched the canister into the trash. The living room with its vaulted ceilings felt empty and huge. He was glad Danny was gone even if the house felt lonelier.

Heather.

What did he keep thinking about her? She and her family had made him feel worthless. He had scripts to read, phone calls to make.

Still, he paced restlessly across the room, finally pulling out a little drawer in a table by his sofa. Inside lay a dog-eared copy of a news magazine. On the cover a handsome dark man carried a little boy on one shoulder along a golden path through a sun-dappled forest. Heather’s Pulitzer-winning picture. At first glance, the man’s expression was rapt. Only at second glance did one see the evil. The child’s big-eyed gaze was equally fixed. Because of that photograph, Trevor Pilot, the man in the picture, a cold-blooded kidnapper, was in prison. The boy’s father had been the British ambassador. The kidnapping had been international news. When the child had been found alive because of that picture, Heather would have been honored at the White House. But she’d run, just like she had after Ben’s death.

The little boy’s almost paralyzed expression sent a chill through Joey. Heather was so good. Why had she quit?

He thrust the magazine back into the drawer and walked out onto his porch. As he studied the dark trees along the creek where he and Heather had played, he saw their childhood ghosts swinging on ropes. The golden-haired girl letting go, falling into the creek, water splashing all around her skinny body like geysers.

Every summer had been a time of enchantment. Long summer days spent lying in the sun till their skin heated and then cold swims in the creek. Shared refreshments afterward in his hideout; shared lunches at school because he never brought anything really good.

They’d trusted each other completely. Only she’d known that his father beat him and how his poverty stung him, especially the secondhand clothes and old boots that marked him as unworthy. That’s why she’d dressed so badly—to put him at ease. When she’d told him she was pregnant their first year in college, he’d asked her to marry him.

His mood grew darker. He got hungrier, too, but he couldn’t drive into town for coffee, eggs or a burger unless he was ready to answer questions about Heather.

Fame. He wasn’t handling it.

He rang Cass, who said he’d shop first thing. Joey decided to watch the news while he waited. He ambled over to the fridge, popped the top off a beer, grabbed his remote and collapsed onto his sofa.

There was a story about a shooting spree in an Austin mall parking lot. A jealous husband had plugged his wife’s lover through a grocery sack. The reporter noted that Texas and Mexico were engulfed by a record heat wave, that temperatures had never been so high in April, that violence seemed on the rise as a result. The next story featured Senator Wade’s upcoming election and his daughter’s wedding.

Blood rushed in Joey’s head at the sight of Heather in Larry’s arms. Six years ago, Roth had put his arms around her just like that right after Ben died. Funny, her turning to Roth, Alison’s old beau, that night. Funny he hadn’t realized that was the exact moment he’d lost her.

Roth still had the same flawless bone structure, the same slicked-back golden hair, the same smooth way, the same frozen eyes. Maybe he looked good to her after her other crazy boyfriends. Joey didn’t like the cynical droop of that carved mouth. He disliked even more the way the older man’s expression hardened every time Heather said anything offbeat. If Roth was edgy, Heather was even more so.

Her smiles were strained. Her bright lipstick and rouge made her look paler. She was too thin, too reserved, almost doll-like in her utter lack of passion. She used to be a mess—but an interesting mess. Not that the conventional dress didn’t flow over her slender curves. But her stylish attire and the severe knot at her nape would have suited her mother far better. The Heather he remembered was unpredictable and loved surprises. She favored loose clothes and ethnic jewelry; she wore her hair long and flowing.

This poised socialite with the tense smile and the incredible cool was a far cry from the girl with the constant grin and the tangled ringlets who’d been up to such mischief in his hideout. The Heather he’d known had wanted to experience life to its fullest, not to repress herself.