Tempting Faith (Indigo Love Spectrum) (20 page)

“Leave it alone, Daiyu. Please.”

“Look, it’s not for the mag,” Daiyu said. “It’s for my book. Ever since I saw you and Baron makin’ out at the Wilshire, I’ve wanted to shoot you two. You guys have something that oozes.”

“We do not,” Faith said emphatically, grimacing.

“I don’t mean in a gross way. It’s artistic. It’s…emotional.” Daiyu turned to face Faith. “You know that photo of John Lennon and Yoko Ono, the one where he’s naked and clinging to her like a monkey on the trunk of a palm tree?”

“I always thought of it as more like a kid clinging to a parent,” Faith said.

“Then you know what I’m talking about. That photo is iconic because of the emotion it captured. Some people love it, others are creeped out by it. The point is that it makes you feel something. I think I can create something just as timeless and beautiful with you and Zander.”

“I appreciate the compliment, Daiyu, and I know how talented you are. If anyone could capture whatever it is that Zander Baron and I ooze, it’s you. I just don’t think it would be a good idea, at least not right now.”

“I can wait.”

“Okay, then.”

Faith drummed the steering wheel, her hands further worrying the existing worn patches at ten and two o’clock.

“Since this thing is fired up, why don’t you give me a lift to In-N-Out Burger,” Daiyu suggested.

“I could go for an early lunch,” Faith agreed, easing the car into first gear.

Daiyu gave Faith a full account of her weekend photo hunting, but Faith’s mind remained elsewhere. As much as she would have liked to have a photo of herself with Zander, shot by someone as talented as Daiyu, no less, she knew that it would be that much easier for someone back home to make the connection that she already had between Alex Brannon and Zander Baron. As much as she wanted Alex back, she wouldn’t force him out. The decision to reveal himself had to be his or it wouldn’t mean anything to either of them.

* * *

Faith had almost given up on him when he called to tell her that he had just found a parking spot and was walking back to her building. Standing at her living room window, she scoured the sidewalk far below for him. It was late, and while her neighborhood wasn’t the worst, neither was it the best, and the last thing she wanted was for him to fall victim to a mugging on his first visit to her apartment.

“Are you wearing a Dodgers baseball cap and a plaid shirt?” Faith asked, spotting a figure clutching a cell phone to his ear, his free hand in his pocket.

“Yeah, I’m in disguise,” he laughed.

“Some disguise,” Faith snickered. “You look like you were born here in east Los Angeles.”

“Good. That’s what I was going for.”

Faith buzzed him in the second he set foot on the front step of her building. He bypassed the slow-moving elevator to sprint up four flights of stairs to get to her.

Wearing only a sheer white nightshirt and white bikini briefs, Faith welcomed him to her little apartment with a big kiss.

“It’s been so long,” she murmured, running her hands along his arms.

“Too long,” he chuckled. “What, about thirty-six hours?”

“It seems longer. Fawnskin seems like a whole different time and place compared to now.”

“You could always relocate, you know.”

Faith’s first impulse would have been to fly into her bedroom, pack whatever would fit into her largest suitcase and hop into her old car for a one-way trip to Fawnskin. But common sense prevailed, and she responded to his suggestion with a playful question.

“What would I do out there in the middle of nowhere while you were on location?” she asked. “I can’t sing and play like Grover, and I don’t think I’m cut out for waitressing at He’s Not Here.”

Faith’s furnishings were clean and comfortable, and possessed a shabby elegance that Zander appreciated. He sincerely respected and admired the fact that she proudly lived within her means rather than dipping into the deep pockets of her parents to live in the style she’d enjoyed as a kid back in Booger Hollow.

“Fawnskin’s got a great, colorful history,” Zander told her. “There’s hundreds of good stories you could write. The town’s Gold Rush history alone could keep you busy for—”

“I don’t want to be a human interest or entertainment writer for the rest of my life,” Faith said, cutting him off. “I want to write impact pieces that matter.”

“What’s an impact piece?”

Faith retrieved a thick manilla folder from the low beachhouse desk that seemed to double as a dining room table. She led Zander to her overstuffed sofa, sitting beside him with her legs across his lap. He caressed their silken lengths from hip to ankle as she showed him the contents of the folder.

