Starstruck: Hollywood Heat, Book 3 (3 page)

“Show time,” she whispered.

Jenna stepped out of her dressing room which, like the others, had a star on the door that looked like it had come right off the Hollywood Walk of Fame. She prepped by warming up her voice as three little butterflies in her stomach got her adrenaline racing. After walking down the back hallway, she pushed through the performers’ entrance door—also known as the kitchen door since all the servers took the same path to the restaurant floor. No matter the size of the audience, acting, becoming someone else, playing a character—or in this case, a real person—was always a thrill. She loved performing, even at a “cheesy” dinner theater, as some of her coworkers called it.

The faces of classic Hollywood were plastered in posters along every wall. There was a small stage on one side of the dining room, open seating in the middle and more private booths along the outer rim. Gene Kelly tipped his hat with a wink and a grin as Jenna’s Marilyn passed by. “Go get him.”

Jenna gave him a hip bump. “You know it.” She had a feeling George and Ricky both knew something she didn’t, but she continued toward table 61.

A guy sat alone at the table, his back to her, wearing traditional vacation attire—a navy-blue baseball cap, black T-shirt and faded blue jeans. Rarely did they get singles in here though. She’d bet ten bucks that his girlfriend—or boyfriend—was in the bathroom.

Sauntering up to the table, Jenna pouted her lips into one of Marilyn’s trademark sexy-yet-innocent smiles. “Welcome to Stars,” she purred, “where Hollywood…”

Her mind went blank, the rest of the standard welcome speech forgotten as the man lowered his sunglasses and peered up at her with familiar green eyes. His lips perked at the corners. “Hey, Jenna.”

“Micah? What are you doing here? I mean, not that I mind. I just didn’t expect to see you. Here. Now.” Was she blushing? Sheesh, she needed to get her brain turned back on pronto.

“We got interrupted earlier. I wanted to talk to you more, see you again.”

She smiled at him. No, she was pretty sure she beamed. Like she was radiating light and heat and happiness, stronger than the sun, and she probably looked ridiculous.

Or maybe she didn’t, because he was smiling right back at her. The press always said he had a million-dollar smile. Clearly they needed to add a few more zeros to that figure.

“I’m glad.” Talk about an understatement. She was buzzed, jazzed and tickled pink—no, brighter and more lively than that. Fuchsia.

“Did you get placed in any other scenes today?”

Oh crud. He still felt guilty. The way his jaw tightened when he asked the question said it all. She lifted one shoulder in a no-big-deal shrug. “No. I got dismissed about twenty minutes after I last saw you.”

He exhaled roughly, his agitation revealed in the way he skimmed a hand back and forth over the tabletop. “Dammit. I’m sorry.”

“Hey. No more apologies, remember?” She knelt until she was eye to eye with Micah, resting her arms on the edge of the table. “Today was not a bad day. Not even a little bit. I have no regrets.”

His hand stopped next to where her arms lay, and fingertips skimmed along her bare forearm in the lightest of touches. Was this touch accidental too, a cosmic reenactment of their first up-close-and-personal moment when they’d tried to share the same space at the same time with interesting consequences?

No. Because he was looking at her too, staring at her actually, his eyes shining with an intensity that was hard to define. A
need.

A delicious heat curled in her stomach, and her heart started beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

No doubt about it, this time Micah’s touch was entirely on purpose, but it resulted in the same outcome. It knocked her off her feet—metaphorically at least. Physically she stayed put. It would take an act of God to rip her away from Micah.

An act of God…or a stage manager on a mission. Clipboard in hand, Ricky approached at a brisk pace. “Marilyn, when you’re done here, the family at table 43 has asked for a photo with you. And I need you on in five.”

She stood back up and somehow managed to find her voice. “No problem.” The lie was barely past her lips before Ricky made a beeline for another customer. “Guess that’s my cue.” Normally right before going on stage she was abuzz with excitement, but now all she felt was disappointment in having to say goodbye to Micah again.

“Do you mind if I stick around?”

The buzz came back, multiplied by a thousand. “I’d really like that. We’re a full-service joint—dinner, drinks, entertainment. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

“How long are you working?”

“Two hours.”

