Fair Play (24 page)

He was right. No one could see. Intoxicated by the nearness of him, she let him lead her around the living room in a slow, sensuous dance. Body melded against body as need, primal and urgent, made itself known to Theresa. When Michael stopped moving but did not release her, Theresa held her breath, want of him pumping through her system like blood, like oxygen, vital and alive. And when he whispered her name as he reverently let down her hair and removed her glasses, she felt herself tremble, conscious and needful of what she hoped was to come. His hands tenderly framed her face. Then he barely, almost imperceptibly, skimmed his mouth over hers.

Sighing softly, Theresa closed her eyes, desperately wanting to be taken wherever he cared to lead next. There was a split second of suspended silence before his mouth returned to hers, hot, drugging, insistent. Theresa's mind reeled; it was surprising and new as a first kiss, pure in its desire yet desperately needy at the same time. Stirred by the demanding press of his mouth, and by the fluttering deep within the pit of her own stomach, Theresa opened her lips beneath his, a parched flower in need of rain and replenishment.
Here and now,
she thought, as his arms slowly twined around her and they staggered over to the couch, neither wanting nor willing to break contact.

The kiss deepened, Michael's hands roaming the terrain of her back—soft, exploratory, his caresses leaving her wanting more. Long, so long it had been since a man had been so attentive, making her feel as if magic was indeed alive and well in the world.

And yet.

There on the dark edge of her consciousness . . . a shadow.

She pressed hard against Michael, wanting to lose herself in his taste, in his scent. Michael responded by moving his lips to her neck, planting a careful trail of hot, nipping kisses designed to torment. Theresa could hear his desire in his ragged breath, could feel it through the heat of his fingertips as they tenderly grazed her collarbone. She fought to respond in kind, to climb to the next level of burning, glorious need with him, but she couldn't. Something was in the way, black, immovable, looming larger.
This is Michael,
she reminded herself desperately, body shivering as he playfully nipped at her earlobe.
It's not him. Not Lu . . . Relax. Relax, goddammit.
Determined to control it before it controlled her, she wrapped her arms around Michael's neck and in a move that surprised them both, let out a long, sensuous moan before biting his bottom lip, hard. Michael inhaled sharply, pain clearly mixing with pleasure as he read her signal and buried his face deep within her hair, serenading her with sweet murmurs. But for Theresa, there was only pain. The past that had hunted her down now had her in its grip, convincing her that any second now, kisses would turn to kicks and caresses to ravenous gropes and—

She pushed Michael away, gasping, the room around her reduced to the suffocating blackness of her own mind, where joy and pleasure curled up and died when faced with it—him—the shadow.

“I can't,” she whimpered, shaking uncontrollably. “I can't.”

“Theresa?”

Michael's bewildered voice seemed to be coming from far away. Embarrassed, she lifted her head, shocked by the helpless expression on his face.

“Baby, what can I do?” he asked, sounding pained.

Theresa just shook her head, groping for her glasses.

“Talk to me,” he coaxed in a concerned whisper. “Please.”

Theresa choked back a sob. “I thought . . . I was ready. I thought . . .”

“Sshh.”
He went to take her in his arms, then stopped himself. “Can I hold you?” he asked softly. “Is that all right?”

Theresa nodded mutely as he slowly, almost gingerly, wrapped his arms around her.
You're safe now,
she thought.
Relax.
But she couldn't and began to cry. “I'm so sorry,” she sobbed into his chest.

“Don't be silly,” Michael chided, holding her fast.

“It was fine,” she said, talking more to herself than him as he stroked her hair. “Everything was fine. I was enjoying it so much. And then . . . it was like I was back there again, and he was shoving me down onto to the couch and tearing at my blouse . . . the fringe of his straight black hair hanging in his face . . . not hiding his leer . . .” She broke off, unable to continue.

“Motherfucking little bastard,” Michael railed beneath his breath. Theresa could feel the anger fanning through him, sensed his struggle to keep his ire in check. She waited for him to relax, overwhelmed with relief when he carefully drew her even closer. “Just let it out, angel. It's okay. No one can hurt you now. Not while I'm here.”

Grateful, Theresa remained nestled in the shelter of his arms, her frantic heartbeat gradually returning to normal as he gently rocked her. Feeling better, she slowly straightened up, swiping at her eyes which she was sure were now ringed with smeared mascara. “Still want to date me now?” she asked bitterly.

Michael angled his head, looking completely baffled. “Of course I do.”

“Oh, really?”

“Of course.” His fingers found her hair, pushing the few stray strands away from her face. “Why wouldn't I?”

“Because I'm damaged goods, Michael. I'm emotionally crippled. I haven't dated since it happened and judging by tonight, I'll never be able to handle a relationship again.”

“You are not damaged goods,” he countered ferociously. “You're someone who had something horrible happen to them and you're frightened. I understand that.”

“Do you understand it might be months before I'm ready for anything more intimate than a kiss?”

“Yes, I do.” His hand found hers. “And I can deal with that, Theresa. My main concern is you. That you feel safe and happy. That you're not afraid.”

“Why?” she demanded, her entire body inflamed with confused anger. “Why are you so good to me? Why are you so patient and kind? Any other guy would have been out the door ten minutes ago.”

“I take it you haven't figured out yet that I'm
not
any other guy.”

“Why?” she repeated, tears threatening to erupt again. “I'm not worth it. I—”

“Stop.” His index finger flew to her lips to still them. “I don't want to hear you putting yourself down, okay?”

Theresa nodded. Exhaustion overtook her, making her feel as if someone had filled her brain and body with wet, heavy sand. All she wanted was to crawl into her bed and sleep for years. “I'm tired,” she said in a small voice.

“Me, too. It's pretty late.” Michael searched her face. “Is there anything I can do, Ter? Here? Now?”

