Damaged Beauties (Romanced by the Damaged Millionaire (Erotic Romance)) (4 page)

Footsteps thud up the stairs.

I panic.
OK, OK, don’t panic.
I bolt away from the stairs and towards my room. The diary slips out of my robe and falls onto the floor with a soft plop. Shit. I bend down to scoop it up, aware that the footsteps are now very close. Thank goodness my soles are bare. I run to my bedroom and click the door shut gently.

I scoot into my mussed-up bed and lie down, my heart drumming for the whole world to hear.

The footsteps pad up the corridor, coming closer and closer. Oh shoot, he’s coming to visit me! How do I look? Quickly, I pat down my hair and arrange myself artfully against the pillows, trying to dredge up that woozy, just-been-extremely-ill look that I have practiced to a pitch in the past couple of days around Jeffrey.

I hold my breath to listen.

Thump, thump, thump
, goes my guilty heart. I shouldn’t have taken the diary. He would notice. I slip it under the covers, burying it deep within the folds of the sheet.

The footsteps stop outside my door. I swallow and brace myself for his entry. How do I look again? Oh yes, I’m not supposed to look carelessly marvelous. I have to resemble a wilting lily. My excitement bubbles despite my attempts to appear ill. I have never seen David Kinney in the flesh. I never had the funds to fuel trips to premieres and stuff like some of the older, richer and crazier fans.

I tell myself I’m all grown-up now. I shouldn’t be this chuffed to see a (former) celebrity whose posters used to adorn the walls of my bedroom. But I am – God help me, I am!

I strain to listen. But there is no twisting of the door’s handle. No opening of the somewhat whiny door.

He’s standing outside. Waiting.

Not coming in.

It’s a battle of wills. I’m willing him to enter. (No, I’m not.) He wants to enter . . . but maybe he doesn’t. I don’t know. I don’t know him at all. But I hope to. After I’ve read his diary. Which I will return to his study as soon as he goes away from my doorstep.

He stands out there for a good five minutes. I can almost hear his breathing. Then again, it might be Jeffrey. No, I’m sure it’s not Jeffrey. Jeffrey would barge right in, usually with a tray of pretty tasty edibles.

Then the footsteps slowly pad away. I breathe a sigh of relief. I hear the opening of a door down the corridor, and then the quiet shutting of it.

I hope it’s not the study.

I shouldn’t have taken the diary. But since I have, I might as well rifle through it. Maybe he will throw me out on my ass if he discovers I have taken it. Maybe he won’t discover I’ve taken it. I don’t know.

Haste makes me shimmy the diary out from under the sheets and flip through the pages. There are spools and spools of his spiky handwriting. He doesn’t write much. Certainly not every day. My practiced eye glimpses certain phrases that stand out.

I don’t know how much longer I can live like this.

The headaches are getting worse every day. Intolerable.

He was here again. I know he was. He wants to kill me. Take over this house completely.

And then a page right around one thirds into the journal. The writing here is different. The words are angry, jagged.

FUCK YOU.

FUCK YOU.

FUCK YOU.

Followed by a few torn pages.

Unease burrows under my skin.

The journal entries begin again a few pages after.

I can’t contain him anymore. I can’t predict what the triggers are. All I know is that he is becoming more powerful.

6

I manage to sneak the diary back into the drawer of the study desk. I don’t know if Ethan Greene has found out if it’s missing or not. But Jeffrey has not come in to update me on my status as a guest. Since I haven’t been thrown out yet, I can only assume I have not been discovered.

Ethan Greene’s journal entries point to an immense conflict. There’s a huge story here, and the familiar journalistic excitement churns within me again to uncover the truth. Of course, it’s a truth that Ethan Greene may want to keep hidden, but that’s the way of journalism, isn’t it? If there’s a story, there’s a story – be damned the consequences.

But I cannot suppress the sense of guilt that rises like bile to my throat. I am saved by a knock on the door.

“May I come in?” Jeffrey’s voice. Now that I’m up and about, he wants to be certain I’m decent before he barges in on me naked.

“Yes.” I compose myself and aim for a look that is half-ill but not too ill. I don’t know if I have managed to pull it off with aplomb.

Jeffrey comes in. He’s not carrying a tray. I have come to associate Jeffrey with trays. I have so many questions, of course, but I can’t ask Jeffrey any of the really burning ones.

“Is your boss home already?” I ask casually. “So soon?”

“Yes.” He raises himself to his full height. The top of his head almost touches the doorway. “He has requested the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight.”

Oh shit. This is good.

I mean this is not good.

What am I going to wear?

7

I’m nervous as I descend the stairs. It’s quite a feat to make myself up to look pale and wan and not quite as attractive as I would have liked to be in front of this once strikingly gorgeous man. Of course, I don’t know what he looks like now. For all I know, my theory of the sorrowful, twisted Phantom of Pine’s Lookout may still hold true.

I have no excuse to want to appear attractive for Ethan Greene, of course. I do not expect anything from him. Nor do I want him – not in that sense. He’s a total stranger. He’s got issues – I don’t know what they are, but he’s certainly got them. He’s a recluse. He is seriously weird. He’s eccentric. Bad rumors about his conduct swirl around the town, propagating his myth of illicit practices and mayhem. He was even investigated by the police for the disappearance of a hooker, for Chrissake.

It occurs to me that this could be the start of my unraveling. The first footnote in the case of what could be
my
mysterious disappearance.

So why did I put on the best dress I’d brought with me? It’s a lavender dress from Nordstrom. The label is Laundry. The skirt is cut asymmetrically and the material is chiffon. I don’t know why I brought it. Oh wait, I do. It was just in case I had occasions like these – in case I had to meet David Kinney over a fine dinner.

