—
Two hours later and I’m still watching as she flits from group to group, from celebrity to celebrity. It’s fascinating to watch, really, and if I hadn’t spent most of the night with a fucking hard-on, I might even appreciate the theater of it all. As it is, I’m running low on patience as yet another B-list jerk puts his hand on her ass.
I’d intercede, except Veronica has her own way of dealing with it. She’s never rude, never abrasive—more’s the pity as I’d love to see her take one of these assholes down—but then she doesn’t have to be. Not when she can draw blood with a smile and freeze a man’s brain cells with a simple slide of her hand down his arm. No, she doesn’t need to be abrasive to put a man in his place. All she has to do is give him a glimpse of what he’ll never, ever have. It’s amazing how quickly devastation makes a guy fall into line…
She’s just fended off another jerk with too much ego and not enough class, when I see Melanie Romero leave the ballroom in a sweep of black satin and sequins. She’s been courting the spotlight all night—she is the birthday girl, after all—and no matter how many times I’ve tried I haven’t been able to get her alone for even a minute. Until now.
With a last look at Veronica, who has once again made her way over to Damon, I slip out of the ballroom after Melanie. Part of me wants to stay, to make sure the famous chemistry between her and Damon is only on the screen, but if I do I’ll miss this chance to talk to Melanie. And since I’m pretty sure she holds at least one of the keys to unlocking Veronica’s past, it’s an opportunity I don’t want to pass up. For personal and professional reasons.
I follow at a discreet distance as Melanie makes her way toward the two bathrooms on the left side of the ballroom. I pause on the landing, spend a few minutes looking over the ornate gold railing to the floors below as I try to figure out the best way to approach one of Hollywood’s former sirens. Oh, she’s got nothing on her daughter—Veronica has her mother’s looks and her father’s abundance of talent—but there was a time when Melanie Romero was a household name. A time when a poster of her in a red bikini hung on many a straight boy’s wall.
Not for the first time, I wonder what that’s like. Not being a sex symbol, necessarily, but being the woman after the sex symbol has been forgotten. The woman who keeps up the charade of turning fifty seven times because she’s terrified that she’s no longer relevant.
It’s an interesting question, one that continues to hover at the corners of my mind as I idly count the number of whirls in the gold banister. But I’m not here to do a book on Melanie Romero, I remind myself as I attempt to linger as unsuspiciously as possible. I just want to know what she remembers about William Vargas—if she remembers anything at all.
I think back to the lack of expression on Veronica’s face when we stood in front of that photograph in her parents’ room and can’t imagine how Melanie wouldn’t remember. If I had a daughter and a man put that look on her face…I’d carry that for the rest of my life.
Melanie doesn’t take long in the bathroom. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she stops to talk to an up-and-coming actor whose face I recognize but whose name I can’t remember. They chat for a couple of minutes but I’m keenly aware of the fact that her eyes are on me.
Good. It saves me the trouble of trying to find some interesting conversation opener to get things started between us. Sure enough, it isn’t long before she excuses herself from him and makes her way over to where I’m standing.
I prepare to introduce myself so she doesn’t have to—divas like to be recognized and everything I know about Melanie Romero points me toward thinking she’s one of the biggest—but she holds out her hand with friendly ease.
“Ian. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Melanie Romero.” She flashes a hundred-watt smile—one that’s very similar in shape to Veronica’s, though the intensity is about a million times higher. I can’t help wondering if that’s by Melanie’s design—is she trying to shine more brightly than her daughter—or has Veronica just learned not to compete?
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Romero.”
“Oh please, Mrs. Romero was my mother-in-law. I’m Melanie,” she says warmly, her other hand coming up to cup my elbow for emphasis. “I hear you’re doing wonderful things for my Veronica.”
I try not to choke on my own saliva as images of last night in my hotel room flash through my head. Not what she’s taking about, I tell myself fiercely. Not what she’s talking about. “I think it’s more accurate to say she’s doing wonderful things for the article. Your daughter is a vibrant, fascinating woman.”