The Walk of Fame Page 6

  The irrational thought had a tiny slither of unease wedging itself into the thick haze of lust. He ignored it. She wasn’t a virgin. She’d told him so. And neither was he—even if her inexperienced, untutored response had made him feel like a boy again.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much. I didn’t expect…’ She stopped, gave a breathless laugh, the sound sultry and yet unbearably sweet. ‘I didn’t expect it to be that good.’

  Pride surged through him. Pride and something that felt uncomfortably like possessiveness.

  ‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he said, taking her hand in his and kissing her fingertips. ‘As I’m now planning to get my reward.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She shifted against him, her naked hip brushing his erection as she glanced down. ‘I’m sorry, you haven’t … Yet …’

  She looked both panicked and perplexed and he wanted to hug her. He’d thought she was cute the first time he’d laid eyes on her. She wasn’t cute. She was adorable.

  He hooked his hand around her waist, tugged her closer. ‘How do you feel about round two?’ he said, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. He couldn’t wait much longer, but he didn’t want to rush her and ruin it.

  ‘If it’s as good as round one,’ she said with bravado, ‘I’m all for it.’ Then she slipped trembling arms around his neck.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, praying for patience as he grasped her hips and hauled her under him.

  She stared up at him, offering herself in a gesture so fearless and so giving he felt something twist hard in his gut.

  Ignoring it, he positioned himself at her entrance and sank into her.

  Juno groaned, the pressure immense as the blunt head of his erection pushed into the slick swollen folds of her sex. His hands angled her hips, easing his entry, but still it felt overwhelming. The muscles of her sex clenched, her fingers clutching his neck as a moan escaped her, the pleasure replaced by a brutally stretched feeling that was too close to pain.

  ‘Shh,’ he crooned, pushing the damp hair from her brow. ‘It’ll take a minute, darlin’.’

  He held still for what seemed like hours but could only have been moments as she adjusted to the solid length. Then he moved, her breath catching as he lodged deeper still. The discomfort dimmed, overpowered by a staggering feeling of fullness.

  She sobbed at the shocking burst of pure pleasure as he flexed his hips and nudged a place deep inside.

  ‘Now was that good, or bad?’ he asked, sweat glowing on his forehead.

  ‘Good. It was good.’ Her voice broke. ‘Can you do it again?’

  He chuckled, the sound rich and self-satisfied and tinged with desperation. ‘I’ll give it my best shot.’

  She wrapped her thighs around his waist and held on for dear life, bucking clumsily beneath him as the slow, solid thrusts got stronger, faster and more relentless. Her cries punctuated his harsh grunts as the bursts of pleasure intensified, rolling into one unstoppable wave.

  She rode the crest for an eternity. Exquisite pain, indescribable pleasure crashing over her as she soared through that final brutal peak into oblivion.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JUNO languished in the last throes of the mind-blowing orgasm cocooned in Mac’s arms. Her back cradled against his chest, she could still feel him, semi-erect, outlined against her bottom as his hand covered her breast. His measured breathing brushed her nape.

  ‘So, are you ready now for your marks out of ten?’ he murmured.

  The wry tone made her lips quirk.

  She should have been embarrassed, but she felt so lethargic, so sated, so good about herself it was hard to feel anything but complete satisfaction. She’d done it. She’d finally found out what all the fuss was about, and it had been glorious.

  ‘If it’s not at least a nine I don’t want to know,’ she replied boldly, and basked in his answering chuckle.

  ‘I’m thinking ten out of ten for initiative, five out of ten for staying power.’

  She nudged him with an elbow and he laughed, tightening his arm round her waist.

  ‘Now, now, all I’m saying is we’re going to have to work on your stamina, darlin’.’

  His warm teasing had pride swelling her chest.

  They’d been good together, so much better than expected. She might not be the best sex he’d ever had, but she hadn’t disappointed him, or herself. To use one of Daisy’s analogies, she’d got back on the horse and she hadn’t fallen off. And, as predicted, it had been a spectacular ride.

