Hold on to the Nights
Karen Foley
Goal: tell her ex-husband they’re still married. Result: wild sex! Graham Hamilton: Hollywood’s hottest bachelor. Lara Whitfield: his biggest fan. To the world, they’re strangers. But Lara has a juicy secret…their five-year-old annulled marriage is still legal! How should Lara break the news? Jump Graham at a fan convention, of course…in costume!Her reward: the earthshaking sex she’s been missing. But Graham instantly recognises Lara’s tantalising touch. And he’s got a secret too. First, though, he’s going to make his wife pay for their years apart…one shattering orgasm at a time…Dressed to Thrill – the best part of dressing up is taking it off!
Dear Reader,
I’ll admit it; I do read celebrity gossip and showbiz news and there are several actors whose careers I have followed over the years. Over time, most of these Hollywood hotties have found their own happily-ever-afters and have tied the knot, dropping off the list of eligible celebrity bachelors. But then there are those few who, despite being drop-dead gorgeous, talented, and personable, remain single. So that got me thinking …
What if one of these stars had a youthful, first love that he’d never forgotten? Or what if he’d done something really crazy, like secretly eloped with her, only to have the relationship fall apart? And what if, years later, his first love reappeared in his life?
And so Graeme and Lara’s story was born. He’s jaded and disillusioned, but he’s never forgotten sweet, idealistic Lara. She wants to finally put him in her past and move on with her life. After all, what they had couldn’t possibly have been that good, right?
I hope you enjoy reading their story. I love hearing from readers, so please drop me a note at karenefoley@comcast.net.
Hugs,
Karen
Praise for Karen Foley …
OfFlyboy …
“Passion that won’t quit!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
OfOvernight Sensation…
“A captivating read!”
—Night Owl Romance
“A fantastic plot and enough steam to fog your glasses!”
—CataRomance Reviews
OfAble-Bodied
“ …meltingly hot!”
—Romantic Times
“With its blaze of heat, this is one very captivating tale!”
—CataRomance Reviews
About the Author
KAREN FOLEY is an incurable romantic. When she’s not watching romantic movies, she’s writing sexy romances with strong heroes and happy endings. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband and two daughters, and enjoys hearing from her readers. You can find out more about her by visiting www.karenefoley.com.
Hold on to the Nights
Karen Foley
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Gerry.
And for Brenda, the best editor a girl could ask for.
Prologue
JOSIE HEARD the rumble of the delivery truck when it arrived. Leaning over the counter, she peered through the display window with its colorful exhibit of costumed mannequins, toward the street, where a large van had pulled up to the curb. She’d been eyeballing Tom, the delivery guy, for two months now, and today she was finally going to let him know she was interested.
Stepping back from the window, Josie glanced down at the costume she’d chosen. The costume shop, Dressed to Thrill, wasn’t big, but what space they did have was packed with variety. In the end, she’d selected a slave-girl getup, complete with collar and chain. It was a high-end reproduction of the same outfit Princess Leia had worn in Return of the Jedi, after she’d been captured by Jabba the Hutt and added to his harem.
The bells over the door tinkled, and a gust of cool, autumn air caused goose bumps to rise on her bare flesh.
“Hi, Tom. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Hey, Josie,” he said, his eyes running over her as he brought the two-wheeled dolly to a stop. “Wow. That’s, uh, quite the outfit you’re wearing.”
Josie leaned close to him as she signed the receipt for the cartons of costumes and accessories. “Like it?”
He swallowed hard. “It looks great on you.”
“So,” she purred, “how’ve you been? It’s been a while since you’ve …delivered.”
Tom’s neck and ears turned ruddy. “Yeah,” he agreed with an uneasy laugh. “It’s been a while.”
Josie edged even closer, prepared to really crank up the heat, when his cell phone rang. He smiled apologetically before he reached for the small phone at his hip. Turning away, he spoke into the receiver. “Well, hello there, sweetie,” he crooned.
Sweetie? Josie stared at him in dismay before walking quickly back to the reception counter where a computer beeped loudly, indicating an online order had just arrived. She automatically opened the e-mail request, but her eyes were on Tom as he bent his head and spoke quietly into the phone. The thought that he might be involved with somebody hadn’t crossed her mind, not when he looked at her as if he was starving and she was an all-you-can-eat buffet. She wanted to howl with frustration at the unfairness of it all. Just when she was getting up the courage to finally put the moves on him.
With one eye on Tom, Josie scanned the online order from a woman right here in Chicago named Lara Whitfield. She was requesting any costume related to the popular sci-fi television series, Galaxy’s End. Josie was a huge fan of the hit show, which starred sexy Scottish actor, Graeme Hamilton. She read the short note that Lara Whitfield had included at the bottom of her order.
I’m attending a Galaxy’s End fan festival in two days, so need this shipped overnight express. I’d prefer something all-concealing, like the shaman costume.
A fan festival, huh? Josie snorted, envisioning a ballroom filled with middle-aged, overweight women, all clamoring for a kiss or an autograph from the famed actor. Lara Whitfield obviously needed a life. It was one thing to crush on a delivery guy; it was another thing altogether to crush on a Hollywood celebrity.
One thing was certain, however; Lara Whitfield wouldn’t get so much as a second glance from any guy if she was disguised as the Galaxy’s End shaman. That particular costume was more concealing than a burka. Besides which, they were running low on stock, having just gotten through the Halloween rush. Josie was pretty sure they were sold out of Galaxy’s End costumes.
A quick electronic query of the shop’s inventory confirmed her suspicions. Worse, when she performed a query for alternative costumes, the computer returned a picture of the very same Star Wars slave-girl outfit that Josie wore right now.
Across the shop, Tom finished his conversation and turned back to Josie. She gave him a polite smile, refusing to be misled by the appreciation in his eyes. “Thanks, Tom,” she said airily, and turned back to the computer, pretending to be absorbed in the online order. “I’ll see you next time.”
She sensed his confusion, but didn’t look at him again. When the door closed behind him, her shoulders slumped. Drawing in a fortifying breath, she concentrated on the order. Too bad the customer had asked for something that concealed rather than revealed; Josie was certain the slave-girl getup would garner more attention than the woman had ever had in her life and she wanted nothing more than to get rid of the exotic costume. Having it in the shop was a humiliating reminder of her failure with Tom. She was in the middle of responding that they had no costumes available, when her fingers paused over the keyboard.
Why couldn’t she send Lara Whitfield the slave-girl costume? Sure, it was revealing, but the size was right. She’d even throw in a gorgeous, wrought-gold mask that would match the metal bikini and completely disguise her face, for free. What did it matter that it was a Star Wars costume and not a Galaxy’s End costume? They were both sci-fi space flicks, right? Besides, she’d be doing the poor woman a favor. Nobody would even notice her in the shaman’s voluminous robes, but the slave-girl getup was guaranteed to turn heads. And just to make sure the customer didn’t complain too much, she’d give it to her at a twenty-five percent discount. Combined with the free mask, it was more than a bargain; it was a steal.
With a grim smile, Josie typed in the stock number for the slave-girl costume and completed the order. Pushing back from the counter, she made her way to the stockroom to remove and package the costume. She refused to think about how the customer would react when she opened the parcel and realized she’d received the wrong item. Josie had screwed up orders before, but never deliberately. She told herself she had the customer’s best interests in mind. She just hoped the costume would bring Lara Whitfield better luck than it had brought her.
