Dirty Secrets Page 16

  “Where’s Pam?” He always has his assistant with him at these things. She’s been working for him since what seems like the dawn of time.

  “I gave her the night off. It’s her husband’s office holiday party.”

  Holy shit. He really is mellowing. The Vincent Dow I grew up with would never have given his assistant time off for something as trivial as an office party. I remember once he made Pam stuff and send out VIP reader boxes on the day of her daughter’s high school graduation. She only made it to the ceremony on time because I was home from college for the summer and broke the land speed record to get her there.

  My father gathers his things and we hit the first bar we find, an Irish pub. We grab two seats at a table in the back and order a couple of pints of Guinness.

  “So.” I lean back in my chair, my gaze flicking to the rugby union game on the TV above the scarred oak bar. “You wanted to talk.”

  “There’s no easy way to say this.” He scrubs a hand across his jaw, which I notice up close is dotted with stubble, uncharacteristic for my normally fastidious father. “Fiona lost the baby.”

  I’m ashamed to admit that my first reaction is relief he won’t have the chance to screw up another kid. But it’s followed by shame, then sadness. For my father. For Fiona. For me. I was kind of looking forward to having a little brother or sister. Sure, the age gap between us would be huge. But that might not be such a bad thing. I could babysit. Teach the kid how to play video games. Dungeons and Dragons. Chess.

  It would be like getting a second chance at some sort of functional family unit.

  “I’m sorry,” I say finally. And I’m surprised that I really am. Our drinks come, and I wait for the waitress to leave before continuing. “How’s Fiona handling it?”

  “Not great. She’s with her sister tonight. I wanted her to come into the city with me. Even offered to let her run up my Amex Black card at Tiffany. Take her to for dinner at Le Bernardin. But she said she’s not up to being out in a crowd yet.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m trying to be strong. For her. But inside—” He breaks off and takes a healthy slug of his beer, like he’s searching for some liquid courage.

  I follow suit, needing a little courage of my own. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You don’t mean that.” My father’s tone is flat, resigned. I start to disagree with him, but he holds up a hand, stopping me. “And I don’t blame you. I was shit for a father. Still am.”

  It’s true, he was—is—but I’m not about to pour salt in the wound. Like Brie said that day we all had lunch together, it’s up to me to be the bigger man.

  Brie.

  My heart stutter-steps over her name. I reach for my beer again. Anything to numb the pain of losing her. Pain that’s as fresh and raw today as the day I walked away from her.

  It must show in my face because my father is staring at me over the frosty rim of his mug, looking at me like I’ve got an alien growing out of my head. “What’s wrong with you?”

  I lift my beer to my lips and sip. “What do you mean?”

  “You look even worse than I do. What’s got you down? Did something happen between you and your girl?”

  “One, she’s a woman, not a girl. And two, we’re not talking about me now. We’re talking about you.”

  He rests his elbows on the table, cradling his mug in his hands. “If there’s trouble between you and your gir—woman, you should fix it. She’s a keeper. It’s not everyone who can put me in my place.”

  “We’re talking about your life, not mine. Remember?”

  “Fine, then learn from my bad example. I had the love of a good woman. And I was too stupid to recognize it.”

  “You’ve had the love of a lot of women,” I quip.

  “This is serious.” He takes another, fortifying sip of beer then sets his mug down on the table with a dull thud. “When your mother got sick, I reacted badly. I only thought of myself, not her. Or you. My first book had just hit the New York Times bestseller list. I’d gotten a six-figure advance for my next one.”

  “I remember. I was twelve, not two.”

  “All that attention made me arrogant and selfish. And I think, deep down, I was terrified of losing her. I thought it would be less painful if I left her before—”

  He breaks off, but I know what he means. Before the disease took her, and Mom left us.

  “So I walked away,” he continues, staring into his beer as if the amber liquid held the answer to all life’s questions. “Maybe not physically. Divorce wasn’t an option for a whole host of reasons. But emotionally.”

  “You think that’s what I did with Brie? Walked away?”

  His gaze snaps back up to me. “I read the tabloids. Occasionally. Saw the articles about the spat you two had with that reporter from Celebrity Intel. I put two and two together.”

  “And got five?”

  “And got that you’re afraid reporters will keep bringing up your backstory, and you don’t want to jeopardize her career.”

  Now it’s my turn to stare into my beer. I don’t know if my father found any answers in his, but there are none in mine. “It’s my fault she threw that drink. If I hadn’t been there, she would never have been in that position.”

  “Your reasons for walking away may be more noble than mine. But the result is the same, isn’t it? You’re alone. And miserable.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that Brie risked her career to defend me.”

  “Isn’t that her choice to make?” He pushes his beer aside and leans across the table to make his point. “A life without love is pretty empty, no matter how great your career is. Trust me. I know.”

  Damn. I must be living in the upside down.

  My father is giving me relationship guidance. And he’s right.

  I polish off my beer and pull out my wallet, signaling the waitress for the check. “Thanks for the advice, Dad. I’ve got this.”

  “Leaving so soon?” He glances at his still half-full beer. “I was hoping we could talk some more. Next round is on me.”

