Resist (2 page)

Ah, what a question but one he had the perfect answer for as he turned toward her and winked suggestively. “Why
not
you? It isn’t often I run across a woman with such brains, beauty and grace. I’m intrigued beyond belief. I can’t wait to find out what makes you tick.”

Victoire stared at him for a long time before she waved goodbye and he took that as his cue to leave.

He’d taken up more time than he’d anticipated and what he had in store for her would be so much fun, he could hardly wait to get started.

Checkmate.

Chapter 2

Vie

I
couldn’t even pretend like one of the sexiest men on the planet hadn’t just approached me and offered me the chance of a lifetime.

It was true—I considered myself a feminist and didn’t believe I would ever be under the spell of such a good looking guy just because he had a body to die for and the face of a fucking Adonis.

Seriously, Blaine Pascal-Baasch was a legend in some of the most notorious circles I’d known about in my quest to write a decent thesis on celebrity culture.

I wasn’t one to become star struck. It just didn’t make any sense when they were human just like we were but he was different. Everyone in the know was aware he didn’t make merely avant-garde films. They pushed the envelope in a very European way that intrigued and frightened me at the same time. However it was the adrenaline running through my veins that had me thinking about a suitable excuse to get out of another boring summer of research and closer to the man who most people knew as Baise Moiaussi.

Being fluent in French, it could be interpreted in one way but the last name almost sounded Algerian so it tripped people up. Literally, his director’s name translated to “Fuck Me Too.” I got a laugh out of it and knew his work was definitely on the cutting edge but that’s what made it so fascinating.

I’d been intrigued by the psychology behind celebrity culture my whole life but to be honest, I wanted to study the underground artists. Those that didn’t get as much attention as the mainstream fame du jour; they drove me to complete a thesis that would be worthy of a good grade and secure my Summa Cum Laude status when I graduated in a couple of weeks.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of what I was about to do or the dangerous world I would be exposing myself to—all in the name of research. There were genuine rumors and mumblings about Blaine, aka Baise, actually being a snuff director. For the masses, it meant nothing but for those of us who studied film, it was a huge deal. Not many people could actually even admit to meeting an actual director of movies where someone died.

There was a lot of talk about the whole industry being a sort of urban legend, fueled by films like
Eight Millimeter
that actually addressed the issue itself. There was bullshit and then there was truth. I was one of the people who truly believed life was stranger than fiction. If people were sick enough to gun innocents down and then claim their “second amendment rights” then I wasn’t foolish enough to think there were people willing to own a one of a kind film where they could watch someone get their life snuffed out over and over again.

And not on eight millimeter film either.

No, nowadays, there was Blu-Ray and high definition.

I couldn’t help myself at this point though; I’d passed the point of no return. Yes, I was playing with fire and I could severely be burned in the process but to me it was worth it.

Every twisted, agonizing, sickening second.

“A
re you sure this is something you truly want to do? You begged me for a spot and now you are willing to give it up because my son has promised you fame and fortune?”

I felt awful; well and truly sorry for the decision I’d made but I was willing to pay the consequences.

Professor Baasch glared at me as if I’d lost my mind; perhaps I had but I wasn’t ready to acknowledge that fact yet.

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I may never get it again.” I paused and twisted a loose wave of hair with my finger. “I know I sound like I’ve lost my mind but I can’t pass this up. Chances are I will end up here, working under your tutelage and I’m more than willing to make the sacrifice just to explore my one true passion.”

Professor Baasch possessed “Elizabeth Taylor” eyes. Violet-blue orbs that captivated and sparkled in spite of the bright lights from the lab. Only one of his sons had managed to receive his eye color—Zed. The most perfect specimen if ever one existed but he was harder to get to than the President of the United States.

For some reason, Blaine and Xavier were extremely protective over him and although he was famed to be as brilliant as his brothers, some said it had more to do with his gentle disposition than anything else. He simply wasn’t a people person and found it hard to step outside of the box. He didn’t crave to make new friends and his privacy was thus fiercely guarded.

“I don’t know, Vie.” Professor Baasch set a chart down on the lab table and crossed his arms against his chest. “Blaine isn’t . . . well, he has issues. I’m worried about your safety with him. His mother and I—brilliant and famed psychiatrists the world over managed to raise three men who have more problems than you can possibly imagine. It is quite sad to be honest.”

My heart beat faster with anticipation. “I’m sorry . . . I truly don’t understand what you mean.”

The professor met my eyes with a look of contrition and regret. “Blaine is bi-polar; Zed suffers from severe agoraphobia and Xavier is sociopathic with psychotic tendencies. All our sons take various pharmaceutical medications for their issues but the drugs only work as well as the patient responsible for taking them.”

