Yeah, well, you’ll just have to get over it, you miserable son of a bitch. As far as she’s concerned, you’ve got about as much depth as a rain puddle—here in drought-ridden LA.
Clearing his throat, he managed to say Monica’s name and offer a hello as he rose to his feet. Sitting wasn’t an option for a Barnes man. Even though she wasn’t there, Sebastien was still convinced that if he didn’t stand when there was a lady around, his mother would hear about it, and he’d never hear the end of it.
Monica held out a hand and he took it, lifted it to his lips. She blushed, the faint pink color rising to her cheeks, turning them almost the same color as the dusky, strapless sheath she wore. It was a pale color, somewhere between peach and orange, and it made him think of the color of the clouds as the sun was sinking below the horizon.
Not many redheads could wear that color, but Monica didn’t just wear it.
She owned it.
The dress covered her from the swells of her breasts down to just below the curve of her ass, and he thought one tug would have her bare.
And then he found himself thinking about Marin, in her simple tank top and her jeans, curled up in her chair as she went over her lines.
Don’t take this personally . . .
Dragging his thoughts away from Marin—the woman who’d told him no today—he focused on the woman who’d told him no years ago. “Would you like to sit down?”
He gestured toward the empty seat.
She did sit, but in the seat next to his, not the one across from him.
And the flush on her cheeks deepened.
“So, how’ve you been?” he asked softly as he sat back down. Although the martini hadn’t really been hitting the spot, he reached for it again. He needed something to wet his throat.
She was still so beautiful, her fiery red hair cut to chin length and layered in tousled waves. Her eyes were burnished gold and when she glanced at him, he could see the nerves and shyness there. She’d always seemed so out of place: both ingenue and siren. It was why he’d loved her.
It was probably why she’d caught the eye of Hanson Smith, too. The producer had been nearly fifty and in a position to do amazing things for her career—and he had. Monica had recently won an Academy Award and she was all of twenty-four years old.
“I’m doing okay.” She shrugged nervously and looked away. “I’m . . . Uh, well, Hanson and I are over. I left him a few months ago.”
Sebastien lowered his glass without taking a drink.
“Oh?” he said. The calm note in his voice surprised the hell out of him. “I hadn’t heard. You must have kept it quiet.”
“He’s kept it quiet. I’d shout it to the world, but . . . Well, it’s not the wisest thing to piss off one of the biggest men in the business, is it?” She managed a weak smile. “It’s been over for a while, really. It just took me a while to realize it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Now her gold eyes flew to his and the innocent girl seemed to disappear, replaced by a woman who was ageless. Head cocked, she asked, “Are you? Why?”
“You were happy with him.” He shrugged. “I wanted you to be happy.”
She laughed and the sound was so bitter, it hurt him to hear it. “Then it’s good I left, because I was never happy with him.”
Before he could respond, the server approached.
***
“It was good seeing you again.”
Covering her hand with his, Sebastien looked down at Monica and smiled. “It was,” he agreed.
He’d thought about seeing her again a hundred times.
A thousand.
Each time, he’d imagined what he’d do, what he’d say. He’d tell her that she’d made the wrong choice—and she had—that she’d given up the guy who’d loved her—and she had.
But now, all of that seemed empty. Petty.
Pointless.
As they stood under the awning of the restaurant, she leaned against him.
He saw the yearning on her face. Something tugged in his heart, but again, his mind drifted back to Marin.
Reaching up, he brushed Monica’s hair back from her face. “It took me a long time to get over you,” he murmured.
Something flitted across Monica’s features. A smile wobbled on her lips. “And did you? Get over me, I mean?”
A commotion rose behind them, but he ignored it, trying to find the right words to tell her what he needed to tell her—without hurting her. “You were the first woman I’d ever loved, Monica. You know that—”
Somebody screamed.
Sebastien turned and saw him coming with something glinting in his hand.
Without thinking, Sebastien grabbed Monica.
Chapter Two
“Sebastien!”
He heard her calling him.
Her voice was desperate and demanding.
But it was too dark.
Pain clawed at him, all but ripped him open when he tried to twist away from it.
“Be still.”
Marin?
He tried to say her name, but couldn’t.
A hand touched his, and he went still.
Was that Marin?
“You need to be still, Seb,” she said.
It was . . .
Still.
That . . . That sounded good.