Читать книгу Blackmailed Into a Fake Engagement / Tempted Into the Tycoon's Trap - Emily McKay - Страница 13

Whenever Gwen returned from working with the after-school program in drama therapy, she struggled with a clashing sense of satisfaction and grief. If things had turned out differently, her own child would be in preschool now. Peter had demanded, however, that she finish filming before her pregnancy was visible. He’d been unhappy when she’d told him she was pregnant, even going so far as to suggest that she get an abortion so it wouldn’t interrupt the shooting of his movie.

Gwen remembered that moment as if it had happened yesterday. That was when she’d no longer been able to deny that her relationship with Peter was crumbling.

Standing in the foyer of the cabin, she felt her keys slip through her trembling fingers to the floor. She glanced down at her shaking hands, spotting the engagement ring, and took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Food, she needed food. That was the reason she had the shakes, she told herself. She hadn’t eaten anything since morning.

The sound of Luc’s voice was muffled by the closed guest bedroom door. Relieved he wouldn’t see her in her current state, she picked up her keys, shrugged out of her jacket, hung it in the hall closet and went to the kitchen to scrounge up something to eat.

Soup, she decided, pulling a can from the shelves. And peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Not exactly gourmet, but it would fill her up. She would have to toast the bread because it was frozen.

Trying to think about anything except the baby she’d lost years ago, she heated the soup and made two sandwiches just in case Luc was desperate for nourishment.

Her mind flashed back to that day on the set when she’d fallen. The private emergency room, emergency surgery, Peter insisting on complete privacy and secrecy regarding the loss of her pregnancy. Waking up and feeling empty.

“Smells good,” Luc said just steps behind her.

His voice startled her, and she accidentally touched the hot pan with her fingers. Scalding pain singed her fingers, and she drew back, gasping. “Oh, no,” she said.

Luc swore under his breath. “Put your hand under the water,” he said, pulling her to the sink and plunging her hand under cool running water. “Damn, I didn’t mean to surprise you that much,” he said.

Overwhelmed by the combination of pain from her hand and the comfort of his chest at her back, she shook her head. “It’s not your fault. I was thinking about too many things at once. It’s just a little accident.”

“Does this happen often? Burning yourself while cooking?”

“Why?” she asked. “It’s usually food I burn, not myself.”

He nodded. “You get distracted.”

“Yes. There are more important things than food.”

“That’s why you have so many frozen meals ready for the microwave.”

She grimaced. “Okay, you know my secret. Well, one of them,” she amended. She started to pull her hand away from the faucet. “I think I’m better—”

He shook his head. “No. Keep it submerged for another few minutes. I’ll take care of the soup.”

Gwen glanced over her shoulder at Luc as he removed the pot from the burner and poured soup into the two bowls she’d set on the counter. There was a total sense of unreality to this picture. She would have never imagined seeing one of the powerful Hudsons in her kitchen serving soup.

Luc looked up and met her gaze. “You’re staring. Why?”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t on my calendar to have Luc Hudson in my kitchen this week, or any other week.”

His lips curved in a half grin. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“Which one of us is lucky?” she shot back. “You or me?”

“Excellent point. On the surface, most men would give an arm or leg or both to be in my position.”

“I hear a but coming.”

“Who wouldn’t want to be stuck in a cabin with the sexiest woman of 2004?”

She groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“Just curious,” he said, his gaze sliding over her sweater. “Do you still have that shirt?”

Feeling his gaze like a touch, she bit her lip. “No, it was just a man’s shirt. Nothing special.”

“Do you know how many men had fantasies about that shirt?”

She felt her cheeks heat. “No, and I don’t want to know.”

“Of course, the fantasies were about removing the shirt,” he continued.

“Which didn’t happen. So you can put that in the unfulfilled-fantasy column.” She turned off the faucet.

“A lot of reality is about unfulfilled fantasy,” he said.

“It can be,” she agreed and glanced at him. “How did you learn that?”

“My position. My brothers call me a PR wizard, but I know the truth. It’s all spin and semantics.” He moved the bowls to the small dining room table and gestured for her to sit.

“Just a minute,” she said and impulsively grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and scooped a couple of wineglasses from the cabinet. After pulling a corkscrew from a drawer, she brought the sandwiches to the table. She sat down, thinking for a flash of a moment that his gentlemanly manners made her feel more feminine than she had in a long time. “That’s part of the reason I like living here. Not much spin at all. People say what they think. I’ve never felt more at peace.”

He nodded. “How come I haven’t seen a man around to help you enjoy your newfound peace? You must have had some contenders.”

She put the corkscrew on the wine bottle, and he took it from her hands. “Maybe that’s part of the secret to my peace. I could ask you the same question. Isn’t there a woman—” she paused and shot him a sideways glance, unable to conceal a ghost of a smile “—or women back in L.A. who will be devastated by the announcement of your engagement?”

He shot her his version of a sideways glance and shook his head, pulling off the cork and pouring the wine. “I haven’t had a serious relationship in two years. I almost made a big mistake.”