1
Lara Whitfield paced her hotel room, uncertain what to do now that she was actually here in Las Vegas, possibly in the very same hotel as him. She’d never attended a celebrity fan festival before, and wasn’t certain what to expect. Certainly not the throngs of women she’d encountered in the hotel lobby, who gushed and quivered with excitement over the fact that Graeme Hamilton would be here, in the flesh.
Even after following his meteoric career, Lara found herself stunned by the enormity of his appeal. For all intents and purposes, he hadn’t existed as a public figure until he was cast as the sexy bad-boy character, Kip Corrigan, in the hit television series Galaxy’s End. The pilot episode had aired two years earlier and, seemingly overnight, every woman in America wanted him. Based on the chaotic scene in the hotel lobby, Lara was convinced that every last one had traveled to the fan festival in the hopes of seeing him.
Her cell phone rang, startling her. Digging into her purse, she pulled it out and glanced at the display, smiling ruefully when she saw the number. She’d forgotten to call Val when she’d arrived at the hotel. Her college roommate and best friend, Valerie was worse than any mother. Now Lara flipped the phone open, knowing she was going to get an earful.
“Hi, Val,” she said, squinting. “I, um, made it here safely.”
“Uh-huh,” came the exasperated voice on the other end. “I’ve only been worried half out of my head, wondering if you were okay.”
Lara walked over to the window and pushed aside the curtain. Below her, the Las Vegas strip teemed with activity. “I’m fine. I don’t know why you worry about me so much.”
Val made a tsking sound. “Maybe because you have your head in the clouds most of the time. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if you’d gotten on the wrong flight and ended up in Europe somewhere.”
“No, I’m definitely here in Las Vegas.” Lara dropped the curtain. “I wish you had come with me. It feels …strange to be here by myself.”
“Sorry, kiddo,” Val said sympathetically. “But I think you were right—this is something you need to do on your own. Besides, who would help Christopher run the theater program if we were both in Las Vegas?”
Lara pushed down the pang of guilt she felt at the mention of the program, reminding herself that she would be gone for less than a week, hardly enough time for the children to miss her.
Since she’d been a small child, Lara had wanted to be involved in the theater. Her parents had divorced when she was just four, and her father had moved to Washington, D.C., to pursue a political career. Lara had grown up on her mother’s estate on the outskirts of Chicago, while her mother had spent most of her time pursuing and capturing husbands number two, three and four.
Lara’s childhood visits with her father had been filled with parties and soirées where she’d either been stuck in a corner and forgotten, or left in his cavernous apartment with the housekeeper.
Alone and lonely, she had imagined herself as a princess locked away in a forbidden castle with only fairy creatures to keep her company. Surrounded by a host of imaginary friends, she probably had seemed an odd and pitiable child, but her make-believe world had been very real to her.
Eventually, she’d put her imagination to good use, obtaining a degree in theater arts and writing. While she resisted using her family’s influential connections, she hadn’t been above tapping into the substantial trust fund her father had set up for her to open a small drama school for underprivileged children on Chicago’s west side. If anyone needed to escape the harsh realities of life, even for a few hours each day, it was the children who attended the inner-city theater program.
The nonprofit program only operated in the afternoons and during weekends, so Lara also did some freelance writing for several different magazines. The money wasn’t great, but it paid her bills. The theater program, however, was where she invested most of her time and energy.
Christopher had been her screenwriting professor in college and when he’d heard about her venture, had expressed an interest in getting involved. They had worked together for more than six months before he’d finally asked her for a date, and even then Lara’s first reaction had been to refuse him. He’d persisted, however, and finally she had acknowledged that unless she made some drastic personal changes, she risked going through life alone, with only her imagination and her memories to keep her company. The fourth time that Christopher had asked her out, she’d accepted.
He was smart and sweet, and if he didn’t make her blood heat and her body throb with need, she was mature enough to realize that he was still a good catch.
A great catch.
Lara knew that at the slightest indication from her, he’d take their relationship to the next level. But no matter how much she told herself she wanted that, as well, she still held a part of herself back. She’d finally acknowledged that she’d subconsciously been hanging on to her memories of Graeme, reliving the past through her erotic stories.
Until she put Graeme behind her and stopped writing fan fiction about him, under the guise of writing about Kip Corrigan, she would never truly be over him. And until she was over Graeme, she couldn’t begin a meaningful relationship with Christopher.
“You didn’t tell him I was here, did you?” She asked Valerie.
She didn’t want to think about how Christopher might react if he knew she was spending the next few days in Las Vegas. Alone. At a sci-fi fan festival. He’d think she’d completely lost her mind.
“Relax, of course not,” her friend replied. “I confirmed what you told him—that you needed some time by yourself after your father’s death. He totally believes that you’re at your mother’s beach house on the Outer Banks, doing some deep meditation on the meaning of life.”
“You said that?”
“Well, except for the deep meditation. But he knows how much your dad’s death upset you, especially considering you hadn’t really reconciled with him before he died. He understands that you need some time.”
Lara blew out a hard breath, hating the deception, but feeling as if she hadn’t had any other choice. “Okay, thanks. And thanks, too, for covering for me at the theater for the next couple of days. Make sure you give Alayna an extra hug from me, okay? And tell her I’ll definitely be back in time to see her performance. I don’t think she believed me when I said I’d only be gone for a few days.”
“I will. I know you have a soft spot for her, and she’s going to miss you like crazy, poor little thing.” There was a brief silence while they both thought of the tiny girl with the enormous eyes, whose mother had been killed in a random shooting, an innocent victim who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Since the incident, Alayna had become very attached to Lara, unwilling to leave her side at the theater.
The kids were rehearsing a stage performance of The Wizard of Oz, and nine-year old Alayna had the role of one of the Munchkins. Lara knew how nervous the little girl was, and had promised to be at the performance, just three weeks away, to cheer her on.
“So, have you seen him yet?”
Lara knew she referred to Graeme. “No. I haven’t even left my room yet.” She shuddered. “You should see how many people are here, Val. I swear, there must be thousands. I’m not sure if I can do this.”
“Lara, you have to.” Val’s voice was firm. “He deserves to know the truth.”
“I know. It’s just …” Lara’s voice grew small. “All these years, I’ve imagined him a certain way. What if he’s changed?”
“We all change. Trust me, you’ve changed, too, Lara. In fact, he might not even recognize you, that’s how much you’ve changed in the past five years.”
Lara laughed. “I’m not sure about that.”
“Oh, I am,” Val said, and Lara could hear the smile in her voice. “When I first met you, you were withdrawn to the point of being backward.”
“I was reserved,” Lara said primly. “And heartbroken.”
“Uh-huh. My point exactly. And look at you now—teaching drama to a bunch of underprivileged kids, writing erotic fan fiction on the Internet, and dating your former professor who just happens to be the hottest faculty member on campus. I’d say you’ve come a long way, baby.”
Lara gave a helpless laugh. Christopher was hot? Sure, he was good-looking in an artsy, academic way, with his shaggy hair and easy smile, but in the months that they’d been dating, Lara had never once thought of him as hot.
“He is cute,” she acknowledged. “But as far as the erotic fiction goes …I’ve actually decided to give it up.”
There was a stunned silence. “What?”
Lara sat on the edge of the desk and her hand drifted to the stack of conference brochures that she’d brought with her from Chicago. Sifting through the pile, Lara withdrew a recent issue of People magazine. Staring back at her from the glossy front cover was a full-page photo of Graeme Hamilton. His blue-green eyes gazed warmly at her, and his lips curved in the vaguest suggestion of a smile, providing just a hint of the deep dimples that had endeared him to millions of female fans.