“Then I think that’s how long I’ll stay.” His grin came out for a quick cameo appearance. “And I promise to keep my arms to myself when you walk by.” He held each of his shoulders as though he were wearing a straitjacket.

She laughed. “That’s a promise I won’t hold you to. After all, I might want to run into you again.” With a wink and a swing of her hips, she went toward table 43.

Watching Jenna walk away, Micah released a long breath. Damn. He hadn’t been this attracted to a woman in… He was going to say years, but had he ever been this bowled over before?

Not likely. He’d never been so caught up in a woman that he’d hunted her down to spend more time with her. Then again, he’d never had to. Women came to him. Women wanted to be with Micah the actor. Micah the celebrity. He got laid because he was Micah Watley, a
star
.

What a fucking joke. No,
he
was a fucking joke. He’d been acting for thirty years—since he was two years old—and somewhere in that time, Micah Watley, the man, the human being, had ceased to exist.

Until today. For a few minutes, sitting with Jenna in holding then talking to her now, he’d felt like a real person again. Like he was more than just the sum of his parts. More than a fake doctor in a fake world full of fake people who didn’t give a damn about him, only what he could give them.

It was a hell of a thing, to feel human again.

He couldn’t forget who he was though. He slid his sunglasses back on and tugged his hat down low. Tonight, he didn’t want to be noticed. Tonight, he wanted to be a normal guy, pursuing a girl. A genuine, honest, compelling, sweet, sexy girl.

Fuck, was she sexy, and not in the overdone, over-primped, fake-breast, fake-smile, fake-person way the industry churned out. Even dressed as Marilyn Monroe, acting the sex kitten, Jenna emanated an innate sweetness, enthusiasm and passion for life that made him want her more.

He wanted all of her passion unleashing on him.

His attention shot to the stage when “Marilyn” was announced. The patrons at the tables applauded, the lights in the room dimmed and Jenna walked out and began to sing.

Damn. Her throaty, whiskey-whisper voice was the perfect soundtrack to his fantasies. She owned the stage. No, she owned the entire restaurant, him included. The only time he remembered to eat the food he’d ordered was during the few numbers Jenna didn’t participate in.

To the rest of the crowd, she was Marilyn Monroe. And while she was good—damn good, actually, mimicking the actress, singer, sexpot in voice, body language and nuance—Micah never stopped seeing Jenna. She had
it
, an energy, a buzz, an enthusiasm for performing that no amount of training could give an actor. She alone lit up the stage more than the bright spotlight beaming down on her.

That scared him. Because if she continued to pursue an acting career, her spark would slowly fade away. Just like his had.

Two hours after she climbed on stage, Jenna sang her last song, “Do It Again”. While their eyes had met off and on throughout the evening, this time when she sang to him about her aching lips and taking the kiss that was waiting, he hoped it was more than just part of her performance. Because at the very least he planned on kissing her tonight.

As the final notes faded away, the crowd filled the silence with their cheers. Micah joined them, rising to his feet, loving the smile that seemed to be a permanent fixture on her face. The rest of the cast met Jenna for their final bows, before filing offstage.

The clipboard-wielding stage manager came up behind her, whispered something and pointed at a table in the center of the room. Jenna nodded, and the man climbed on stage. “I’d like to welcome Ms. Marilyn Monroe back up here for one last special number.”

Jenna climbed the steps, took the microphone and poured all her attention and voice on the lucky bastard the stage manager had pointed out to her. “Happy Birthday” had never sounded so sexy before, not even when Marilyn sang it to JFK. Micah would’ve given his left nut to be the birthday boy currently appreciating Jenna’s regard. With a final flourish, she ended the sexy serenading. The crowd clapped, and the men at birthday boy’s table whistled and cheered.

The guy she’d been singing to met her at the stairs and held something out to her. Was that a phone number?

Jenna thanked the man and accepted the item, and Micah felt like an ass. Unless the guy had scrawled his contact info across the currency, he’d only given her a tip, and a well-deserved one at that. With a final wave to her audience, Jenna disappeared behind a swinging door labeled
Cast
.