“This is a story about an allergen detection device developed by Westcott Technologies in Maryland,” Faith said, handing him an article she’d torn from a scientific journal Zander had never heard of. “The head researcher is the founder of the company. He had a son with a severe allergy to peanuts, and the kid died after sampling food at a chili cook-off. One of the cooks didn’t want her secret thickening agent known, so she didn’t declare peanut butter on her ingredient list. The kid went into anaphylactic shock. He was in a coma for a week before his parents took him off life support.”

“This is depressing,” Zander said. “And this is the kind of thing you want to write?”

Faith showed him the next story. “
This
is the kind of thing I want to write. The Westcott story is only a small piece of this bigger story.”

His interest piqued, Zander scanned the pages of the second article. “Cady Winters-Bailey,” he said, reading the author’s name. “I remember this scandal. It broke right before I started filming
Burn
with her sister, Kyla Randall. The story gave me the creeps.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” Faith said. “It just confirmed something that most of us have suspected all along.”

“That computer companies can access our hard drives through the software they sell us?”

“Exactly. Emmitt Grayson, the CEO and founder of U.S. IntelTech software, just happened to get caught, thanks to two of his employees. Chiara Winters and John Mahoney used Westcott Technologies as bait to catch Grayson spying on the companies that bought his software programs. The story is incredible. I wish I’d been the one to expose it. Cady Winters-Bailey was nominated for so many awards for this story. Can you imagine? Having your own sister involved in exposing corporate espionage and living to talk about it?”

“You want to write meaty, hard-hitting news stories so you can cover your walls with trophies and plaques?”

“No,” she snapped, closing the folder. “I want to write stories that make a difference in people’s lives.” She flipped the folder onto her coffee table. “No offense, but writing about a rehabbed singer’s bachelor party and a mysterious actor’s latest movie release isn’t exactly earth-shattering. Or challenging. Or—”

“Okay, I wasn’t offended at first, but I am now.” He stopped her embellishments by grabbing her backside and tugging her fully onto his lap. “I’m the first to admit that acting is one of the most pointless, useless, purposeless, fruitless…Are you going to stop me at any point here?”

“So far, I agree with everything you’ve said.” Faith smiled.

“But the only thing more pointless, useless and purposeless than acting,” Zander said, a wicked twinkle in his eye matching his roguish smile, “is reporting on acting.”

Faith swung her right hand but Zander caught it, forcing her fingers to wrap around his. Darting his head forward, he caught her mouth in a kiss. Faith, still smarting from his insult, nipped his lip sharply enough to draw a bead of blood that streaked his perfect Pepsodent teeth.

The coppery salt taste of his own blood stoked Zander’s fires, and he clasped Faith’s wrists in one hand, pinning them to the small of her back. He brought her chest forward, returning her assault by taking his teeth to her breasts. The fine, silky cotton of her filmy nightshirt did little to buffer the scrape of his teeth against the tiny darts poking against it. Mindful of their sensitivity, Zander took them in turn with only slightly less aggression than she had used on his lip.

She had flat-ironed her curls, and her newly straightened hair brushed against his hand when her head fell back in submission. Holding her in place with one hand, Zander used the other to grasp her breasts one at a time, positioning them to best please himself.

Faith responded, grinding her aching center against his denim-covered hardness. The movement of her abdomen against his, the power of her thighs framing his hips, her throaty gasps of pleasure—Zander never would have guessed that such a recipe would propel him to a climax so powerful, he tore the fabric of her shirt with his teeth.

Not completely satisfied, Faith sought to reach her goal as well. She wriggled from his grasp in his moment of temporary weakness and backed onto the coffee table. Reading her need in her eyes, Zander yanked off her panties with such eagerness, the right seam ripped. A streak of warm moisture along her inner thigh marked the path of Zander’s entry, and Faith groaned low and hard when he plunged into her, awkwardly balancing himself on the low table. His rigidness probed her softness; his fleshiness slapped her firmness. Rapid recovery had never been an issue for him, but with Faith, it was instant. His body fit so well within her that he felt like a piece of machinery custom-crafted for her pleasure as her hips bucked in the throes of her release.

Chapter 11

Faith sat in the first-row aisle seat of the Troy Theater in Fawnskin, where Zander was making his first stage appearance outside of his stellar performance as Hector in a Lincoln high school production of
The Iliad
.