Once a fan girl, always a squealing fan girl.

I have removed my bandage, of course. There’s a cut at my upper forehead, rendered by crashing my head through the windshield, according to Jeffrey. But I have artfully arranged my blonde hair so that it is partially concealed. I have other bruises on me, but nothing makeup cannot hide.

I don’t quite know how to find my way around here, but the house is not that big. It’s a mansion, yes, but it’s not one that has several wings sprouting from it, like spokes. I patter in my shiny new shoes – the ones I have worn only once – to where I think the dining room is.

The whole house is done up in old-fashioned décor. By old-fashioned, I mean anything that doesn’t resemble a souped-up, expensive version of Ikea. The lamps are brass and ornate and the lampshades tasseled. The couch and armchairs are Victorian. The chandeliers dangle with teardrop shards of crystal.

I enter the dining room. There is no one in there, but the table has already been laid. Have I gotten the time right? Jeffrey said seven o’ clock, did he not?

There are only two place settings – both at opposite ends of the long table. I guess there will be no passing of the salt. Some red and lilac candles have been lighted in the middle of the table. They throw flickering shadows upon the wall.

I take my place at one end of the table, feeling self-conscious. I sit there, wondering if I’m even supposed to sit. Where is Jeffrey? Should I go find him? The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I feel as though I’m being watched through the walls.

I swing my head suspiciously, but there’s no one. The paintings on the wall are not of portraits with their eyes cut out to admit a human pair of orbs. They are more of the same type as upstairs. Watercolors. Even a modern art rendition of a Dali-esque tortured landscape. A still bowl of fruit.

I stare at the painting of the bowl of fruit.

One apple in the center of the bowl is rotten, with a worm sticking out of its red-cheeked side. The rest of the fruit is plump and glistening and healthy.

Who would paint such a thing?

A large shadow merges into mine against the wall. I turn.

And freeze.

David Kinney stands at the doorway.

He’s older, for sure. You can’t get by ten years without changing. But the features are the same. Symmetrical. Almost perfect, but not quite. Those deep mud green eyes which turn a little yellow in the light, as if he’s ethereal, are the same ones that used to mesmerize audiences in the movies. His hair is darker. His mouth is as sensuous as ever. His nose is a little high-bridged, but in profile, it is perfect. His eyes and mouth have always been the most startling part of his face – so out-there and beautiful that they take your breath away.

He was twenty-five years old when he made his last movie. I remember watching it, not thinking it would be his last. He played this gay man who was wrongfully accused of murdering his rich sugar daddy. He always did have a penchant for taking on roles other actors shy away from.

What age is he now? Thirty-five? Thirty-six? It’s like seeing a matinee idol after a long break.
Where has he been?
You find yourself comparing him to his prime.

God, he’s still beautiful
, you think as you immerse yourself in his performance.

He’s tall, though not as tall as Jeffrey. Six one and the half inches, so says his IMDB profile. He’s staring at me too, as though he hasn’t seen a woman in years. I know this cannot be technically possible. He goes out. He has investments. But maybe he hasn’t entertained a woman on his premises for years.

Yes, that must be it.

We are both seemingly mesmerized by each other. Until I hear the clearing of someone’s throat.

“Sir, please allow me to introduce Ms. Tremont to you.”

I glance at Jeffrey, who is carrying yet another one of his endless trays, in the doorway leading to the kitchen, presumably. I stand up. My chair is pushed back by my knees.

David Kinney’s spell is broken.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is the one I heard earlier downstairs. He walks to me, holding out his hand. “I’m Ethan Greene. I’m not used to having visitors.”

“So I heard.” I shake it. Our palms touch, and a delicious shiver travels down my spine. “I’m Virginia Tremont.”

I will my hand not to tremble. I can’t help but gaze into his large green eyes, which have captivated millions on the screen. Those very eyes which have rendered so many teenagers weak-kneed and trembling when he played the tortured vampire in
Paradise Revisited
.

“How are you feeling, Ms. Tremont?”

Feeling? Gad, does he know that my blood is running warm and cold all over my body? Can he tell from the temperature of my skin?

But of course, he’s asking about the accident.

I laugh. It sounds a little too shrill for my liking. “Much better, thanks to Jeffrey.”

“So I heard,” he says, not taking his eyes off me. Do I dare say it, but there’s a hunger in his gaze. A rapaciousness, as if the sight of me is an oasis after his long trek through the desert.

He goes to the back of my chair and pulls it out for me. “Please, sit. I’m glad you’re able to join me for dinner tonight.”

I’m amazed that his manners are impeccable. I sit, warmth suffusing my cheeks. I wonder if I’m blushing.

He has even dressed up for dinner, as though he’s trying to impress me. He wears a cashmere jacket over a grey silk shirt. His clothes are tailor-made and expensive. They fit him like a glove.

Jeffrey serves whatever it is on his tray. I barely register what I’m eating. Oh, did I mention Jeffrey’s cooking is excellent? I’m certainly not doing it justice tonight. My head is too busy whirling in the kaleidoscope of current events. And I believe I’ve completely forgotten to play damsel in post-traumatic head wound distress.

I have to be very careful not to let Ethan Greene know I’m a reporter . . . or that I know who he used to be. There’s a time and place for everything, and if I play my cards too soon, he will recede. But I must say that I’m having trouble reconciling this polite, sophisticated man with the tortured scribblings I found in his journal.

Then again, the night is still young.

“So what brings you out here to Kelowna?” he asks, digging a spoon into his appetizer. I think it’s, um, some prawn thing. I look down at mine and am mildly surprised to find that it’s the same.

“I have an aunt who owns . . . or used to own some property around here.” Got to get the facts straight. “She has always asked me to check it out one day.”

“She doesn’t live here anymore?”