Theresa shook her head.

“Are you sure? I could sleep on the couch if you're scared of being alone. I swear on my mother's grave I won't try anything funny.”

Despite all that had just happened, Theresa found herself smiling. “I know that, Michael. No, I'll be okay.” She reached out to caress his cheek. “You're so sweet.”

“Uh oh,” Michael replied guardedly. “
Sweet
is just one cut above
nice
. Sounds like the big brush-off is coming.”

“Not at all,” Theresa swore, looking at him earnestly. “I had a wonderful time tonight and I would love to see you again—if that's what you want, after, you know . . .” She looked away, face hot with a sense of shame she couldn't quite get a handle on.

“I would love another date.”

Relief gentled Theresa's body, momentarily appeasing the heaviness that had her fighting to keep her eyes open. “I really like you,” she hesitated. “And I—”

“You don't have to explain,” he cut in gently.

“I'm going out to my folks' tomorrow. My dad's not doing too well. Do you want to come?”

“I can't,” he said.
Damn.
“The ‘Hunks On Ice' benefit is at Wollman Rink and I have to go. How about this? He pressed her hands between his. “You call me Monday and maybe we can catch a movie during the week? That sound good?”

“That sounds great.”

“Okay. It's a deal then.” He rose. “Are you sure you're going to be all right?” he asked, slipping his jacket on.

“I'll be fine,” she swore. Seeing him to the door, she was glad he was such a trusting soul.

Because if he wasn't, he would have known she was lying.

 

 

It had been
a long time since she'd been afraid to go to sleep.

Months, maybe even a whole year.

Yet every time she felt herself nodding off, some impulse would jerk her awake, protecting her from the night-mares she feared would ensue if she succumbed to her subconscious. The fact that it was happening again unnerved her, but at least she understood why.

The hard part would be dealing with it.

 

 

She spent the
next day with her parents, working hard to cover the distress she felt over her father's deteriorating condition and her own confusion. One minute she was certain she could handle her intimacy problems on her own; the next she was mentally rearranging her schedule to make time for an appointment with her former shrink. The thought of returning to that earth-toned office and being asked to
remember
things, and how she
felt
about them, was unnerving.

Another night of tossing and turning ensued, resulting in her oversleeping for an important meeting she was slated to handle on her own.

The previous week, she and Janna had received a call from the manager of Notorious Devil D, requesting a meeting. Notorious was sniffing around for new representation. The call should have been perceived as a godsend, in light of the recent meeting with their accountant. But both she and Janna hated Notorious Devil D's music. All his lyrics referred to women as “ho's” and “bitches.” Not that anyone else seemed to notice or care; the public couldn't get enough of him. Janna and Theresa agreed they'd be idiots not to take the meeting. Theresa would be handling it alone since Janna was meeting with Roberto Alomar, who Mike Piazza had steered their way.

And now she was running late.

Fueled on adrenaline rather than her usual caffeine, Theresa came flying through the office door at breakneck speed.

“Are they here?” she asked Terrence breathlessly,
they
being Notorious and his manager, Albert Groveman.

“Thankfully for your late ass, they just got here a few minutes ago,” Terrence informed her. “I told them you were still at a breakfast meeting, gave them both coffee and sent them to your office.”

Theresa nodded, grateful, tugged her skirt down and raked a hand through her hair, which was still damp. “Do I look okay?”

“You look fine,” Terrence replied quickly. “Listen, before you go in there, you might want to take a look at today's paper. There's—”

“I'll look at the paper after,” said Theresa, starting down the hall.

“
Theresa—”

“After,” she called over her shoulder. Arriving at the closed door of her office, she took a deep breath before plunging inside. There, sitting behind her desk, was Notorious Devil D himself, playing with a rubber band. Across the desk from him sat Albert Groveman, a nervous, mousey man who rose politely when Theresa entered the room.

“I hope you don't mind,” he said, gesturing at his client whose collection of necklaces probably cost more than the GDP of some small country. “But D always goes for the most comfortable seat in the house.”

“No problem,” Theresa lied amiably. Shaking both men's hands, she took the seat next to Groveman. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“D is unhappy with his current publicist,” began Groveman. “Isn't that so, D?”

D nodded.

“Who's repping him now?” Theresa asked.

Groveman named a large entertainment conglomerate which, ironically, had just been purchased by Butler Corporation.

“And what's the problem?” Theresa continued, leaning forward to snatch a legal pad and pen from her desk.

“D doesn't feel they're doing enough to push his image in Hollywood. Ice-T, Snoop Dogg, Sean Combs, Eminem, Kid Rock, Mark Wahlberg—they're all movie stars now. D wants a piece of that action, too. Am I right, D?”

D nodded.

“I see,” said Theresa as she took notes, wondering if D realized that in order to be a movie star, you had to talk. “Go on.”

“D was also unhappy with the lack of damage control surrounding his recent divorce.”

Theresa chewed the tip of her pen thoughtfully. “He tried to get out of the prenup by saying they weren't legally married, because the wedding was performed by a Samoan wrestler/priest, correct?”

“It wasn't legal!” D exploded, lunging across the desk. “I told that bitch from Day One—”

“D!” Groveman barked. “Let me handle this, all right?”

D nodded, slumping down behind Theresa's desk muttering.

“The case
was
somewhat controversial,” Groveman admitted smoothly as he regarded Theresa, “but it would have been less so had D's PR people handled it differently.”

“Certainly,” Theresa said. “Well, let me begin by explaining to you how we work here, and what I think we can offer you.”

With as much enthusiasm as she could muster, she gave Groveman and his client the standard “Why you want FM PR to work for you” spiel. Groveman actually seemed to be listening. D, on the other hand, had returned to teasing his brain with the rubber band. When she was done, she asked if they had any questions.