Who does he see? I wonder as I decide to hell with it and grab another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. When he looks at me right now, does he see me? Or does he see her? The Belladonna? Not for the first time since I found the gown my mother selected for me waiting in my room—a gown that bears a marked resemblance to one I wore as the Belladonna—I regret agreeing to let her dress me. Especially since I still don’t know how I want to handle this meeting after the way we left things this morning. I wanted to be armored when I saw him again, but instead—dressed like this—I just feel vulnerable.
Not that I’m going to let him see that. Because if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that when I make a man suffer, I want to be certain it’s me he’s suffering for—not some character he invented or some woman whose head he lived in for far too long. Ian spent months trying to figure out who Celeste Warren was, how she thought, what she was capable of. And now, here I am, looking just like her. Again.
For the first time, I feel an ounce of sympathy for him. If he’s half as messed up by all of this as I am, is it any wonder that things have gotten so messy between us?
He’s almost on me—I’m bracing myself for having to speak to him, trying to figure out the best way to handle him considering everything that’s passed between us in the four days we’ve known each other—when Damon Brooks, my own personal hero, swoops in and asks me to dance.
One of the most famous actors in Hollywood—in the world, actually—he and I have been close friends since we starred together in a teen movie well over a decade ago. I was the young ingénue with a heart of gold and he was the rich bad boy out to seduce me. Only the tables turned halfway through the film and the predator became the prey…and vice versa. The movie did well, quickly becoming a cult classic, and our trajectories in Hollywood were set.
He’s the golden boy and I’m the cunning seductress. It’s a role whose restrictions I may chafe against every once in a while, but it’s a million times better than playing the victim.
I should turn him down. Ian is closing in and the look on his face warns me not to move. But I’ve never been very good at doing what I’m told, so I do accept, taking Damon’s hand with a smile and allowing him to sweep me onto the dance floor.
It’s a fun song, not too fast and not too slow, and Damon is a great dancer—one of those men who makes it easy for his partner to follow wherever he leads. Add to that the fact that he’s one of the few people in this town that I genuinely trust, and I couldn’t have asked for a better savior.
He spins me out a couple of times, then pulls me close as the music segues into a slower beat. “How are you?” he asks, dipping me before I can answer.
“I’m good,” I answer once I’m upright again. “How are you? And what are these rumors I keep hearing about you and some new starlet whose name nobody can remember?”
He grins. “Amber’s great. Give her a year or so and everyone will know her name.” He snaps me out, then pulls me in again, fast.
“You once said the same about me.” I turn with him, let him sweep me around the whole back half of the dance floor. People are starting to notice, starting to watch all the fancy moves he’s pulling for both of us. With anyone else I’d be anxious, partly because of the not being in control thing and partly because of the trust thing. But Damon’s helped guide me through the shark-infested waters of Hollywood for years now—one dance is nothing, no matter how flashy it is.
“I did. And look how well that turned out.”
“Does it count when I had a head start?”
“Famous offspring isn’t the same as world-renowned actress. I figured if anyone would know that, you would.”
I do know it. I do. It’s just that sometimes it’s easy to forget when you’re free-falling down the rabbit hole.
He dips me again, and as we go down I can see him searching my face, my eyes, looking for I don’t know what. But when he pulls me up again, the grin is gone from his face and his eyes are serious. “You okay, Roni?”
He’s the only one I let call me that. “Yeah, of course.” I clear my throat, nearly choke on the lie. “Just busy. You know how it is.”
He nods, but his eyes are still searching mine as he pulls me closer into the shelter of his body. Then he’s moving us until we’re in the corner of the dance floor, no more fancy steps, no more showing off. Instead, he turns me so that I’m facing the wall, away from any prying eyes—including Ian’s. Not that it matters. I don’t have to see him to be able to feel his eyes on me.
But Damon is oblivious to everything but me, his face concerned as he says, “Tell me.”
I shake my head. “Not now.”
“Is it a guy?” His eyes narrow. “Is he here?”
I don’t know how to answer that. Because Ian’s a part of it—of course he is—but compared to the garden and the bathtub and the fact that I’m desperately afraid I’m going insane—being kicked out of his hotel room this morning seems pretty minor.
“It’s not a guy,” I finally say, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me.