I turn back to her, muffin in hand, just in time to see something flash in her eyes. But it’s gone before I have so much as a chance to guess what it is and then she’s walking—no, prowling—across the suite to me. She’s completely nude and completely devastating, the early morning light glinting off her skin like she’s some kind of artistic masterpiece. Like she isn’t even real.
The closer she gets to me, the more I realize that she isn’t real. That the woman standing in front of me isn’t the Veronica I had in my bed last night. Nor is she the woman I woke up. No, this is the public Veronica, the one she lets the world see—all shaded eyes and sexy, predatory smile.
I have a moment to mourn the loss, to realize that the woman who smiled at me from across the room a couple of minutes ago really was genuine. And then she’s crowding me against the open refrigerator, leaning into me, her beautiful body pressed against mine from shoulder to thigh.
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” she tells me, reaching around me to grab an apple from the bowl on the second shelf. “This is Hollywood. The carb count in that muffin is more than most of us eat in a week.”
She holds the apple up to me, pressing it first against her lips and then mine. In that moment, as she offers me a bite of the ruby red fruit, I don’t know if she’s more Eve or Evil Queen. Either way, it’s arousing and disturbing and intimidating as all fuck. Especially since for the first time I get it. I really get it.
This armor she wears, it’s not the buffer all famous people keep around themselves. No, it’s not that Veronica’s armor is something she developed because she’s an actress. It’s that she’s an actress because she’s had to wear this armor for so long. Has had to protect herself when no one else would.
This is it then, the missing piece I’ve been looking for since she sat down across from me in that restaurant four days ago. The piece of her I couldn’t quite get to fit with all of the others.
Her predatory sexuality isn’t something she was born with and it isn’t something she chose. It’s something she learned to counter the pain.
The question is why. And who? Who damaged her so badly that she figured out this was the only way to protect herself? Who broke her so completely that she’s turned every part of herself into a weapon?
Even as I ask myself those questions, I’m terrified I already know the answer. But if I’m right, if Liam Brogan is the man who did this to her, how can I possibly ask her to take off the armor and show me her scars?
Chapter 16
“Veronica, darling, I just found this hanging upstairs in your room.” My mother plows into the kitchen carrying the dress I’d hung on my dressing room door less than two hours ago. “Tell me this isn’t what you’re planning on wearing to my party tonight!”
I look from her to the column of white silk she’s brandishing like a weapon. “That is what I’m planning on wearing. I love that dress.”
Even more, I love the way I feel in that dress—sexy, powerful, in control. Then again, that’s pretty much a guarantee with anything from the Atelier Versace collection, which is why they are almost always my house of choice. With the way things went in Ian’s hotel room this morning, I figure I owe it to myself, and him, to bring out the big guns tonight.
He deserves to suffer.
She frowns at me. “Are you getting a cold? Your voice is so hoarse.”
I nearly choke on my own saliva as I think about exactly what I did last night that resulted in my voice sounding like this. A blush burns right under my skin at the idea of her figuring it out, and I call on every ounce of acting ability I have to tamp it down. There’s no way I’m going to have a discussion about proper blow job techniques with my mother, which is where this conversation will end up if I don’t steer her away from it. Well, either that or I’ll get a lecture on giving it to a man who has already served his purpose in advancing my career…
“I think it’s just allergies,” I tell her quickly. “You know how mine get around this time of year.”
“Yes, but I thought—” She stops dead when she realizes I’m not alone in the kitchen, that the room is, in fact, filled with half a dozen people from the caterer’s. She switches gears immediately, gives them the slightly off-kilter and completely charming smile that’s been her trademark for nearly forty years. “Thank you so much for being here today. My daughter and I appreciate all your hard work so much. I hope you don’t mind if I steal her away for just a few moments.” She bats her eyes at Marco, the head caterer. “I promise I’ll return her to you in just a minute, once I’ve made sure her allergies aren’t wearing her down too much.”