The invitation-only, black-tie event was a fundraiser for the theater, which was undergoing a $2 million restoration. Only half the house was fit for audience members, and the bare hardwood stage had no curtains, lighting or mechanical effects equipment.

The play, “Garden of Evils,” had been written by a Fawnskin resident who had been happy to donate her material after learning that Zander Baron and his
Burn
co-star Kyla Randall were playing the lead roles of Victor McIlwrath and Desiree Calor.

Faith had invited Daiyu along to shoot the event for Vivian’s
After Hours
column, and Daiyu had dressed for the occasion in a bright red bodystocking shrouded with a black bag dress. Not to be outdone by Daiyu’s garishness, Faith went the opposite direction, aiming for sexy, smooth sophistication in an EOC—Eve of Construction—original.

The New York-based designer was an up-and-comer who already had Hollywood A-listers jockeying for the chance to own and wear her work. Faith thanked her lucky star that Magda had been able to arrange the loan of a very feminine, very form-flattering EOC evening gown in a shade of red that made her complexion glow.

She and Zander had spent every night for the past two weeks in her apartment, so Faith was excited to be out for a change. More than that, she looked forward to seeing Zander work live.

With no music to signal the start of the play, the dimming of the lights quieted the pre-curtain chatter and prompted a soft round of applause. Other than Zander and Kyla, the names of the cast had not been listed in the program. Because the actors would be working for free and on script, no one had known who the final cast would be until the actual performance. Faith recognized the actor playing Narrator when he lumbered onstage in jeans, a white shirt and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He hadn’t been seen onscreen in years, but he’d kept busy doing voice work since playing the beleaguered husband of an abrasive housewife on an old 90’s sitcom.

He took a seat on a stool on the left side of the stage, and addressed the audience directly. “On the nice side of town in a quiet neighborhood called Sunnyside, seven residents meet monthly to discuss their gardens, in which they take an inordinate amount of pride. Ordinarily, these gatherings are quite dull, centering on talk of organic versus chemical fertilizers and the effectiveness of hollow-eyed garden owl figurines in scaring off small predators.”

While the Narrator delivered his spiel, the cast of seven filed onstage to take seats in folding chairs that had been set up at a long, bare table. Two cast members lugged a big blue Coleman cooler, and one woman carried a wide platter heaped with pastries.

“While it all might seem dull to outsiders like us, the members of the Sunnyside Beautification Association could debate for hours the merits of pesticide versus duct tape in controlling gypsy moths,” the Narrator continued. “But unlike previous meetings, this one is different. Flowers aren’t the only things growing in Sunnyside. Secrets have grown there as well…And now, under the directorship of real estate agent Lottie Graball, we join the Sunnyside Beautification Association.”

“Order! Order!” Lottie, played by an unknown middle-aged blonde, loudly demanded as the lights rose to illuminate the stage. “I hereby call this, the 182nd meeting of the Sunnyside Beautification Association, to order.”

“What’s on the docket today?” asked Sug Leadbetter, who was played by a heavyset actor known for his work in a national spaghetti sauce campaign.

“If you’d read this month’s newsletter,” Lottie began impatiently, “you’d know that Victor took time out of his busy schedule to join us this afternoon to discuss—”

“The proper way to stimulate vigorous growth, I hope,” Kyla, as Desiree, broke in provocatively. “You know, Victor, I just whipped up a nice batch of stuffed mushrooms. I’d sure enjoy it if you came back to my place after the meeting and tried some. I grew them with the loose-soil pre-mix you gave me.”

In the role of Billie, a shriveled, blue-haired actress unfamiliar to Faith interrupted with a loud harrumph.

“No, thanks,” Zander said, giving voice to Victor.

Faith shuddered. Watching Zander perform live was far different than seeing him onscreen. Subtle changes in his tone and projection and a deliberate alteration in his posture were all it took to turn him into someone else. Into the flesh-and-blood Victor McIlwrath.

Zander might have spent a good part of the past ten years working and scraping to survive, but he’d studied his art too, and he applied his craft superbly.

“I have plans,” Victor continued. “In fact, I’m flying out of town soon after this meeting, so perhaps we should get back to business.”