“I can’t keep doing it, Val. To my readers, the stories are just steamy tales about the Galaxy’s End characters, but I know they’re more than that.” She stared at the cover of the magazine. “I know they’re really my own fantasies about Graeme, and they’re not healthy. If I really want to put him in my past and move on with my future, then I need to stop writing about him. About Kip.”
The photograph of him was so clear that Lara could see the individual stubble of whiskers on his jaw. Tiny laugh lines splayed out from the corners of his eyes and for a moment, Lara’s heart contracted painfully. She ran her fingers over the image. Beneath her hand, she could almost feel the rough velvet of his cropped hair.
“I understand how you feel, Lara, I do,” Val said, her voice sympathetic. “But your stories have such a huge following. I checked your stats this morning and the story that you posted last night has already received more than ten thousand hits. Ten thousand hits in just one day, Lara! That’s completely crazy, you know that, right? I don’t think you have any idea how popular your stories on these Web sites are.”
“Well, maybe I’ll find another character to focus on, then. But I can’t keep writing about Kip Corrigan. He’s too real to me, and it brings back too many memories. I need to find something else to write about.” Lara glanced at her watch. “Listen, Val, I have to go. The masquerade ball is starting soon. If I’m really going to do this, then I should probably go scope out the situation first.”
“Okay. Call me. Anytime, for any reason. Promise?”
“I promise. I’ll call you as soon as I get back to the room.”
She hung up and placed the phone on the table. She and Valerie had been roommates since their first year of college and they were closer than most sisters. After they’d graduated, they’d continued to share an apartment. Valerie knew all Lara’s secrets, including her reasons for attending the fan festival.
Lara looked again at the magazine she held in her hand. The caption beneath the photo read, “Graeme Hamilton—Sexy and Single!” Lara groaned. Sexy? Most definitely. Single? Most definitely not.
Should she venture down to the convention and join the hordes of other women all clamoring to get a glimpse of the hot Hollywood stud, or bide her time until she could get him alone? Lara glanced at her watch. If she wanted to join the festivities, she’d need first to slip into the Galaxy’s End costume that she’d brought with her. She’d specifically ordered a costume that would conceal her identity and allow her to blend in with the crowd. There was no way she wanted Graeme to recognize her before she was ready. She had a plan for how their encounter would unfold, and it didn’t include crowds of partygoers.
Even now, after two weeks, she still couldn’t quite accept the chain of events that had brought her to the second annual Galaxy’s End fan festival. Her gaze slid reluctantly to the sheath of legal documents that she had carried with her from Chicago to Las Vegas. They lay on the polished surface of the desk looking harmless enough, but Lara knew better. Those seemingly innocent papers had turned her safe, orderly world upside down.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered under her breath, and, giving into temptation, snatched up the letter that lay folded on top of the documents.
Most people came to Las Vegas for a quick wedding. She’d come for a quick divorce, or at least a quick signature on the divorce papers that she’d brought with her. The kicker was, the guy in question didn’t even realize he was still married. Each time Lara tried to envision how he might react to that little tidbit, she had a full-blown panic attack.
She could have let her lawyer handle the nasty job of breaking the news to him, but she felt strongly that this was something she should do. She was a true glutton for punishment.
Sinking into the upholstered chair near the bed, Lara unfolded the letter and reread it, although she knew the contents by heart.
My darling Lara,
By the time you read this, I will be gone. I know that you despise me and I don’t blame you, but please don’t destroy this letter without first reading it through. I realize how difficult it was for you to visit me here at the hospice center today, but I am grateful to have seen you one last time before I go. For the first time in five years I have hope that you might eventually forgive me. Please know that what I did, I did because I loved you.
I wasn’t the best of fathers, but I always wanted what was best for you. When you came to spend that summer with me in London, you were so grown-up. My hope was that we would finally develop the kind of closeness that divorce and distance had prevented, but I was too caught up with my job.
I don’t blame you for falling in love with that boy. You always had a romantic heart, and you thought he was your Prince Charming. But when I discovered you had eloped with him, I did what any father would do. Lara, you were just seventeen, and so naive. So sheltered. So trusting. He had nothing to offer you. I knew, eventually, he would break your heart and maybe even ruin your life. So I put you on the next flight back to the States and directed my lawyers to file the annulment papers, hoping that you would forget him. I never guessed that I would lose you completely in the process.
Yesterday, my deepest wish came true; you finally came to see me and brought with you a man whom I believe will love you and care for you as you deserve. And now comes the most difficult part of this letter, for I have a confession to make that will not endear me to you.
Your marriage to that boy was never annulled, and my legal counsel informs me that despite my best efforts, you are still legally wed. I didn’t tell you this earlier, because I thought that if you knew, you might return to him. But now that you are over him, and in the event that you plan to marry again, you need to know the truth.
Please know that I only want your happiness.
Forgive me.
Your father,
Brent Whitfield
Lara dropped the letter into her lap and gave a small huff of laughter. Even at the end, her father had refused to call Graeme anything except that boy, as if by doing so he somehow diminished Graeme, both in his own mind and in Lara’s eyes.
The news that she and Graeme were still married had hit her like a physical blow. She’d tried so hard to forget him, but the letter had brought all the emotions back in sharp relief—the longing for what might have been and the regrets for what would never be. Worse, she’d begun dreaming of Graeme again, and certain things had come back to her in startling clarity; his laugh, his smell …his taste.
Christopher had no idea she’d once been married, and Lara didn’t relish telling him, even if that marriage had only lasted for two amazing, unforgettable nights. And if she was honest with herself, one of the reasons she was so reluctant to tell him was because a part of her realized that after five years, she shouldn’t still be thinking about those two nights as often as she did.
Almost absently, Lara reached inside the open collar of her blouse and withdrew the small, round locket that lay nestled between her breasts. The silver was warm from her skin and she ran her finger over the delicate open-face filigree on the front, in the shape of a Celtic love knot. Helpless to resist and knowing she was a true glutton for punishment, she flicked the locket open.
On one side nestled a tiny photo of Graeme. His lips curved in the barest hint of a smile, but his eyes gleamed with suppressed laughter. Lara recalled the day the picture had been taken. She and Graeme had been walking along the Thames, arms wound around each other, when a peddler with a Polaroid had offered to take their photo for five pounds. Graeme hadn’t been interested, but Lara had insisted. She’d wanted a photo of Graeme, and had tormented him until he’d finally capitulated. He’d encircled her in his arms with his chin resting on the top of her head.
Afterwards, he’d taken one look at the photo and declared it unfit to keep, although Lara hadn’t missed how he gave the peddler ten pounds instead of five. She’d tried unsuccessfully to wrestle the photo from him until they were both breathless and laughing, and then the photo had been forgotten altogether.
Lara hadn’t thought of the picture again until the day Graeme had given her the locket. He’d carefully snipped her face from the photo and had tucked it into one side of the locket, facing his picture. Lara had liked to think of their images, closed in the snug space, eternally kissing.
The locket had been her wedding gift from Graeme. Snapping the locket closed, Lara dropped it back beneath her blouse. Despite everything, she’d never been able to put the locket away. She wore it every day, like a talisman. It represented all the dreams she’d once had, the dreams that would never come true, thanks to her father. Even at his bedside, knowing he would die soon, she’d been unable to speak the words that she knew he’d longed to hear.
I forgive you.
You did the right thing.
I’m happy with the way my life has turned out.