  She grinned, snuggled against him and hissed as the aching tenderness between her thighs caught her unawares.

  ‘There now.’ He rolled her over and searched her face. ‘I hurt you?’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ she said, moved by the worried frown. She shifted her bottom and felt the slight soreness again. ‘It’s just. It’s been a while.’

  ‘Damn, I’m sorry,’ he said, rubbing his palm on her midriff. ‘How long has it been?’

  She curled away from him and drew her knees up, feeling a little self-conscious after all. ‘A while. That’s all.’

  He trailed a finger along the curve of her neck, tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed. You’re a beautiful and passionate woman. I’m only curious.’ His hand rested on her hip. ‘How long exactly is a while?’

  She huffed out a breath and considered lying to him, but discarded the idea. Why should she be ashamed? ‘Six years.’

  ‘Six …?’ The bed bounced as he pulled her onto her back. ‘Six years? But you would have been little more than a child.’

  ‘I wasn’t a child,’ she said abruptly, her heart tripping at the concern in his gaze. ‘I knew exactly what I was doing.’ She hadn’t been prepared for the consequences of her actions, but that didn’t matter any more.

  ‘Hell, Juno.’ He framed her face, planted a kiss so full of tenderness on her lips she felt a frightening ache around her heart. ‘What happened?’

  She took his hands in hers, pulled them from her face. The ache getting worse.

  She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t risk falling into any kind of intimacy with this man. What they’d done could never mean anything more than one night of pleasure. She knew that. He was so far out of her league it wasn’t even funny. And even if he hadn’t been, she knew she couldn’t afford to mistake sex for love. Not a second time.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s not important.’

  She lifted the sheet, scooted across the bed, shivering despite the sultry summer heat. ‘I’m tired. I ought to go.’

  But as she bent to pick up her discarded gown the bed tilted behind her and then long thighs bracketed hers. His arms folded around her waist, trapping her against him. ‘Stay.’ He let out a slow breath. ‘Stay for tonight. No more questions, I promise.’

  She should go, but somehow the warmth of his arms, the brush of his breath against the top of her head felt so solid, so reassuring she couldn’t make herself say the words.

  ‘Come on, darlin’,’ he murmured against her ear lobe. ‘I won’t ravish you again. We both need our sleep. And it’s late. Past midnight. You won’t get a taxi too easily at this time of the night.’

  She watched over her shoulder as he piled the pillows against the bed’s ornate headboard. Propping himself on them, he reached out, threaded his fingers through hers.

  ‘Come back to bed,’ he whispered, the rough cadence of his voice more addictive than any drug. ‘I’ll give you a lift wherever you need to be first thing in the morning.’

  She gave a huge yawn and he chuckled.

  ‘Lord love it, but good sex is exhausting, isn’t it?’ he teased, cradling her head on his shoulder and drawing the sheet up to cover them.

  ‘I can’t stay for long,’ she murmured, another yawn escaping as she snuggled into his embrace.

  She couldn’t stay the whole night. That would be dangerously self-indulgent. But what real harm would it do t
o stay for a little while? She knew exactly where she stood. Exactly what this meant and what it didn’t. She’d sorted it all out clearly in her mind. And her limbs seemed to have got so heavy, as if she’d been running a marathon. She laid her hand on his chest, took a deep breath of his exquisite scent and felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath her palm.

  It felt so nice to be held, just once.

  Her eyelids drifted closed as she gave herself permission to enjoy the feeling. For a little while.

  He should have let her go. Why hadn’t he let her leave?

  The question tormented Mac as Juno’s head grew heavy on his shoulder and her body relaxed into sleep. He switched off the bedside lamp and glanced down as a beam of moonlight turned her soft curls to a dull gold.

  Hadn’t he always avoided cuddling after sex? Sharing a bed all night made him feel claustrophobic. So why didn’t it feel claustrophobic now? Why did it feel reassuring, listening to her gentle snores and having her body snug under his arm?