I cocked my head to the side. “Are they a danger to society?”

“No, of course not. Otherwise they would be institutionalized but they aren’t . . . how shall I say? Well, I suppose they are an acquired taste. There’s a reason none of them are married you know.”

“I’m willing to take my chances,” I responded before I bit my bottom lip. “I’m not some innocent—I’ve studied psychiatry my whole academic career. I believe I’m up to the challenge but I don’t want to leave you in a lurch either.”

He shook his head. “There’s no lurch you’re going to leave me in—there is a wait list for students who would kill to get that spot I reserved specifically for you. I will allow you to pursue this but . . . please be careful. You understand better than anyone that diseases of the mind are always more dangerous and opportunistic than diseases of the body.”

“I’m well aware of that. I had some very, very good professors while I’ve studied here at Stanford,” I replied in a gracious manner.

“Some of the best. And don’t you ever forget it.”

“I couldn’t—not even if I tried.”

“Especially around
them
.” Professor Baasch’s brows furrowed together. “You may have been one of my most prized and gifted students but they are my sons. If anyone knows the game of mind-fuckery, my sons excel at it. Remember, they also learned from the best too.”

“Believe me, professor, I won’t. That I can promise you.” I smiled once again as I hoisted my laptop bag onto my shoulder and left the lab for the last and final time.

I wasn’t sure when I would see him again but I knew better than to question anything Baasch had told me. I knew his only concern was for my well being but an inner voice warned me that if I didn’t take heed, I would end up over my head.

Sooner rather than later.

B
laine met me at San Francisco International Airport.

It'd been approximately two weeks since I’d graduated from my program and was now the proud holder of a Masters of Science in Abnormal and Clinical Psychology degree. It was quite the honor and achievement yet my parents were far from proud.

They didn’t understand why I was wasting my whole summer on some throwaway ambition like studying the psychology of celebrity. Blaine and I were flying to L.A. where we would spend most of the summer along with a couple of trips planned back east.

The Pascal-Baasch family not only owned a home in the Southampton but also a getaway estate in Martha’s Vineyard. The trips would serve not only the purpose of my project but Blaine’s as well.

He had two films back-to-back he planned to make that summer. He could work as much—or as little—as he wanted to since his movies weren’t exactly the type one enjoyed in a theater with a large tub of buttery popcorn and a watered down drink. He worked by commission only.

The people who paid him to make these movies weren’t just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill rich people with too much time and money on their hands. Many ran tech companies in Silicon Valley, Fortune 500 companies and owned studios themselves.

His target audience ranged from the techno geek billionaire to one of the most wealthy and successful Bollywood directors in the history of the industry. They might have made their money in a certain way that society approved of but the type of movies they enjoyed were far from family friendly.

Blaine and I sat next to one another in the Business class section while the rest of the proles had to shuffle inside and take their crowded seats in coach. I knew how that felt—I used to be one of them.

Yes, I’d grown up with a certain amount of wealth and privilege but my parents were also frugal to the point of ridiculousness. Neither believed in spending excessive amounts of money therefore I flew coach when I needed to take flights. When I visited Europe, I stayed with my friends or family, and I was taught to account for every bit of money I’d spent.

All the sudden going from a world where cleanliness and financial prudence were next to Godliness to a land of luxury, opulence and an overabundance of waste of money felt strange. My head was still spinning from the whole experience and we hadn’t taken off yet.

He leaned toward me as he handed me a fluted glass of champagne. I couldn’t deny how sexy and overwhelmingly attractive this guy was. Between those gorgeous cerulean eyes, creamy skin, and structured face with a straight Roman nose, luscious pink lips and overall sexual maleness, Blaine was more than just easy on the eyes.

Although tall and lean, it was obvious he worked out, from his firm pecs to his rock-hard abs, strong thighs and biceps meant to be touched. He also had that delicious V I’d spotted as he stood and grabbed his iPad before he sat down again next to me.

“One hundred dollars for your thoughts,” he murmured in that whiskey and honey-soaked timbre that held a slight accent I couldn’t quite place.

Although he and his brothers were born and bred Californians—same as I was—it was obvious he spoke more than one language fluently and often enough that some of his words were pronounced too precisely. There wasn’t that lazy, lackadaisical way of speaking so many native English speakers had that came from years of being bombarded by slang and a genuine lack of not giving a damn. Why use words at all? Wasn’t that the reason why “LMAO,” “FML,” “ROTFL,” “YOLO,” et al had been invented in the first place?