After her father had died, Lara had come to the bitter realization that if her life hadn’t turned out exactly as she’d hoped, then she had only herself to blame. She needed to forgive her father, cut her losses and move on. Getting Graeme to sign the divorce papers would be the first step.
Unzipping the outer compartment of her suitcase, Lara withdrew the bulky envelope that contained her costume. She’d ordered it just two days before leaving Chicago and had almost given up on receiving it in time to bring it with her to the convention. In fact, the UPS delivery truck had arrived at her townhouse at about the same time as her taxi had arrived to take her to the airport. She’d shoved the package into her suitcase and hadn’t yet had an opportunity to look at the costume. Now she turned the lumpy packet over in her hands, noting the return address.
Dressed to Thrill, Chicago.
Lara had ordered costumes and accessories from the small shop before, but only to support the children’s theater program. The nonprofit venture had a small staff and an even smaller budget, but the expressions on the kids’ faces when they saw their new costumes made it worthwhile.
The envelope that contained her own costume was lumpy and hard in places, and Lara knew without opening the package that it didn’t contain the shaman robe and hood that she’d requested. Of course, she hadn’t specifically ordered the shaman costume. She’d indicated that any costume from the Galaxy’s End television series would fit the bill, so long as it concealed her identity. What had the costume shop sent her instead? Turning the envelope over in her hand, Lara tore it open and dumped the contents onto the bed, ripping aside the lavender tissue paper.
What the—?
Lara gingerly picked up a piece of the costume and inspected it. No. There was absolutely no freaking way she could wear this outfit. She’d asked for a costume that concealed her identity, one that would let her blend in with the crowd and enjoy the festival, secure in her own anonymity. Instead the costume shop had sent her …a skimpy slave-girl outfit!
And not just any slave-girl costume, either. It looked suspiciously like the one that Princess Leia had worn in the Star Wars movie.
Pushing aside the remnants of tissue paper, Lara spread the bits and pieces of the costume out on the flowered bedspread.
Yep, there was no doubt about it.
There in front of her was a perfect replica of the famous metal bikini with its wrought-gold top and bottom, the delicate, curved slave bracelets for her upper arms, the chunky slave collar and chain, and the tiny suede booties, cleverly designed with straps and Velcro to conform to any foot.
The only difference was that this ensemble also contained a gold mask, reminiscent of the Venetian Renaissance. Covering everything but the mouth and chin, the mask curved elegantly along the sides of the wearer’s head and locked into place at the back.
How could the costume shop have made such a colossal mistake? There was no way she could wear this outfit, of course, and she felt a pang of regret that she would have to miss the masquerade ball.
Lara picked the mask up, turning it over in her hands and admiring it in spite of herself. Finely crafted, the mask was a work of art. How would it feel to wear such a gorgeous creation? Hesitating only briefly, she slid the mask over her face and fastened the closure. The lightweight metal felt cool against her skin.
When she peered at herself in the mirror, it was like looking at someone else. Even the familiarity of her own body, clad in figure-hugging jeans and a turquoise tank top, did little to dispel the sense that she was actually looking at an exotic stranger.
Entranced, she touched her fingers to her lips, exposed beneath the bottom edge of the gold face plate. She’d always considered her mouth too full, but now the gold mask framed her lips and emphasized their plumpness. They looked …hedonistic. Except for the glittering blue of her eyes behind the eye slits and the thick, red-gold hair that fell to her shoulders, she was unrecognizable.
Mysterious.
Lara glanced at the rest of the costume. Did she dare? She’d played a lot of dress-up games as a kid, but nothing like this. She’d never worn anything so risqué in her entire life. She’d asked for a costume that hid her identity so that she could size Graeme up without worrying that he might recognize her. But now, instead of being an anonymous observer, she’d stand out like a neon beacon. The costume was a scant step away from complete nudity. Not that she thought Graeme would recognize her even if she did decide to wear the costume.
What had Valerie said? That she’d changed in the last five years, so much so that even Graeme would have a hard time recognizing her. The mask would hide her features, and he wasn’t even scheduled to make an appearance at the costume ball that was kicking off the convention tonight.
Maybe she did dare …
Eyeing the outfit warily, she pulled a single-serving bottle of white wine out of the minifridge. Before she’d even consider putting the costume on, she needed a little false courage. She twisted the cap off the bottle and took a deep swig, and then another. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she stripped out of her clothes and donned the costume. She had a moment’s panic when her breasts refused to cooperate, and threatened to overspill the embossed cups of the bra. It was only after some jiggling and rearranging that she finally managed to subdue them.
Her silver locket lay nestled between her breasts, and she carefully removed it and placed it on her night-stand. Then she squeezed the bracelets around her upper arms and fastened the gold slave collar around her neck. A short length of chain hung from the front and lay cold and smooth against her breast.
For a long moment, Lara just stood and gazed into the mirror, hardly able to believe it was herself reflected there. She looked like a decadent offering, designed for a man’s pleasure. Her skin gleamed pale and smooth beneath the bikini, and when she turned experimentally, the crimson cascade of fabric swirled and provided alluring glimpses of her legs. The brevity of the costume shocked her. The front and back of the metal bikini bottom were held together by gold loops, exposing her entire flank.
Turning to the side, Lara examined her profile, sucking her tummy in and then letting it out. She wasn’t overweight, but there was a slight roundness to her belly that no amount of exercise or starvation could eliminate. But the reflection in the mirror wasn’t of a pudgy girl, but a lushly curved woman. She’d always thought her breasts a bit too large for her small frame, but now the bra pushed them upward to a whole new fullness. They looked …sexy. She looked sexy. Erotic. Words that Lara would never have used to describe herself, but there was no question they applied to her now.
Lara gazed at her reflection, and a naughty thrill coursed through her. Did she dare attend tonight’s costume ball like this? Just the thought of appearing in public dressed in such a salacious way brought a flush of color to her pale skin. She could have been a character straight from one of her own erotic stories. Which inspired another intriguing thought: how would the intergalactic outlaw, Kip Corrigan, react if he saw her?
Immediately, Lara’s imagination surged, and she could almost anticipate how the fictional Kip would respond. He’d bend her backward over any available surface and feast on the bounty of exposed female flesh. Then he’d take his time removing the costume, piece by piece, until all that remained was the collar and length of chain around her neck. She could envision him wrapping the slender links around his fist and using the chain to hold her, while he plundered her sensitized breasts with his mouth.
Warm tendrils of excitement unfurled in Lara’s womb, spreading outward and causing heat to build between her legs. She realized that her hands had drifted to the soft skin of her breasts just above the embossed bra, and her breathing had quickened. Beneath the lower edge of the mask, her lips were parted and damp, as if she anticipated a lover’s kiss, and behind the eye slits, her irises shimmered hotly.
Closing her eyes, she shifted her internal focus slightly, imagining it was Graeme doing those things to her. The images in her head swam and then sharpened into stark relief, and she gasped softly. Instead of the fictional Kip, it was Graeme who stroked her heated flesh, all the while telling her in explicit, exciting detail what he intended to do to her, his Scottish burr more pronounced with his arousal.
In her mind’s eye, he fastened his mouth around the aching bud of one nipple, drawing sharply on it. When she might have protested, he tugged gently on the chain, holding her in place. Meanwhile, his free hand skated along the silken skin of her abdomen until he found her core and stroked her slick center.
Lara’s eyes flew open and she stared at her reflection, more aroused than she could recall being since …well, since the last time she’d had sex with Graeme, five years earlier. In the mirror, her breasts rose and fell in an agitated fashion, and her skin had taken on a warm, flushed glow. Her blood pulsed hot and quick through her veins, and her eyes were filled with sensual need.
