Let Me Count The Ways (2 page)

But Dave had his own ideas. “You know what I think it is? He probably knows your business is too small to afford his usual rates yet. Probably he figures he can afford to give you a break because he’s banking on the fact he can use your name to attract other Hollywood types.”

“Well, that would be foolish,” I sighed. I knew just how far my name would take him in Hollywood, even if Dave didn’t. It wouldn’t even take him as far as it takes me. Which is close to nowhere anymore. “Maybe he’s just being nice.”

“Nice is no way to stay in business,” Dave grumbled, which only made me laugh because Dave is one of the nicest people I know. “He probably doesn’t want to pay one of his employees to work on an account he’s not making any money on. I bet that’s why he’s doing it himself.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I murmured. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that there’s no arguing with a man who’s made up his mind about something. So why bother trying? Reason and logic are no match for sheer, pig-headed, male determination. And, when it turns out you were right all along, that’ll just prove to him that you’re a bitch. Directors are especially good at making that connection.

“It is,” Mike insisted now. “Absolutely fact.”

And I wasn’t about to argue with him, either. Not just because he’s a man. Not just because I didn’t want him to re-think the great deal he was giving me, or assign my account to someone else. No, I had an even better reason than those.

Mike’s a fan, no matter that Dave doesn’t see it that way, and you never, ever argue with your fans. That’s rule number one of being a celebrity. Fans are the lifeblood of our business. They’re why we do what we do. They’re the customer. They’re always right. And you
never
want to run the risk of their turning into Kathy Bates

Mike

Amusement shimmered in Claire’s eyes. “Whatever you say, Mike,” she murmured as she slid off her desk. She stood there for a moment, staring absently, running her hands up and down her thighs in a way that couldn’t help but focus my attention there.

All sorts of inappropriate thoughts followed. I had to clear my throat to relieve the tension there.

Claire started and smiled. “Well, I guess I’d better stop wasting your time and let you get to work, huh?”

Her voice was tinged with regret as she said it. As though she really
was
sorry. As though she’d like nothing better than to spend the rest of the day chatting with me. I loved that. Even though I knew it was an act, I loved the tinge and the implication that went with it. And I loved her all the more for that small gift of pretense. For taking the trouble to sound like that for me. For allowing me the tiny pleasure of pretending right along with her.

I nodded with mock gravity. “Yes, well, you know what they say.
Time is money
.” And was rewarded again when she flashed a swift smile in my direction before she turned and slipped into her seat.

Silence settled over the room as we both settled into our work.

I’m good at what I do. That’s not bragging, it’s just a fact. And Claire’s account is simple, straightforward--boring work really--nothing I can’t do... well, pretty much in my sleep at this point. Which was lucky for both of us since, with the best will in the world, I still could not manage to keep my mind completely focused on what I was doing. Not with Claire seated in the same room with me, constantly re-igniting every fantasy I’d ever had about her.

She’d caught me off-guard with her question about my day. Since taking her on as a client, my life had become a surreal, slightly pathetic routine of counting. Every morning when I got up I automatically counted the days until I’d see her again. When every other Thursday rolled around, I counted the hours, and then the minutes. Finally, I counted the blocks I had to drive to get to her studio, the stairs I had to climb to reach her office.

And then there were most of my evenings. Nights when I could find no better way to occupy my time than to spend them conversing with her shadow in my mind. Or replaying our actual conversations. Remembering in detail each word, each look, each nuance. Weaving her every gesture into the fantasies I’d already spent years honing.

Well, what did you expect? I said it was pathetic, didn’t I?

But I couldn’t help it. I reveled in the knowledge that when she spoke my name, when she turned her head and saw me and smiled in greeting--her eyes shining, her whole face lighting up--that it was really me she was talking to and smiling at.

She hadn’t been smiling when I arrived today, however. Her face, reflected in the glass, looked sad, vulnerable. I was pretty sure I knew why. It was him. Derek. Her former lover. The... kid... she’d recently broken up with. Or who’d broken up with her, if my suspicions were correct.