She watched him take a sip. “I bought that wine at the drugstore. The vintage is uncertain at best. But you mentioned mistakes. We all make them. How did you avoid making yours?”

“I don’t run from the truth when it smacks me in the face,” he said, his own face hard with cynicism. “I don’t run from much of anything.”

She could see that his strength was more than skindeep. The knowledge gave her a shiver of awareness she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. He aroused her curiosity and made her aware of herself as a woman.

“So, how did the ‘almost’ part happen?” she asked, taking a bite of her sandwich and sipping her soup.

“My brothers say I suffer from rescuing-damsel-in-distress syndrome.”

She smiled. “Pregnant horses included?”

He gave a rough chuckle and met her gaze. She felt something sizzle and hum between them and glanced away. Where was this breathless feeling coming from?

“I met a woman whose car had broken down. One thing led to another. We started seeing each other. She was a part-time actress. I introduced her to some people. I was going to propose,” he said. “Until I found out she’d gotten involved on the sly with a producer I’d introduced to her at a party.”

Gwen grimaced. “Sorry. At least you found out before you got married. That’s more than I can say. I was so young and naive, and Peter gave me the big rush. I was pretty unfocused at that point. I’d done a few commercials and some small parts. He was the exact opposite. He knew exactly what he was going to do and how to get there. He seemed to know exactly what I should do, too.”

“You eventually disagreed.”

Gwen thought of her pregnancy and nodded. “He was willing to sacrifice something I couldn’t.”

“Must have been pretty big to turn you off acting, L.A. and men.”

“It was,” she said, but her discomfort drove her to her feet even though she hadn’t finished eating. “Um, do you want some more soup? Another sandwich?”

He circled her wrist with his fingers as she tried to step away from the table, compelling her to look at him. “I’m good, but you need to eat more. Sit down and finish.”

Gwen took a deep breath, exasperated with herself. During her acting days, she had kissed major movie stars. Why did Luc Hudson bother her so much? She sank into her seat and sipped her soup and ate her sandwich, determined to finish as soon as possible.

“When we took Nicki to rehab, she told us not to call her parents. She said to call you instead,” Luc said.

Gwen stopped midbite then swallowed and nodded. “My father moved to Arizona and hasn’t been in touch. My mother remarried and lives in Malibu. She would be upset by the negative publicity. If it isn’t good news, she doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Life doesn’t always give you roses,” he said.

“Even though you can spin it that way,” she said.

“Right,” he said. “Part of the reason I can spin it is because I face the hard facts head on. Our family has dealt with some tragedy. The death of my grandfather is still difficult. He was the heart, breath and soul of Hudson Pictures. We all want to live up to what he created.”

“Tall order?”

“In more than business,” Luc said. “He was the kind of man who could fill up a room with his personality. He had a huge passion for the business, but he also had a huge passion for my grandmother, and it never seemed to wane. He met and secretly married her during World War II in France. He founded the studio to bring her talents to the big screen. In a strange way, I think all of us are striving to find a love that matches what he and my grandmother had. Hell,” he said, “he may be gone, but my grandmother still loves him.”

“That’s an amazing story,” she said.

“Yeah, and if I weren’t so damn cynical, I might believe the same kind of thing could happen to me. Lightning that lasts.”

She nodded, understanding. “Lightning that lasts,” she echoed. “Maybe it’s harder to be cynical when you see someone who actually had that. Then it’s not a myth.”

He reached his hand toward her hair and pushed a strand away from her face. “Yeah.” He gazed into her eyes for a few seconds, which made her lose her breath.

“You have any cards?” he finally asked.

She glanced away so she could think. “Uh, yes, I do.”

“Let’s play,” he said.

“What?”

“Poker. Strip poker if you’re inclined,” he joked in a deep voice.

“In your dreams,” she said, but she had this terrifying but exhilarating sense that Luc Hudson just might have the ability to talk her out of her clothes. “I need to keep an eye on the mare via the camera.”

“The same way you did last night?” he asked, raising a dark eyebrow.

Nice of him to remind her that she’d fallen asleep so soundly that she hadn’t remembered his carrying her to bed. “I’m not as exhausted tonight.”

“You don’t really plan to stay up all night, do you?”

“No, but—”

“We can play in your office. It’ll make the time pass more quickly.”

He made a good point and Gwen liked card games. She had since she was a child. “Okay, but my clothes are staying on.”

“Does that mean you want me to take mine off?”

The mix of humor and sensuality slipped past her defenses and sent a shimmer of awareness all the way through her body. “No,” she said, although an image of Luc, naked, immediately shot through her mind, making her feel singed. “I’ll get the cards.”

“I’ll bring the wine.”

“I’ll fix some coffee,” she countered, thinking the combination of wine and Luc Hudson could be dangerous. She grabbed the cards and led the way into the small office. She looked at the monitor and saw the mare moving around the stall.

“She’s getting stronger,” Luc said from behind her.

“Yes. That means we’ll probably have to let her out into the paddock soon.” Gwen shuffled the cards and dealt them.