With a soft groan of dismay, she picked up the small bottle of wine and drained the contents in one long swallow, then swiped her mouth with fingers that trembled.
She took a deep, calming breath, willing her pulse to slow down. What would Graeme think if he could see her now? In no way did she resemble the shy teenager she’d been when they’d first met. Lara hardly recognized herself.
She could do this; she could become the woman that Val had described; strong and sure of herself and of her own future. She told herself again that she’d moved on with her life; she had a job and a great guy who did care about her, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let herself believe there was anything left between her and Graeme.
They were strangers in every sense of the word.
And while millions of women would no doubt kill to marry Graeme, she knew that divorcing him would be the first smart thing she’d done in five years.
2
THE COSTUME BALL was already in full swing by the time Lara arrived at the ballroom. Under any other circumstances, she might have felt self-conscious about entering by herself, but then she caught a barely veiled expression of lust on the face of a passing waiter. That covert look told her that she looked good. Better than good—she looked delicious. With a smile, she accepted a pink-tinted pomegranate martini from a waiter who stood just inside the entrance, and took a hearty swallow, gasping as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. With her eyes watering, she stepped into the ballroom.
The lights had been dimmed and a large stage had been set up at one end, where a tuxedoed band played dinner music. Artificial trees, sparkling with minilights, lent a magical quality to the event. Three enormous movie screens had been placed at even intervals on the far wall, and clips from the show Galaxy’s End played endlessly so that no matter where you looked, there was Graeme Hamilton in the role of deep-space convict Kip Corrigan.
For a moment, Lara stood in the doorway and just stared, transfixed by the Technicolor images. Would she ever get used to seeing his face? Would the day ever come when her heart didn’t stop at the sight? Her life would be so much simpler if seeing him didn’t affect her so much.
But it did.
With a soft groan, she gulped down the rest of the martini. She just had to keep remembering that the pictures she saw on the big screens weren’t really Graeme. They were illusions, figments of somebody’s imagination, the same way the stories she wrote were the embodiment of her own unfulfilled fantasies.
She was so done with fantasies.
Across the sea of linen-covered tables adorned with flowers and flickering candlelight, Lara could see a long buffet table where white-tuxedoed waitstaff served food to the masked and costumed ballgoers. On the parquet dance floor in front of the stage, couples dressed as various Galaxy’s End characters danced together. The costumes were so impressive and so much like the ones from the actual show that Lara had a brief moment of unease. How badly did she stick out with her Star Wars getup? She shivered, aware that her scantily-clad body drew more than several appreciative glances from the men in the room.
Lara forced herself to move through the buffet line and then, plate in hand, searched for an empty seat among the crowded tables. She finally found one right next to the dance floor. The six women already seated there were dressed in identical costumes as Kip’s onscreen love interest, a prison guard named Lily, despite the fact they were easily in their midfifties. They each gave her welcoming smiles, although Lara didn’t miss how their eyes absorbed every detail of her own skimpy outfit.
Needing a little more false courage, she stopped a waiter as he passed near their table and snagged a second martini from his tray, although the first one seemed to be doing the trick. Even now, her limbs were feeling looser and the second drink didn’t taste nearly as overpowering as the first had.
The woman closest to Lara turned to her and winked. “Now that’s what I call a costume,” she said.
Lara flushed behind the concealing mask, not sure if the woman was being sincere or sarcastic. Maybe she should have chosen a table of men. Maintaining an aura of sensuality was so much more difficult when surrounded by six matronly women, several of whom clearly disapproved of her revealing outfit, judging by their expressions.
“Thanks,” she responded. “This isn’t the costume I ordered, but by the time I received it, it was too late to get something else.”
The woman on Lara’s other side patted her arm reassuringly. “Don’t think twice about it, hon. If I had a body like yours, I’d wear that costume, too. And that mask is absolutely fabulous.”
Lara smiled gratefully at her. “So is this your first Galaxy’s End convention?”
“Goodness, no,” the woman laughed. “We were here last year, too. We’ve been Graeme Hamilton fans since day one.” She indicated the other women at the table. “We call ourselves Hamilton’s Hussies. Maybe you’ve heard of us? We practically started Graeme’s fan club!”
Lara had heard of them. In fact, she was a frequent visitor to their Web site, dedicated to Graeme and to his career. She’d posted countless erotic stories about Kip Corrigan and the other Galaxy’s End characters to the fan fiction page of the site, and had even exchanged e-mail correspondence with the Hussies under her screen name, Secret Lover.
But she didn’t share any of this with the women at the table. Her stories were too personal to talk about with strangers, especially since they were based completely on Graeme Hamilton himself. She shivered to think how he would react if he could read her lusty tales. There was no doubt in her mind that he would recognize the main character as himself. Most of her stories were drawn directly from her own experiences with Graeme, right down to the dialogue.
Then there were her other stories …the ones based solely on her own imagination. With her writing, she was free to explore all her forbidden fantasies about Graeme, disguised as fan fiction about the Galaxy’s End characters. In her stories, she could do anything, and she could have Graeme respond in any way she desired. She could relive every moment of that summer when she had first fallen in love with him. She could replay every heated second of their time at the Scottish inn when he’d aroused her to the point that she thought she might die from sheer pleasure, and then he’d shown her there was even more.
In her fan fiction, she enjoyed dominating him, forcing him to submit to her desires. But in the end, he would always wrest control back from her and then subject her to the most delicious torture.
“So you’re a big Graeme Hamilton fan, huh?” she asked, picking at the cheese manicotti on her plate, and then mentally rolled her eyes at her own inane question.
“Aren’t we all?” asked the second woman. Her short brown hair was liberally sprinkled with gray, and there were lines around her eyes and mouth, but the excitement and anticipation in her eyes made her look like a schoolgirl. “I fell in love with him the first time I saw him in the pilot episode. I mean, how could any woman not fall head over heels for him, right?”
Lara avoided answering the question by taking a gulp of her martini. This was exactly why she’d been reluctant to attend the convention. Any minute now, they’d start gushing about Graeme’s physical attributes and speculating about his love life. Was this what he had to endure every time he made a public appearance?
The woman on Lara’s other side smiled knowingly as she speared a small roasted potato with her fork and popped it into her mouth. “So, when did you lose your virginity to His Royal Hotness?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Excuse me?” Lara knew her mouth was open, but she couldn’t seem to close it, any more than she could prevent the sudden, hard slamming of her heart within her chest. They couldn’t possibly know! Nobody, aside from her parents and Val—and Graeme, of course—knew that she had relinquished her virginity to him five years earlier. In the years since, she’d been so careful not to let anyone find out ….
The woman grinned as she observed the hot color that turned Lara’s neck pink. “I mean, when did you first discover Graeme Hamilton? When did you first realize you were smitten?”
Just over five years ago, when I was almost eighteen years old and nobody in the entertainment industry even knew Graeme Hamilton existed.
She looked at the expectant faces of the women. How would they react if she told them the truth? If she told them that she had known Graeme before he became Hollywood’s hottest heartthrob? That she knew him intimately? That she’d fallen in love with him the first time she’d met him and had lied to him about her age, telling him that she was actually twenty-one and not seventeen? He’d been twenty-three and she’d known instinctively that he wouldn’t want anything to do with her if he realized just how young she was. Then, when their relationship had turned serious, she hadn’t dared tell him the truth for fear of losing him. She’d continued the pretense of being a college student from California right up until after they’d eloped, when her father had tracked them down at the small Scottish inn where’d they’d spent their wedding night and dragged her from Graeme’s bed, telling him in explicit terms just what he’d done with a minor.