Lottie loudly cleared her throat. “I agree. Our first point of order concerns the matter of the bamboo plantings with which Mr. Leadbetter chose to frame his rock garden.”

The actors froze, a spotlight landed on the Narrator. “If the name Sug Leadbetter sounds familiar to you, then perhaps you’re one of the many jazz fans who saw his history-making appearance on
The Tonight Show
with Jay Leno. Famous around the world for ‘One Note,’ a song he composed for his saxophone where he toots exactly one note every sixteen bars, Mr. Leadbetter is renowned in Sunnyside for being the most sedentary creature alive.”

“The Beautification Association approved my bamboo wall and you know it, Lottie,” Sug asserted, his speech sluggish, almost slurred.

“Yes,” Lottie snapped. “They approved
your
wall, yet it’s becoming
my
wall at an alarming rate. Your new shoots are taking over my hydrangeas. Unlike you, bamboo has a tendency to get a move on with life.”

Sug grumbled in exasperation and rolled his eyes.

“Mr. Leadbetter had me install an underground border to keep the roots of his bamboo from sending new shoots onto your property, Mrs. Graball,” Victor said.

“But he didn’t pay to have the same border put on my side, to make sure my hydrangeas weren’t overrun.”

“You didn’t pay for those hydrangea bushes, either,” Sug muttered.

“Is there something you’d like to say to me, Mr. Leadbottom? I mean, Leadbetter?”

Billie timidly chimed in. “Well…Lottie…Mrs. Graball…when Victor offered the hydrangeas to the Association, they were supposed to be evenly distributed throughout all the properties. Not just yours.”

“Every garden has its blossoms,” said the Narrator. “Every garden also has its weeds. Billie Green, a retired teacher and spinster, has been a member of the Sunnyside Beautification Association since its inception, so one might say that her roots have run so deep there’s no way of ever cleanly removing her.”

“As president of the Association, it was up to me to decide the best use of Victor’s generous gift,” Lottie insisted.

“Even so,” Billie muttered to herself, “those hydrangeas would have looked beautiful against the stucco on the south side of my house.”

“I thought we were to hear from Victor today, not fight over three-year-old hydrangeas,” Desiree said, winking at Victor.

Faith squirmed. Kyla Randall could have been the model for Venus at Venus Adonis. Her dark hair, big brown eyes and sun-toasted brown skin electrified the sparse set design. The seductive purr of her voice added to her appeal. If Faith hadn’t known that Kyla had a handsome cardiologist husband and three gorgeous children in the audience, she might have leaped onstage and plucked the wink right out of her pretty brown eyes.

“Spa owner Desiree Calor is just as graceful and delicate as Spanish moss,” the Narrator said, drawing Faith’s attention back to the play. “And just as easily, she’ll drape herself around something strong and handsome and slowly draw the life right out of it.”

“Victor, I’ve been having the worst trouble with your big red cockscomb,” Desiree said coyly. “It’s shown no progress in nearly a month.”

“I’ll be happy to look into it later, Ms. Calor,” Victor said icily.

“Whose turn was it to bring refreshments?” asked Hugo, a character who was being played by a Troy Theater member twice as round and heavy as the actor portraying Sug.

“Hugo Broadside has the biggest vegetable garden in Sunnyside,” the Narrator said. “He produces the biggest tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers and carrots most people have ever seen. As you’ll see, everything about Hugo is large, and always has been. Once he tipped the scales at 380 pounds, Hugo went on disability, collecting a paycheck from Uncle Sam…along with the paychecks he continues to collect as a freelance web designer.”

“Did you bring the refreshments, Billie?” Hugo asked. In an aside to Sug, he sniped, “I hope not. Last time, she brought those nasty little pigs in blankets she buys by the case at the price club. They were still partly frozen when she served them.”

“Yet you still managed to eat about two hundred of them,” Sug said.

“Hugo, I brought the food today,” announced Chele Metcalf in the role of Belle. “I brought a beautiful assortment of pastries from that new French
patisserie
downtown. I’ve got Meyer lemon tarts, crème brûlée popovers, pastry puffs, éclairs filled with chocolate imported from Belgium—”

After a longing stare at the blonde, blue-eyed Belle, the Narrator comically shook himself. “Belle Dellarosa, an interior decorator and a former Miss Pride of Springfield, has filled her garden with the lushest, most fragrant and most colorful blooms obtainable. And if you asked her, she’d consider herself the most beautiful one of all.”