Which is not to say she didn’t put on a great act, just like always, but I’d seen the way she looked at him--the way she was looking at him today through the windows in her office. I know what it’s like to watch and want and worship from afar; to long for something you can never have. He’d moved on--that’s how I read it--and Claire was putting the best face on it that she could. But it was all for show When she thought no one was looking, when she was alone, unobserved, that’s when she let down her guard. That’s when her real feelings shone though.

I would have liked to have said something more to comfort her, but what could I have said? Should I have told her it was all for the best? That she should have known better? He was too young for her. She was too good for him. It was doomed from the start. All true, but hardly likely to make her feel any better.

I could have told her that a woman like her shouldn’t have to waste her time playing with boys. Not when there was a man around who could understand what she wants, what she needs...

But, no, what was I thinking? A woman
like
Claire? Impossible. Such a creature doesn’t exist. There’s
no one
like Claire. She’s an original. She’s in a class all her own.

“Are you doing anything later this evening?” Claire’s voice broke into my reverie.

Startled, and pretty certain I was hearing things, I glanced at her. “I’m sorry... what did you say?”

“I was wondering if you were busy tonight?” she said and then shook her head and smiled. “Sorry. I guess I’m thinking aloud again. It’s just that a friend of mine has a new gallery. They’re having an opening party tonight. She’s sent me a bunch of invitations and I was wondering if you would be interested in attending?”

“A gallery opening? Tonight? Will you be there?”

Claire nodded. “I try to attend as many of these things as I can. This seems like a nice one... cocktails, hors d’oeuvres, live music. But, it’s short notice. You probably have other plans...”

“No, actually, I don’t.” The only thing I had going tonight was the start of a new countdown. Fourteen long days until the next time I’d see her. Or thirteen days, twenty-one hours and change, if you want to be exact. But so what? It would feel like a long time, that much I knew. Why would I not want to shave even a few hours off that total? “I’d love to go.”

Claire

The gallery was crowded. The music was loud and not to my liking. And although some of the art on display was interesting enough, let’s face it; I wasn’t in the market for any more investments. I’d sunk almost everything I had into The Body Electric, which was still in its ‘hot new thing’ phase. Sure, business was good--for now. But who knew how long that would last?

Still, the evening wasn’t a total loss. The drinks were complimentary and the bartender was to die for. I sipped my mojito and looked him over once again.

He caught my look and smiled. “How is everything?” he asked, meaning my drink.

“Just delicious,” I replied, making sure he knew I didn’t.

Could I just say right here that I love men? For, oh, so many reasons. Just the sheer
maleness
of them. Even the sight of a five o’clock shadow on a rugged, square chin can turn me on. Can make my skin burn. Can make my fingers itch with the urge to touch and make me quiver as I imagine soft, sandpapery warmth in all my most sensitive places. Then there’s the strength in their hands, their fingers. The softness of their lips. The musk of their sweat. I swear those veins that stand out on their arms when they flex their muscles are enough, sometimes, to make me crazy. Not to mention the muscles themselves.

The bartender had it all going on--including a killer smile and a soulful, sweet expression beneath a pair of jet black brows. He was an actor, of course. Just like everyone in this town. At least, everyone under twenty-five. That seems to be the cut-off. By twenty-six you know if you stand the ghost of a chance or are just marking time. If you’re still in the business at twenty-eight it’s because you’ve either tasted success or figured out that there’s nothing else you’re suited for.

When I was twenty-five, I thought I was Money. I had it made. It didn’t last. I wonder, sometimes, if it wouldn’t have been better--for me--if it hadn’t ever happened at all. Sure, I wouldn’t have been famous, but maybe I’d have been happy instead.

Some days it feels like I gave up a lot to get here. Others, it feels like I gave up too much. Still, even on those other days, fame does have its perks. Maybe especially on those days. I’m a name. I’m a face. And I could still recall how the game was played.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” I asked, getting into the role.

The bartender’s eyes lit up. “Javier,” he replied, with another deadly smile.

I pushed my glass across the bar and returned his smile with one of my own; every bit as lethal. “Well, Javier, the ice in my drink has begun to melt. Why don’t you be a darling and see if you can’t find a way to freshen it up for me, okay?”