What would these women think if she told them that particular story? That she’d spent two days and nights locked in a bedroom with Graeme? That she’d kissed, licked and nibbled every delicious part of his body?
They’d never believe her. They’d think she was making it up, and she wouldn’t blame them. There were times when it didn’t seem real to her. Sometimes, that long-ago summer seemed no more than a dream.
“I’ve been a fan of Graeme Hamilton’s since before he made Galaxy’s End,” she finally said. That, at least, was the truth.
“Well, welcome to the club,” the first woman said. “My name is Sandra.”
“And I’m Claire,” the second woman added, indicating the registration badge she wore on a lanyard around her neck. “We’re both from Wisconsin.”
“I’m Lara. From Chicago.”
At that moment the band stopped playing, and a spotlight was turned onto the stage next to where Lara and her companions were sitting. As they watched, a round woman dressed in a figure-hugging prison-guard costume stepped forward and took the microphone.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, in a Southern accent. “Welcome to the second annual Galaxy’s End convention, where we joyfully celebrate everything related to that fabulous series, now in its third season.” She waggled her eyebrows meaningfully. “And we especially want to celebrate the gorgeous actor who made us women long to be marooned on that uncharted planet.”
There was scattered applause, and somebody from the back of the ballroom shouted, “We want Graeme!” followed by a ripple of laughter and more applause.
“I want to draw your attention to a slight change in our scheduled events,” the woman continued. “In your brochure, you’ll notice we have Finn McDougall, the director, scheduled to make a few remarks tonight. Unfortunately—”
She was interrupted by a collective groan of disappointment from the crowd, and she held her hands up, smiling.
“Now, let me finish, people. Unfortunately, Mr. McDougall’s flight has been delayed and we’ve rescheduled his chat for tomorrow morning instead. However …” She smiled secretively at the crowd. “We didn’t want you to be too disappointed, so we’ve brought in another guest. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome …Mr. Graeme Hamilton!”
There was an instant of stunned silence before the ballroom erupted in thunderous applause and ear-splitting shrieks of approval. Then, from the wings of the stage, a lean figure emerged, wearing Kip Corrigan’s signature black pants and shirt. The band struck up a resounding rendition of the theme song from Galaxy’s End, and amidst the swell of music, the man did a quick two-step dance move for the crowd, unleashing another, louder round of applause and screaming, before he strode across the stage toward the microphone.
Graeme saluted the band, kissed the emcee on both cheeks and then turned to the crowd with a wave. The spotlight turned his cropped hair into a gleaming halo of brown and bronze highlights, and from where Lara sat, a mere twenty feet from the stage, she could see his easy grin and the way his blue-green eyes scanned the crowd.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
For an instant, her heart stopped beating, and then it exploded back into frenzied action. Lara had known that when she finally saw Graeme again she’d have a strong physical reaction, but never in her wildest imaginings had she thought she might actually expire on the spot.
Graeme was speaking into the microphone, but Lara couldn’t hear anything beyond the roaring of her own blood in her ears. From where she sat, she could see the changes that five years had wrought, sculpting his face, tracing it with experience, and turning it from attractive to unforgettable. Lara felt something in her chest tear free with a painful wrench. She was only dimly aware of women rising from the nearby tables and moving forward, jostling each other in their urgency to get closer to the stage.
Closer to him.
Her mask was suffocating her.
She couldn’t breathe, and fluttering wings of blackness appeared at the outer edges of her vision. She felt overheated and flushed. Suddenly, the small bottle of wine and two martinis she’d consumed threatened to make a reappearance.
She surged to her feet with a muttered apology, intent only on escaping the ballroom, unaware that the trailing edge of the tablecloth had become snagged on her metal bikini bottom. Lara turned to leave, dragging the tablecloth with her. As if in slow motion, plates of food and glassware crashed to the floor and the six costumed women who had been sitting with her scrambled to get out of the way, knocking over chairs and crying out in surprise.
For a moment, the band stopped playing and it seemed every face in the ballroom turned in her direction. Horrified, Lara looked toward the stage.
Graeme stared back at her.
For one, brief instant, their gazes collided. A renewed surge of heat swept through Lara, fierce and swift, and then receded, leaving her bathed in a cold, clammy sweat.
With a small sound of despair, she jerked the tablecloth free of her costume and fled toward the nearest exit, which opened into a service corridor. She was only dimly aware of the hotel staff passing on either side of her as she dashed toward an elevator at the end of the hallway. A startled waiter scooted out of her way as she flung herself at the doors, frantically pressing the button for them to open.
“Whoa, Princess Leia, that’s a private service elevator,” the waiter gasped, staring at her in dismay. “Jesus, what the hell is going on?”
Following his gaze, Lara glanced back in the direction she’d come from, and nearly fainted with panic. Graeme Hamilton himself was sprinting toward her, and hot on his heels was a horde of lust-crazed women, arms outstretched as they screamed his name.
Behind her, the elevator doors swished open and Lara flung herself inside. With her breath coming in painful hitches, she desperately punched at the buttons and watched with growing dread as Graeme and the pursuing crowd of women rapidly closed the distance between them.
“Please, please, please,” she whispered, but whether her chant was for Graeme to reach the elevator in time, or not, she couldn’t say.
Closer. Closer.
The doors started to swish shut, but even as Lara sagged against the wall in utter relief, a hand thrust itself between them, forcing them open. Lara watched in dismay as Graeme squeezed through, his breathing harsh. He pressed the button to close the doors and held his finger there, even as he took a protective stance in the opening. At the last instant, when it seemed the women would simply stampede him, the elevator doors closed.
“Christ,” he muttered, and his voice washed over her, stirring her senses and catapulting her back five years.
Lara drank in the sight of him. He was larger than she remembered. He completely dominated the small space, and she fisted her hands behind her back to keep from reaching out and touching him. She pressed herself into the corner of the compartment and hardly dared to breathe.
Maybe he wouldn’t notice her.
Maybe, if she was very lucky, the elevator’s dim lighting and the mask would be enough to keep him from recognizing her, although she knew the likelihood of that happening was about nil. How humiliating to be caught attending a fan festival for your ex-husband …current husband. Whatever.
With any luck, he wouldn’t realize who she was, and he’d think she was merely playing out her role of submissive slave by keeping her head down. Her heart still thudded hard against her ribs and her palms were slick with moisture.
She’d wanted to see Graeme, but not like this, and especially not in a state of near undress! Everything about this first encounter was wrong. She’d wanted to be on solid footing, suitably garbed in her best business suit so that he’d have no doubts that she’d both grown up and moved on. She’d wanted to be self-assured and emotionally distant, not a pile of quivering nerve endings and heightened awareness.
He eased himself away from the doors and leaned negligently against the opposite wall. “That was a close one. Especially since the weight capacity on this lift canna exceed two thousand pounds.”
His voice sank into her bones, heating her from the inside out. Slowly, Lara raised her gaze to his and felt the shock of it all the way to her toes. And just like the first time she’d seen him, everything else seemed to vanish.
She was no longer aware of being in a tiny elevator.
She didn’t care that she wore next to nothing.
She was only aware of Graeme, and the sight of him, so incredibly sexy and masculine, caused her brain to misfire so that instead of saying something smart and sophisticated, the only thing that came out of her mouth was a stuttered, “Huh?”
