Lady and the Champ (48 page)

The gentleness of his hand on my hair is a strange contrast to the forcefulness of his words. It makes me want to nod, to accept everything he’s telling me.
Yes, I’ll be there. Yes, I’ll fall down at your feet and let you do whatever you want to me.

I just hold his gaze. He kisses me carefully.

“I promise, Jess. I’ll come after you.”

“Fine.” I jerk a little, wanting him to let me go, but I can’t put too much force into it. My body’s betraying me at every turn. But he lets go, and I go to find a towel. I turn my back to him. If I look at him right now, I’ll just run back into his arms and impale myself on him.

You are in some kind of trouble, girl.

I close my eyes, scrub my face dry, and try to ignore that stupid voice in my head.

* * *

I
n the car
, dry and back in my clothes, I stare out the window for a few minutes before I turn on the ignition. Cain’s still inside the gym. I left him there to finish his shower—he hadn’t gotten all the sweat out of his hair, he said. Maybe it was his way to grant me a graceful retreat. Who knows?

I turn on the car. The rhythm of the motor running helps my thoughts settle into a more dignified order. I can think now, past the throbbing aftershocks in my body, past the vague smell of Cain’s sweat that still lingers on my blouse.

This is
such
a bad idea. This is like playing with a tiger at the zoo and hoping he won’t tear your head off when he gets hungry. No, it’s more than that, because my father’s involved. I’m not just playing with Cain’s fire. It’s Pop’s fire, too. If he knew what was going on here…

I can’t even finish the thought, the consequences are so dire. I wonder briefly if Pop would just kill me. I don’t think it’s beyond his ability. I don’t think it’s outside his moral compass, if you can call it that.

But there’s another side to this. I put the car into gear and pull out onto the street, letting some of the stray thoughts I’d had in the shower drift back into my head.

Cain’s not Carmine. He’s not my father’s approved life partner. And there’s something between the two of us that neither of us can ignore or deny. What if…

Don’t think it.
But I have to. What if I married Cain instead of Carmine? What would Pop do about that? Cain is still under Pop’s control, but not the same way Carmine is. With Cain… With Cain I can almost see a route out of the mob-made jungle that is my life. Because Cain wants out, too.

And maybe…just maybe…we could find a way to get out together.

It’s a stupid idea, but it won’t go away.

* * *

M
ost people would probably be
ecstatic to get the chance to go to a big Hollywood premiere. I’ve been to them before; I get to see celebrities and sometimes hang out at an after party or two. But I’m not most people, and the company I have to keep more than offsets the fun of bumping elbows with the local elite. Add to that the knowledge that I’m only here because Pop likes to be sure he’s got some kind of a presence at these things—undoubtedly somebody here (or several somebodies) is deep into Pop’s pocket—and I wish I were about anywhere else.

And maybe one place in particular. Somewhere Cain is.

Carmine’s dressed to the nines, of course, black tie and shiny shoes, his dark hair slicked back and a smile on his face. Objectively he’s not an unattractive man, but I can’t help but flinch when he loops his arm through mine, helping me out of the limo.

“What’s wrong, hon?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I avoid eye contact. I don’t want him to know I’m anything but pleased to be here. There’s no point starting a scene. It might make me feel better in the moment, but in the long run it’d only make things harder.

He drops it right away, not concerned enough to follow up. Instead he looks around, scoping out the crowd. He’s probably got orders from Pop as far as exactly where he’s supposed to be seen and with whom. Probably even when.

Apparently deciding where he wants to be, he starts toward the red carpet area where all the celebrities are arriving. I follow without protest, his arm still tucked through mine.

“So…” I venture. “Why are we here?”

He gives me a look like maybe I’ve grown an extra eyeball. “For the party. Why else?”

“C’mon. There has to be a reason. Has Pop got a hand in the financing or something?”

Carmine frowns. “That’s nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart. You’re just here to look pretty.” He pats my hand absently.

Of course I am. And, based on his answer, I’m betting Pop did, indeed, help pay for this movie. Yet another investment into controlling the rich and powerful of Los Angeles. I decide I don’t want to know any more. I’ll just play the pretty arm candy and get it over with as quickly as possible.

Near the red carpet but not actually on it, Carmine stops to introduce me to the film’s assistant producer. They chat for a time while I pay little attention. I try to appear starry-eyed, like I’m taking in all the celebrities, the outrageous dresses, the handsome men and blindingly beautiful women. Right now, though, I’m numb to it.

When the producer moves away, I’m gracious enough, giving him a nod and a smile. But Carmine’s hand on my arm squeezes tight. Tight enough to hurt.

“What?” I keep my tone to a stage whisper. I don’t want to escalate the situation.

“Don’t just stand around like an idiot. We’re here to make a good impression.”

“You seemed to be holding up your end of the conversation just fine.”

His hand clenches tighter. I wince. “Don’t you talk smart to me. And get that look off your face.
Smile
.”