His smile disappeared. “Right away, Miss Calhoun,” he said as he hustled away.

“Claire,” I murmured watching him run. Have I mentioned he had a nice butt, too? “Call me Claire.”

Would Javier sweetie really be quite so attentive if I was just a washed-up, not quite middle-aged, no-one-in-particular? Not bloody likely. But even tarnished stars still have some shine. No doubt he thought I could open doors for him. That I knew people who knew people who would give him a break. And maybe I did. Maybe I would. For a price.

Cold? Possibly. But don’t expect me to shed any tears over yet another aspiring Adonis. This town is full of them. And, male or female, we all have to pay our dues. There’s only one real difference between Javier and me and it’s this: when I was in his shoes I was wearing heels.

In less than a minute, he was back with a fresh new mojito. I smiled my thanks.

“So, Claire, what are you doing after the party tonight?” he leaned in to ask, ambition gleaming brightly in those sweet brown eyes. No doubt he’d checked out the room while he was re-filling my drink. He’d obviously concluded that I was either the biggest name here or the easiest to hit on. Maybe both. The next move was mine.

Before I had a chance to make it, however... “Red wine, please,” a man’s deep voice ordered sharply.

Startled, Javier scrambled back to work. I turned to find Mike looming menacingly behind me. He looked quite resplendent tonight, if a little grim, dressed in charcoal pin-stripes paired with an olive silk shirt.

“Nice suit,” I said, as I took it all in. “Fioravanti?”

Mike snorted in amusement. “Don’t I wish. No. Dolce and Gabbana.”

“Also nice.” I continued to study him, idly twirling the straw around in my glass. “You clean up good.”

“Thank you,” Mike said, shooting another stern glance in Javier’s direction. The slight clenching of his jaw drew my attention higher, to the small, brownish gold stone shining in his left ear lobe.

“Is this new?” I asked, reaching up to touch it, my fingers grazing his cheek as I did.

Mike’s eyes widened into an astonished expression. His gaze flew to my face.

“Oops.” I grinned. “Sorry. I guess my fingers are cold, huh?”

Mike shook his head. “No. Not at all.” Red stained his cheekbones. His skin felt very warm against my fingers.

“Liar.” Clucking my tongue, I withdrew my hand. My eyes, however, stayed locked with his and a familiar thrill ran through me. I love being desired. Who doesn’t? I love that flash of heat that flares in a man’s eyes when he wants you. I could see it in Mike’s eyes now and it made it hard to look away.

“Your wine, sir,” Javier murmured from somewhere far away. We both ignored him.

“You don’t wear that all the time, do you?” I asked.

“Not very often. Just special occasions.”

“Oh? So is this a special occasion?”

Mike nodded gravely. “Yes. Most definitely.”

I dropped my gaze then, and sipped my drink. “Well I think it’s a waste to save it for something like that. It looks good on you. You should wear it all the time.”

“Maybe I will.”

Behind me, I could hear Javier moving away to help someone else. “But what’s all this?” I asked, gesturing at Mike’s suit again. “You’ve been holding out on me. I had no idea you had such exquisite taste. Don’t tell me. I bet you keep an entire wardrobe locked up in your office in case of last minute invitations from thoughtless clients. Don’t you?”

He smiled. “No. And you’re certainly not thoughtless. I went home to change.”

“Oh? Where’s home?”

“Topanga Canyon.”

Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Wow. That’s quite a drive.”

“It can be,” he agreed. “But it’s worth it. It’s like living in another world out there. In a matter of minutes, you can be at the beach. And in another few minutes, you’re back in town. Or not--depending on the traffic, of course.”

Mostly not
, I thought, nodding. “I haven’t been in years. But I remember thinking it was beautiful there. I shot a few pictures out that way.”

“I know. I’ve seen them.”

“Have you?” I sincerely hoped not! The films I shot in Topanga Canyon fell squarely in the dues-I’d-paid-when-I-was-too-young-to-know-any-better category. Definitely
not
the kind of thing I’d want associated with my name today. I shouldn’t even have mentioned them. “So, tell me about your home,” I said, just to change the subject. “Big place? New?”