He didn’t smile, just continued to watch her intently. “I hate to be the one to break this to ye, princess,” he murmured, his Scottish burr turning her insides to mush, “but the Star Wars convention isn’t for another two months.”
Distressed, Lara felt her stomach do a sick flip. Was it her imagination, or had he placed a subtle emphasis on the word princess? He’d always called her his princess; it had been his pet name for her back when they’d first met. Did he recognize her, or was it just her overactive imagination playing tricks on her?
She’d been so certain that he had recognized her, that he’d come barreling after her because he knew who she was and wanted retribution. She’d expected a bitter confrontation, but Graeme was looking at her without a trace of shock or anger or recrimination in his eyes.
In fact, if she wasn’t mistaken, his expression was one of pure, male appreciation, and the heat in his eyes sparked an answering flame. The panic in her chest eased up a bit, and Lara didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
As impossible as it seemed, Graeme Hamilton didn’t have a clue who she was.
Lara dragged her gaze away from his, her mind racing.
He didn’t know it was her.
A part of her knew she should feel hurt that he didn’t recognize her, but another part of her thrilled at the knowledge that he still found her attractive. She reminded herself she’d changed in five years, just as Valerie had said. She’d filled out in some places and slimmed down in others. Combined with the mask and costume, it was no wonder he didn’t know who she was. The thought actually gave her a little courage, and her earlier embarrassment at being caught wearing such a flagrantly sexy outfit vanished. Seeing Graeme’s eyes darken with desire was like an aphrodisiac. Warm, honeyed tendrils of pleasure snaked through her. She shifted her weight and a sharp burst of desire speared through her.
It seemed that some things never changed. Graeme still had the ability to arouse her with no more than a look. Two minutes ago, she’d been desperate to get away from him. Now, in close quarters with him, all she could think about was getting even closer.
She felt reckless.
Irresponsible.
Knowing that her identity was safe only amped up the naughty thoughts that were chasing themselves through her head. Less than an hour ago, she’d stood in front of her mirror and fantasized about how Graeme might react if he saw her in this getup. Now she wondered how he would react if she indicated she’d be willing to play the role of a true pleasure slave.
Tomorrow, she would don her safe, staid business suit, arm herself with her briefcase of legal documents and demand that he sign the divorce papers she had with her. She would wish him all the best in his career and his life, and then she would leave.
But for tonight, she would cater to her inner seductress, secure in the knowledge that nobody would ever find out, not even Graeme. She acknowledged that she wanted—no, she needed—to know if sex with Graeme was as good as she remembered, or if girlish memories had blown it out of proportion over the years. She had no illusions of trying to recapture the love of her youth; rather, she’d finally be able to put it firmly in her past and move on with her future. She’d been so young back then, so easily impressed. Not that she’d had much hands-on experience in the years since they’d been apart, but she’d done a lot of reading …and writing …about sex. In her fan fiction stories, Kip Corrigan was the ultimate lover, and most of what she wrote was based on her own experiences with Graeme during the two nights they’d shared.
But nobody could be that good, right?
3
RECOGNITION punched Graeme in the gut like a sledgehammer.
He’d thought about this moment more times than he cared to admit over the past five years, and in his mind their reunion had played out in all kinds of different ways. But his fantasies always ended the same way—with Lara in his bed, promising that she’d never leave again.
But now that she was here, he didn’t have a fucking clue what to say. So he took a deep breath and turned to look at her, but was so completely blown away by the erotic vision she made that all he could manage was some ignorant remark about the weight capacity of the lift.
Because never, even in his most outrageous fantasies, could he have envisioned Lara looking like the woman who stared at him now from the opposite side of the elevator. For just a moment, his confidence faltered and he wondered if he might be mistaken. After all, he hadn’t seen her in several years. Even in his most lurid and explicit imaginings, she looked perpetually the way she had that summer in London.
Sweet.
Shy.
Conservative.
For a moment, his chest clenched hard and tight, and his hands fisted at his sides in recalled frustration. He’d been a struggling actor, just out of drama school, trying desperately to make a name for himself in the London theater scene where actors were ten a penny. His strong Scots accent and his strapping, blue-collar physique had worked against him, however, and the best he’d been able to manage had been amateur productions in second-rate theaters.
He’d been performing in a stage presentation of Blood Brothers, in front of a nearly empty theater, when she had walked in and sat in the back row. She’d come back every day until the last performance, when she’d chosen to sit in the front row.
After the show had ended, he’d sprinted out of the theater to intercept her, because meeting her had been a compulsion he couldn’t resist. He’d realized there was something special about her even though back then, she’d looked more like a modern-day Sandra Dee with her buttoned-up blouses, her little designer handbags and ridiculous shoes. But in less than a week of meeting her for afternoon tea, taking walks along the Thames and exploring the city together, he’d fallen completely and irrevocably in love. He’d never understood what it was that she’d seen in him, but he did know one thing; he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted another girl in his life.
His mistake had been to believe the lies that had fallen so easily from those cherub lips; that she was a twenty-one-year-old college student spending a summer abroad. That she only had one year of college left. That she was legally old enough to get married.
That she loved him.
Now he could hardly comprehend that his young wife and this exotic creature might be one and the same. He’d barely stepped onto the stage back in the ballroom, when a woman at a nearby table had suddenly lurched to her feet and done a bad rendition of the old tablecloth trick, dumping every place setting onto the floor in a cacophony of shattered dishware.
She’d been dressed in an eye-popping Princess Leia slave-girl costume that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Graeme had paused, prepared to make a joke about escapees from Jabba the Hutt’s harem, when he’d found himself looking past the gold mask and straight into a pair of eyes that he’d recognize anywhere.
Shock had slammed through him, but she was gone before he could react, pushing past the crowd and vanishing through a side door. Graeme hadn’t paused to think about his actions. He’d leaped from the stage, intent only upon catching the woman. But the mob of costumed fans had other ideas and for several frustrating seconds, he’d found himself sinking beneath a surging mass of greedy females who’d clamored for an autograph, a photo, a hug, a kiss. He might never have escaped their clutches if it hadn’t been for his publicist and hotel security, pushing their way through the crowd and extricating him from the surging mass of women.
With muttered apologies, he’d broken free and dashed through the side door, his eyes searching the area beyond. He was rewarded when he saw Princess Leia frantically trying to access a service elevator. With a low growl, he’d plunged down the corridor after her, only dimly aware of the shrieking women who’d pursued him.
As he’d sprinted down the hallway, he knew his gut had been right; the woman was Lara. A glossy braid swung between her shoulder blades, the color of a brand-new penny. In five years, he’d never come across another person with hair that unique shade of copper, and despite the fact her body had definitely changed—in a bite-your-fist, hold-me-back kind of way—there was absolutely no question in his mind that the woman trying so desperately to escape was her.
He’d had an instant of panic when she bolted into the elevator and the doors began to close, but a burst of adrenaline had propelled him forward enough that he got his hand inside. He’d thrust himself through the doors and into the compartment with her.
For a split second, he’d registered the utter dismay in her sapphire eyes, before he’d abruptly turned his back on her. Aside from preventing the hordes of fans from mobbing the elevator, he’d needed to get a grip on himself.
As impossible as it seemed, Lara was here. And clearly, not too pleased that he’d followed her.
Graeme didn’t know what kind of reaction he’d expected, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this. She was simply staring at him from behind the ornate mask as if she didn’t know him from Adam. As if she hadn’t just fled the ballroom with him in hot pursuit. As if she hadn’t noticed the pack of screaming women who’d been hot on his heels.