Distracted by the sight of his hands cradling his hand of cards and his long legs stretched out across from hers, she tried to concentrate on her own cards.

“Maximum bet is twenty-five cents. Maximum raise fifty cents. I bet fifteen cents. What’s your favorite color?” he asked, drawing a card from the pile.

“Um, periwinkle. Why do you ask?” She looked at her cards and tried not to reveal her disappointment. “I’ll see your fifteen cents.”

“Because the media showing up tomorrow have decided it would be cute to give each of us a quiz about the other.”

Gwen glanced away from her cards. “Media tomorrow? We just did that today. I thought the other interviews would be over the phone.”

He shook his head, discarded two cards and drew two from the pile. “I need to know everything about you, and you need to know everything about me. I’ll bet twenty-five cents.”

She sighed in frustration. “Okay, so blue is your favorite color,” she began.

“What makes you say that?”

“When asked to name his favorite color, almost every man on the planet will say blue.”

“Mine is green,” he said.

“You’re just being contrary,” she said.

“Romantic,” he countered. “Your eyes are green.”

“Borderline sappy,” she said, discarding and drawing.

“Where do you want to honeymoon?” he asked.

The question jolted her. “Honeymoon?”

“Tahiti or Bali?” he said, discarding and drawing.

“Somewhere more private,” she mused. “Peter took me to Hawaii. I found out later that he leaked our plans to the press so they would show up to take photos.”

Luc met her gaze. “Really?” he said in disbelief.

“Yeah,” she said. “All about the PR.”

“Not on your honeymoon,” he said.

“You can’t tell me that you’ve never exploited the honeymoon angle,” she said, discarding three of her sorry cards and drawing three more sorry cards. “Check.”

“Maybe, but the couples who are really in love just tell me to take a flying—” He broke off, suddenly reaching the conclusion that Gwen had reached for herself.

Silence fell between them.

“You have my sympathy,” he said.

Her pride stung, she raised her chin. “Don’t you dare pity me for what Peter—”

“Because you’re going to lose this hand,” he interjected, laying his full house on the table.

She stared at his cards then hers. One card shy of a full house, she scowled at him. “Beginner’s luck,” she said. “I’ll get you in the next game.”

He laughed. “In your dreams,” he said and scooped up the cards and shuffled them. “Now you owe me.”

“Owe you what?” she asked. “We were only playing for pennies.”

“Pennies translate into favors,” he said, shuffling again. “You wouldn’t play for clothing, so it’ll have to be favors.”

“Favors,” she echoed. “What do you call this fake engagement? Oh, wait, my mistake. That’s blackmail.”

“Exactly,” he said, presenting the deck for her to cut it. “So we’re playing for favors.”

“What if I win the same number of times you do? Doesn’t that just negate the winnings?”

“That won’t happen,” he said. “But if it did, you would get the same number of favors from me.”

“What if I don’t want any favors from you?”

“You will,” he said, meeting her gaze for a long moment that took her breath away.

“Deal,” she said, determined to teach him a lesson.

For the next two hours, they traded victories and secrets. She learned his favorite music, food, beer and pastimes, and he learned hers. It occurred to her that Luc would know more about her preferences after two days than her husband had known after three years.

“First crush?” she asked, preparing to rack up another win for herself.

“Sara Jameson, fourth grade,” he said.

Gwen stared at him in surprise. “You remember her name? I would have thought you’d have dated so many women that their names would run together.”

He shook his head. “If I’m the master of spin, then don’t you think I know how to create it for myself?”

“Are you telling me the playboy image isn’t real?”

“I create my image, then do what I want,” he said.

“You didn’t really answer my question,” she told him.

“I told you the name of my first crush. We didn’t break up until she moved away, freshman year in high school.”

“Wow, that’s longevity.”

“What about you?”

“I was shy, too tall. It took me a while.”

“You had to grow into those legs,” he said, his gaze sliding over her denim-clad figure.

“Tucker Martin,” she said with a sigh. “He had dimples and blue eyes. He was smart and funny.”

“How long did that last?”

“Oh, it never got off the ground. He didn’t notice me,” she said.

He gave a bark of laughter. “Poor sap. Bet he’s kicking himself down the street these days.” He placed his cards on the table. “Full house, again.”

She mentally swore. “You’re impossible.”

“I work at it,” he said. “You owe me another favor.”

She sighed and glanced at the monitor again. The horse had settled down. “I’ll think about that tomorrow,” she said quoting Scarlett O’Hara. “Time for me to go to bed.” She rose and he did too, standing mere inches from her. “Thanks for the amusement.”

“My pleasure. You need to give me one of my favors now,” he said.

A warning instinct flashed through her. “Why?”

“It’s something I need to know for the interview,” he said, moving closer to her.

She should step away from him, but for just a moment, his closeness felt good. “What?”

He lowered his head closer and closer, taking her breath with each corresponding invasion of her space. “I need to know how you taste.”

He gave her three agonizing seconds to protest or refuse, three seconds to turn back or pull away. But Gwen did none of those sensible things, because she wanted to know how he tasted, too.