Micah rubbed the back of his neck. He’d never been this upside-down over a woman before. Would he have gotten into a pissing contest with that man if he’d been giving her his number instead of a tip?

Oh shit. A tip. Should he leave her money too? Would that seem sleazy, or would it look like he was just being polite, showing his appreciation for her performance? And if he was to tip her, how much? How could he put a dollar value on this without looking like he was trying to buy her?

Maybe if all he’d wanted was a song from Marilyn…

Maybe if he didn’t want that smile, that body, that spirited mind…

Oh hell, this could get him in a world of trouble. If money exchanged hands, he needed to make damn sure no one thought he was paying for favors, or he’d end up plastered on the front page of TMZ’s website.

But double hell, he knew how hard it was to make a living in Hollywood. He’d been blessed in that respect, but the majority of working actors didn’t make enough to survive on, and he doubted that Stars paid her much of a salary. What if tip money was the difference between homelessness and paying rent?

When the stage manager walked by several minutes later, Micah got his attention.

“Can I help you, sir?” the man asked.

“I’d like to leave a tip for one of the performers.” That was simple enough, right? Straightforward. Not likely to be confused with trying to buy her time or affection. “Jen— Marilyn Monroe,” he confirmed.

“Would you like me to call her back out here so you can give it to her—”

“
No.
” He shook his head, as if the emphatic no hadn’t made it clear enough. Before the stage manager could offer up any other suggestions, Micah got to his feet, slid his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped through it until he found a hundred-dollar bill. “I’d like it to be anonymous. Can you make sure she gets this?”

“Not a problem, sir.” The bill disappeared into the stage manager’s hand, and he turned away to continue on his rounds.

Micah breathed a sigh of relief, which turned into a sigh of pleasure when Jenna pushed through the cast door. She was back in street clothes—a pair of black jeans and a purple T-shirt—and her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders. The Marilyn stage makeup had been washed off, and she looked fresh-faced and absolutely beautiful. He wanted to take her home right now and spend the next several hours getting to know everything that made her light up with laughter, before discovering what made her light up with passion.

When she saw him standing at his table waiting for her, her face brightened in the way that hit him in the solar plexus every time. Before she could walk toward him, the stage manager intercepted her.

Oh no. No, no, no. The man handed Jenna the money that Micah had just given to him. He’d been so distracted by her appearance he’d left his wallet in his hand. So much for anonymous.

He tucked his wallet into his pocket, praying luck would be on his side and she wouldn’t notice the money trail led right back to him.

Chapter Four

“Hey, Jenna, I’ve got your part of tonight’s tips.” Ricky pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and peeled away a small stack, several fives and a bunch of ones. “Oh, and this too.” He plucked a bill off his clipboard and placed it in her hand.

Jenna stared at the hundred-dollar bill. That was a tip? “Um, you sure you didn’t just hand me someone’s dinner payment?”

Ricky gave her a sassy smirk. “You, my dear, have a fan. Anonymous,” he finished in a mock whisper.

Anonymous?
Could this be from Micah? Hundred-dollar tips weren’t exactly the norm. She glanced up at him as he pushed his wallet into his pocket, looking almost…worried? He’d wanted to leave her money without her knowing it was from him. How stinkin’ cute was that? Her heart gave a little somersault as she tucked the money into her purse.

Ricky nudged her with an elbow. “Seriously, girl. You have the best luck of anyone I know. Last week you get discovered by an agent, and this week you have the hottest man in the room as your personal fan. Can I brush up against you, see if your luck rubs off on me? Or better yet, can I brush up against him, see if he’ll rub off on me?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“You’re awful. And I love you for it.”

“Of course you do.” He tugged on the silver star dangling from her black ribbon choker. “Looks like you found yourself a real one of these. You better not leave your Sexy M.D. waiting.”

“
Shhh.
” Trying to hide how ridiculously giddy the “your Sexy M.D.” declaration made her feel, Jenna looked around to make sure none of the patrons at the nearby tables had overheard Ricky’s pronouncement. “I don’t think he wants to be noticed.”

“Then he shouldn’t be so damn sexy.” Ricky waved her off. “Go. Get out of here. Enjoy yourself. Bring back a full report so everyone can hate you for your good fortune.”