“What am I supposed to smile about?”

He gives me a direct look. “The fact I’m not slapping that attitude right out of you?”

I bite my tongue and summon a vague smile. His fingers tighten to the point I know he’ll leave bruises, but then he eases off again, as if he was just emphasizing his point. His face relaxes into a smile of his own, showing bright teeth as he nods at a passing starlet. I vaguely recognize her from a movie I recently went to. Alone.

“Now,” says Carmine, “I’m going to talk to a few more people, and I want you to be charming, got it?”

“Sure. Charming.”

And I do my best. I can still feel Carmine’s fingerprints throbbing on my arm. I try to follow his lead, adding comments here and there to his conversation with another behind-the-scenes person from the film. Another producer, I think, though I missed part of the introduction. I was concentrating too hard on smiling.

Still, when we move on, Carmine looks none too pleased. “Straighten up your act, Jess.”

“What? I did what you wanted me to.”

“You look like you’re hating every minute of it. These people don’t like that. You have to act like you’re happy to see them. And dammit, Jess, act like you’re happy to be with me, for God’s sake.”

But I’m not. Not one bit.
I tap my front teeth closed, hard, before those words can make it out of me. I swallow, compose myself, then say carefully, “But of course I’m happy to be with you, Carmine. We haven’t been out in a while. This is nice.”

Anything to get that look off his face. The look that tells me if he had half a chance, he’d backhand me. The same look Pop used to give my mom before he asked me and Sophie to leave the room so they could “talk.”

My stomach’s in knots by now, and it’s all I can do to keep from crying. But by the time we talk to Carmine’s next “friend,” I’ve got the smile back on my face. It’s self-preservation, and I’ll keep it on until I get home if I have to.

* * *

T
he movie’s okay
. Not my favorite—the script is more than a little insipid and I have a feeling the lead actor was cast more for potential box-office draw than because of any kind of acting ability or chemistry with the lead actress.

The worst part, though, is Carmine. He drapes an arm across my shoulders as soon as we sit down, and then when the theater goes dark, he scoots a little closer. His hand dangles over my shoulder so his fingers can just brush my breast, and he takes advantage of that. I try to move away, then I try to shift positions, but he keeps adjusting to compensate. And whenever I move too much, the person on my other side gives me a look. I don’t want to attract attention, so I try to ignore Carmine. It’s not the easiest thing in the world.

Then he leans over and starts mumbling in my ear. “C’mon, baby. We’re going to be married. Don’t tell me you want to wait.” All while stroking my breast, trying to shift enough that he can trace a finger over my nipple. I shoot him a glare, and he just grins. “Fiancée,” he whispers. “I like the sound of it. Don’t you?”

But then his seat neighbor gives
him
a look, and he backs off. It’s a relief. I manage to mostly avoid interacting with him for the rest of the movie, although he doesn’t move his hand.

After the movie I put on an uncomfortable face. “Maybe we could just go home?” I suggest. “I’ve got a hell of a headache.”

“Oh, no way, Jess. You don’t want to miss the parties, do you?”

Actually I do. Anything to get away from Carmine. “It’s a really bad headache.”

“Well, get some ibuprofen or something. I’ve got an invite to this party, and we’re going. Besides, we need to talk.”

My eyebrows shoot up. We do, do we? But I don’t say anything. I just follow him to the limo and go along with his plan. I’ve got a little bottle of pills in my purse, so I fish out a couple of ibuprofen so they’re ready as soon as I can get a glass of water or something. Not that I actually have a headache, but if he finds out I’m faking he’ll just get angrier.

The party is noisy, full of B-list celebrities and people I recognize as working for my father. I snag a flute of champagne and pretend to take the pills for my “headache.” Carmine schmoozes with a few people, flirts with an actress who’s about an inch taller than he is, then finally deigns to admit he’s not alone.

He doesn’t introduce me to anyone though. He just grabs my arm and steers me off toward a corner.

“This is where you want to talk?” It seems less than ideal, what with the noise of the crowd and the number of people around us becoming increasingly drunk.

“We talk where I decide we’ll talk.”

He’s getting a little tipsy himself, I realize. I wasn’t keeping very close track of him while he was doing his circuit. He must have tossed off a few of those glasses of champagne while I wasn’t looking.

“Fine.” Might as well get it over with. I have a pretty good idea I know what he wants to talk about.

In the corner, which I have to admit is a bit sheltered from the party’s goings-on, he leans against the wall, effectively hemming me in. He lifts a hand and traces the back of it down my cheek. I’m sure it’s meant to be an affectionate gesture. It just makes me feel that much more cornered.

“So,” he says. “I’m thinking it’s time we set a date.”

“A date?” I’m flummoxed for a minute.

“Yeah. For our wedding.”

Oh God. That. I shrink back a little, trying to keep the abject horror I’m feeling from showing on my face. “Oh. Um… When did you have in mind?”