  I study the broken man sitting opposite me. It’s like losing this baby has forced him to reflect back on all the mistakes he’s made. I know we’re not going to fix years of dysfunction overnight, but if the guy wants to try, who am I to say no?

  I smile, remembering Brie’s words again. I’m the bigger man, that’s who.

  I plunk twenty-five bucks down on the table. That should cover the tab and tip. “Tell you what. How about I come out to the Hamptons Christmas Eve? Spend a couple of days. We can talk all you want then.”

  He finishes his beer then clears his throat. “I’d like that.”

  “Good.” I push my chair back and stand, shrugging on my coat and grabbing my briefcase. “Now I’ve got to go see about a girl.”

  “Woman,” my father corrects, grinning. It’s the first real smile I’ve seen on him tonight, and it takes years off his face. “Bring her with you for the holidays. Tell her I’ll try not to behave like an ass this time.”

  He stands, sticks out a hand for me to shake, then changes his mind and pulls me into a hug, chuckling. “And if I do, she can always read me the riot act again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Brie

  “CUT.”

  The director makes a slashing motion with his hand and I break character, swiping a tear off my cheek. Damn that scene was rough. Richard wasn’t kidding when he said he saved the hardest one for last. But he was right. It gave me time to really inhabit my role, making her emotional courtroom confrontation with the man who assaulted her that much more powerful.

  “That’s it, people. This scene is in the can, and we’re done for the day. Which means, sadly, that Brie has finished filming and will be leaving us.” Richard hops down off his director’s chair and comes over to give me a hug
e hug. “Beautiful work, love. Really beautiful.”

  The cast and crew break into applause, and I blink back tears. This has been the absolute best experience, with the most amazing group of people. In the few short weeks that I’ve been here, they’ve become like a second family to me.

  I’ve been on enough sets to know how lucky I am. Not every shoot is like this. The only thing that would make it better is if Connor were here with me. Or at least waiting for me when I get home. But with the way we left things, I know that’s not going to happen.

  “Thanks everyone,” I choke out. “I’m going to miss you all so much.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and hug Richard back even harder. I owe him for taking a chance on me after the whole award ceremony fiasco. And he’s already talking about a possible role for me in his next movie.

  Richard releases me to go confer with our second AD about tomorrow’s schedule, and Tom, the happily married father of two who plays my rapist, throws an arm around my shoulder. “None of that mushy stuff. Not yet. We’ve got your wrap party to go to tonight. Rumor has it there’s going to be a taco and tequila bar.”

  “Oh, goodie. I love tacos. And tequila. Not necessarily in that order.”

  I put on a brave face and let him lead me from the soundstage we’re filming on to the back of the building where our dressing rooms are located. We stop outside my door, and he leans against the jamb, crossing his arms.

  “Richard wasn’t bullshitting, you know. You’re seriously talented.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you. And him.”

  “This movie is going to be better because you’re in it. That first girl bailing was a blessing in disguise.”

  “I should send her a fruit basket,” I half-joke.

  Some actresses might be bothered knowing that they were second fiddle. Not me. I booked Les Mis in California when one of the ensemble members left to join the Broadway company. This time it was a big budget feature film that lured the actress who was supposed to play my role away.

  Either way, it’s me up on that stage or in the final credits. It doesn’t matter how I got there. So what if there was a bit of luck involved? It’s like one of my acting professors at Pace used to say—luck is when opportunity meets preparation.

  Tom laughs. “Or maybe one of those edible arrangement things. But seriously, I hope we get to work together again soon. Maybe on Richard’s next film. I just signed on to play the lead. And I know he’s looking at you for my wife.”

  “That would be awesome, as long as it fits with my Mortal Misfits shooting schedule.”

  “If Richard wants you, he’ll make it fit.” Tom bends down and kisses my forehead, then gives me a nudge toward the door. “Go. Get ready for your party. I’ll see you at the studio cafe.”

  He heads to his dressing room down the hall. I open the door to mine, looking forward to a few minutes alone to decompress before getting out of costume and wiping off my stage makeup.

  Before I even step inside, the fragrance of fresh flowers overwhelms me. Lilies, to be specific.

  Once I get through the door, I see why. On my vanity is a tall, cylindrical glass vase overflowing with stargazer lilies, their deep pink and white blossoms unmistakable. I walk over and bury my nose in them, inhaling their sweet scent. They must be from production, congratulating me on a successful shoot. I search through the blooms for a card to confirm my suspicion.

  “I almost went with roses, but I didn’t want to be cliché. The clerk at the florist said these symbolize prosperity and abundance. I just thought they looked nice. Smell good, too.”

  The familiar, smoky voice has my heart racing and my nerve endings on edge. I spin around and see Connor lounging on the futon across the room. He’s wearing a plaid button down with the cuffs rolled to just below his elbows and those damn Jake from State Farm khakis. And he’s never looked so good to me.

  “What—?” I sink onto my dressing table chair, not sure how much longer my shaky legs will support me. “How—?”