As if he hadn’t—once upon a time—explored every luscious inch of her body with his hands and mouth.
There was no greeting, no how-do-you-do, no nothing. Instead, she gave him a polite, distant little smile and let her gaze drift away from him, fixing her attention on the blinking numbers over the door as if she had no freaking idea who he was.
As if they were complete strangers.
Which was nuts, because even if she didn’t recognize him as the man she’d once married, he was still Graeme Hamilton. If his publicist was to be believed, every woman who’d registered for the convention had done so because she was a huge Graeme Hamilton fan.
Then it hit him.
Lara was hoping like hell that he wouldn’t recognize her. She didn’t want him to recognize her. Graeme knew the body language well enough, since he frequently employed the same tactic when he left his Los Angeles apartment.
But did she really think he wouldn’t know who she was? That a mask would be enough to throw him? He’d recognize her anywhere. Even now, her scent was driving him insane, the same way it had done five years ago. It was an intoxicating blend of something light and exotic that was hers alone. He could pick her out of a crowd even if he was blindfolded.
Shit. He needed a drink. But he’d learned the hard way that drinking wouldn’t help him forget Lara, no matter how desperate he might be.
Memories shoved their way inside his mind and he could still see her spread out beneath him. Lara, her red-gold hair splayed out across the crisp linens. Her lush lips parted, sapphire eyes glazed with pleasure. Her back arched, and her pale breasts thrusting upward, their rosy nipples tempting him. Her limbs wrapped around him, her heat gripping him, drawing him in as she urged him to thrust faster, deeper—
Shit. Shit.
What the hell game was she playing at? There was only one reason he could think of for her being here; she wanted out of their marriage. Memories of the two nights they’d spent together still caused his toes to curl with recalled lust. But despite what he and Lara had shared—and they’d shared plenty—she’d walked out of his life forty-eight hours after their wedding.
But the nightmare hadn’t ended there. The day after Lara left, when Graeme had returned to his tiny apartment in London, Brent Whitfield had paid him a visit, accompanied by a lawyer and two government agents.
Graeme had been shocked by the news that her father was the U.S. Ambassador to England. Brent Whitfield came from a long and prominent line of political servants, and if his influential lineage wasn’t enough to make Graeme feel like a peasant, the Whitfield family money would have. But Graeme had never believed that money made one person better than another. While he could appreciate that Brent wanted to protect his daughter from avaricious money-grubbers, the way he’d treated Graeme had been unforgivable.
Graeme still saw red when he recalled the accusations that Lara’s father had hurled at him. He’d made Graeme feel like the worst kind of low-life scum, as though he was morally corrupt. He’d threatened to have Graeme arrested for statutory rape, but Graeme had known just enough about Scottish law to know that his marriage to Lara had been legitimate and would hold up in court.
Refusing to sign those annulment papers had given him a fierce sense of satisfaction. He’d made a promise to Lara’s father that day; if Lara wanted out of the marriage, she’d have to tell him so to his face. He’d have no problem letting her go; all she needed to do was ask him herself. But she hadn’t had the guts to.
There had been a couple of times over the past five years when he’d almost filed the papers himself so that he could move on with his life, but both times he’d chickened out.
She’d been in college—for real, this time—and he hadn’t wanted to disrupt her studies. And if he was honest with himself, part of the reason he hadn’t pushed the divorce was because so long as she was married to him, she couldn’t get too serious about anyone else.
Now here she was, looking like something out of his freaking dreams, but he knew the reason for her sudden reappearance in his life had nothing to do with making his fantasies come true. She wanted a divorce, probably to marry the guy she was rumored to be romantically involved with.
It had been ridiculously easy for Graeme to keep tabs on her activities over the years. With social networking Web sites like Facebook and MySpace, combined with her prominent family name, he’d had no trouble finding information about her. Or her theater program. Or the fact that she’d been dating one of her coworkers at the theater.
The thought of Lara with another man made his stomach tighten and his chest constrict. He’d known that eventually she’d seek him out and demand a divorce; a woman like Lara wasn’t meant to live alone. She’d want to remarry, to have children. He just wasn’t prepared for how that made him feel.
Graeme reminded himself yet again that he was over her. Hell, he’d already planned on ending their farce of a marriage soon. He’d decided he didn’t want to risk the paparazzi unearthing the news; they’d have a field day with it, and Lara would suffer the most.
He’d also been offered a movie that would take him to New Zealand for the next eighteen months for filming. The deal symbolized a major shift in his career, from television to the big screen. Graeme hoped the move would also mark a major shift in his personal life, as well.
He needed to get out of Hollywood, away from the photographers and half-assed reporters who recorded his every move. Every day, he’d pick up a paper and read some bullshit story about his alleged affairs or his supposed addiction to drugs or alcohol. He couldn’t so much as go for a morning jog without the paparazzi accosting him. Even stopping somewhere for a quick bite to eat had become more trouble than it was worth, with women following him down the street, giggling and shouting obscene suggestions, and doing anything they could to attract his attention.
Leeches, all of them.
Only Lara, standing on the other side of the elevator and acting as if he didn’t exist, seemed unimpressed by either him or his fame.
He looked at her, but she pointedly ignored him. Well, fine. Two could play at her game. If she wanted to be incognito, far be it from him to destroy the illusion. There was a reason he was one of Hollywood’s top actors; he could pretend with the best of them.
He gave her a languid smile and dropped his voice an octave. “I hate to be the one to break this to ye, princess, but the Star Wars convention isn’t for another two months.”
She turned slowly in his direction, as if she was uncertain whether he was speaking to her. Her eyes widened behind the gold mask. For just a second, Graeme was sure she was going to fold, that she’d acknowledge him, pull the mask away from her face and finally, after five goddamned long years, they’d talk about what had happened between them.
Instead, she studied him from behind the mask, nibbling on her plump lower lip. He knew the instant she decided to continue the charade. As he watched, her entire body posture changed and softened. She leaned one shoulder against the wall and tipped her head to the side as she considered him. Her sapphire eyes traveled over every inch of him, as if measuring his worth. Graeme had to force himself to remain relaxed and keep his expression one of amused interest, while his blood thudded hard through his veins and a combination of dread and anticipation coiled in his stomach.
“Maybe I’m not looking for the Star Wars convention,” she finally said. Her voice was breathless, but Graeme didn’t miss how she surreptitiously swiped her palms over the scarlet fabric that covered her rear. Another man might have interpreted the move as sexual, designed to thrust those amazing breasts forward, but he guessed she was nervous and that her hands were damp with perspiration. The thought gave him a little courage.
“So then, what are ye looking for?”
“Maybe I’m looking for a man to …master me.” Her voice was laced with naughty suggestion, and Graeme’s body responded instantly to the implicit promise in her tone, even as his brain tried to comprehend that Lara—his sweet, innocent Lara—was actually propositioning him.
He devoured her with his eyes, noting every detail about her. The passing years had been more than generous to her. She was the same, yet different. Gone was the self-conscious, conservative girl he’d known. In her place was a curvy woman whose lush body completely blew him away.
Five years ago, her breasts would have fitted neatly into the palms of his hands; now they threatened to spill out of the insubstantial top. The creamy skin that swelled above the gold-embossed cups mesmerized him, made him want to pull the top down and explore the perfect, rosy tips he knew were hidden beneath. Her waist was narrow, and his gaze devoured the feminine curve of her belly above the metal bikini.
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