“—pecan diamonds dripping with honey, chocolate tazzas sprinkled with shavings of real gold—” Belle continued as if uninterrupted.

“Sounds luscious,” said Desiree.

“Sounds expensive,” Billie added.

“Well, nothing’s too good for the Sunnyside Beautification Association,” Belle said proudly.

Hugo grunted as he reached for the platter of pastries. “Pass that over here.” The audience laughed at his gobbling and smacking as he devoured the tiny pastries. “Mmm! This is good stuff, Belle.”

“Would someone please set the other tray of pastries over on the table next to my purse, far out of Mr. Broadside’s reach?” Lottie demanded. “And Mr. Broadside, would you mind not speaking with your mouth full?”

“That’s the last we’re gonna hear from him until he licks that platter clean,” Sug said.

Hugo belched loudly, and Faith swore that she could smell the chocolate. Looking over her shoulder, she saw why she smelled chocolate. A young man in black was serving the audience from a platter just like the one onstage, but after watching Hugo’s enjoyment of them, few people actually ate their pastries.

“Did you bring anything to wash this down with?” Hugo asked Belle.

“I brought the beverages, Mr. Broadside,” Victor said. “There’s a cooler full of bottled water and juice next to Mrs. Graball’s things. It’s a promotional giveaway from one of my suppliers, Hawthorne Custom Cuttings. They provided the eucalyptus you wanted for your fragrance garden, Ms. Dellarosa.”

Another young man in black served bottles of water to the audience as the characters on stage passed around water and juice. Faith smiled, reading the label for
Hawthorne Custom Cuttings
on her bottle.

“Victor, you should come by after the meeting and see how my fragrance garden has come along,” Belle said blissfully. “On warm days, when I have my bedroom windows open, the breeze carries in the scent of the lavender and it just makes me feel all—”

“Victor, I’ve decided to reconfigure part of my yard to incorporate a fragrance garden,” Desiree broke in. “I want an aromatic paradise, a Garden of Eden for the nose. Tell me, Victor, what scents are most passionate? Actually, I have a better idea. Why don’t I come down to your office some night? We’ll go through your sample books, maybe have a little dinner or something afterward, and plot my new garden. How’s Friday for you?”

“Friday’s no good for me. I have plans.”

Faith got chills when Zander delivered his line directly to her.

“He’s turning soil for my new herb garden,” Billie pointed out.

“Oh, that can wait ‘til Saturday,” Desiree decided.

“No, it can’t,” Billie hissed.

Desiree left her chair to slink up to Victor. “She won’t mind if we have our own little meeting. Can’t one of your men turn her soil? You don’t have to waste your time on a mundane chore like turning dirt.”

“I’ve made another commitment, Ms. Calor, and in my opinion, a fragrance garden isn’t really a vital part of your future.”

She sat on the table, her butt near Victor’s hand. “I’ll decide what’s vital, Victor, and I want to see your samples. Would you mind bringing your books to my place later this afternoon?”

“The last time I brought sample books to your place, I barely escaped with my life,” Victor said quietly. “And I lost two buttons from my favorite shirt.”

“I think I swallowed them after I bit them off,” Desiree giggled.

Hugo suddenly grabbed his throat with one hand and banged the table with the other, knocking the platter to the floor. His face turning red, his eyes grew wider and wider as he struggled for breath.

“He’s choking!” Belle cried. “Hugo’s choking on a pecan tart! Oh, heavens, Hugo, you broke my pastry platter! It’s genuine Waterford crystal!”

Gasping and gagging, Hugo stood and flopped backwards onto the table.

“Slap him on the back!” Lottie hollered.

“I wish I knew the Heimlich!” Billie fretted.

“You couldn’t get those skinny arms of yours around him even if you did,” Sug said.

“If you’re not going to help me get him to his feet, Mr. Leadbetter, at least get out of my way so I can help!” Victor said, making his way to Hugo.

Desiree grabbed his arm as he hefted Hugo’s huge frame into his arms. “Victor, you’re so strong! Just look at these biceps.”

“Hugo’s just another sack of fertilizer for Victor,” Sug said.

“Squeeze him hard, Victor!” Lottie screeched.