  “I assume you want to know what I’m doing and how I got here.” He sits up and leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His brandy-brown eyes bore into me, their magnetic effect not diminished by the few feet between us. “That’s easy. I’m groveling, and your agent helped me grease the wheels with the movie people so I could surprise you.”

  “Miriam?”

  “Jake tracked down her number for me. It was on one of the comp cards you left at his place. Did you know she’s a closet romantic?”

  “Deep in the closet, maybe,” I mutter. I’m starting to regain my equilibrium. And with it, my senses. I have questions for him. So many questions. But first, I need to hear what he has to say.

  I kick off the sensible pumps the costumers put me in for the courtroom scene and cross my legs, smoothing my pencil-thin courtroom skirt over my thighs. “If you came here to grovel, you might as well get started.”

  He pats the seat next to him. “It would be easier if you were over here.”

  “No can do. I can’t think when you’re that close to me.” And I need all my synapses firing for this conversation.

  “Okay, then I’ll get straight to the point so we can kiss and make up.” He words are bold and brash, but the sheen of sweat at his temples and the way he keeps nervously licking his lips tell me he’s not as confident as he wants me to believe. “I’m an idiot.”

  I try but can’t fight off a slight smile. “That’s a good start.”

  “I thought I was doing you a favor. Bowing out so wouldn’t have to choose between me and your career. What I didn’t realize was that it wasn’t fair for me to make that choice for you.”

  “I don’t understand.” I shake my head to clear it. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting from him, but this isn’t it. “You said you were breaking up with me because you didn’t want to be thrust into the spotlight, like you were with your father.”

  “I was lying,” he admits, at least having the decency to look shamefaced. “I’ll never be totally comfortable living life in the public eye. But if it means I get to live life with you, I’ll learn to deal with all the attention. Because you’re worth it. We’re worth it.”

  “I’m not your father, Connor,” I reassure him. “I don’t act for the applause. And you’re more to me than arm candy.”

  “I know,” he says, so earnestly it’s impossible not to believe him. “Funny thing is, he’s the one who helped me see what an ass I was being. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Your father?”

  “It’s a long story. One I’d rather save for another time. Right now, I can think of better things I could be doing with my mouth.”

  “Really?” My pulse rockets into hyperdrive. “Like what?”

  “Come here and I’ll show you.” He crooks a finger, beckoning me over to him.

  I stand and cross to him on legs that are shaky again, but this time with anticipation instead of shock. He pulls me into his lap and wraps his arms around me. I let my hands wander, reacquainting myself with his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his back.

  God, how I missed this. The strong, solid feel of him. He’s my anchor, keeping me steady. And I’ll be his wings, making sure he remembers to push his boundaries and go outside his comfort zone once in a while.

  He lowers his head to kiss me but stops with his lips a fraction of an inch from mine. “Last chance to change your mind and save your career.”

  “First, our relationship is not a threat to my career. You’ve seen Miriam in action. She’ll make sure that never happens. And second, my career comes second to my man. Always.”

  I thread my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, loving the feel of the thick, silky strands. Another thing I don’t have to miss any more. “What about you? Are you sure you can handle the press? Believe it or not, t
here are reporters even worse than Irene. And don’t get me started on the paparazzi.”

  “If you’re trying to scare me off, it’s not going to work. I’m in for the long haul. One hundred and ten percent.”

  “Then we’re doing this.”

  “You bet your ass we’re doing this.” He kisses one corner of my mouth, then the other. “And a lot more. This is only the beginning. Now shut up so I can kiss you right, Blabby.”

  He does before I can object to the nickname. And then any objections are forgotten as he coaxes my lips apart with his tongue and we play tonsil hockey like we’re teenagers under the bleachers after the big game.

  A few minutes or a lifetime later—I tend to lose track of time when Connor’s got his tongue in my mouth and his hands under my shirt—my cell phone chimes from somewhere deep in my bag across the room. I reluctantly drag my lips from his. “Crap. That must be Tom.”

  “Tom?”

  He raises a jealous eyebrow. It’s cute, but totally unnecessary. Connor is the only guy I’ve wanted since that day I showed up at his apartment unannounced and he opened the door in those teeny tiny gym shorts.

  “Down, boy. Tom is my costar. And he’s happily married with two adorable kids he FaceTimes every night. He’s probably giving me grief for being late to my own party.”

  “What party?”

  “It’s my last day on set, and they’re having a wrap party for me at the studio cafe.”

  He eases me off his already rock-hard erection. “As much as I hate to say this, you’d better give me some space so I can get Little Connor under control, or we’ll miss your celebration altogether.”

  “We?” I ask, skipping over the fact that he calls his dick “Little Connor.” That’s a subject for another day. “There might be some local press there. If you’d rather skip it, you can wait for me back at the hotel. I can give you my room key.”

  “I told you, I’m in this one hundred and ten percent. That means wrap parties, red carpets, and anywhere else you want me at your side.”

  He stands up, taking me with him, and sets me on my feet. Then he kisses me, fiercely and fervently, like he’s a thirsty man in a desert taking his first drink of water in days, and gives me a playful swat on the backside. “Now go get yourself ready so you can show me off at this shindig.”