  And why couldn’t he get rid of that picture of her at sixteen, alone and vulnerable, out of his head?

  Something had happened to her six years ago, something unpleasant. Why else would she have gone without sex for so long?

  But why should it matter to him? And why should he feel responsible?

  He’d been careful with her, patient even, though it had nearly killed him. But for some dumb reason he’d still needed to hold her tonight, to keep her with him. To be sure she was all right.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, a series of other unsettling pictures from the day intruding on his memory like unwelcome ghosts. Connor and Daisy walking down the aisle towards him, their hands clasped together. Connor’s baby son asleep in his daddy’s arms. The flicker of fear in Juno’s face when she’d caught sight of his arousal for the first time.

  He sighed. Was it any wonder he was behaving irrationally? Hadn’t he been on an emotional roller coaster the whole day?

  Coming to Connor’s wedding had been a mistake. He’d known it from the start, but he’d let his libido rule his head and come anyway—and very nearly opened up old wounds in the process. He’d taken advantage of the girl, and used the attraction between them to make sure he kept those wounds well and truly closed. And now he was paying the price.

  Guilt. Good old Catholic guilt. That was all this was. He didn’t feel responsible for her, he felt guilty about the way he’d used her. Especially once he’d found out how innocent she was.

  He inhaled the summer-meadow scent of her shampoo, listened to her breathing and a wry smile curved his lips.

  What was he beating himself up for? He’d given her a good time. More than a good time. He was pretty sure he’d given her her first orgasm. She’d even thanked him for it. So what if he’d used her—she’d enjoyed it, hadn’t she?

  Arousal pulsed in his loins at the memory of how much they’d both enjoyed it.

  Down, boy. A repeat performance wasn’t the best idea.

  He’d be letting her go in the morning with no regrets.

  He needed to return to his life and the work he loved. To get back to the clean, uncomplicated solitude of his house in Laguna Beach. And he needed to forget all about Connor and his family, and the girl lying so trustingly in his arms.

  But as he fell into dreams she shuddered in her sleep, and his arm tightened around her shoulders instinctively.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JUNO lurched awake to the sound of an overzealous sparrow on dawn-chorus duty, the brilliant morning sunshine blurring her vision, but none of her other senses.

  The heady scent of sex smothered the light perfume of the terrace flowers. Goosebumps prickled on her naked skin and a large, rough hand lay possessively on her hip. A low grunt sounded behind her and the hand twitched, sending shock waves rippling through her.

  She sneaked a look over her shoulder. And her vision—and all the torrid memories from the night before—came into sharp, vivid focus. Mac Brody lay spreadeagled on his stomach, his broad shoulders and long legs hogging most of the bed and the sheet riding low on his buttocks. His back rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The shadow of stubble on his jaw made him look as swarthy as a pirate, highlighting chiselled cheekbones, but his thick dark lashes were almost boyish.

  She shifted onto her back and lifted his hand to place it by his side, being careful not to wake him. She paused, noticing for the first time the nasty scar that slashed from his bicep down to his elbow. Why hadn’t she noticed that last night? The hot spot between her legs pulsed hard as she took in the red scratches on the tanned skin of his shoulder blade. Of course she hadn’t noticed the scar, she’d been too busy availing herself of his staggering skills as a lover.

  Not that she was an expert on such things, but she’d leapt into the lion’s den last night and he’d made it the most exhilarating, the most erotic experience of her life. He’d been so careful with her, so patient. Knowing who he was and what he was, she never would have expected such care or generosity.

  Edging closer to him, she pressed a light kiss to his cheekbone. He gave a soft grunt, but didn’t stir.

  ‘Thank you, Mac Brody,’ she whispered, and felt the tingle of tears.

  Horrified, she wiped her eyes. What was she doing? She mustn’t let herself get over-emotional about their night together. It was only sex—and she had to remember that.

  Her heart wedged into her throat. She should never have spent the entire night in his arms. This was just the sort of intimacy she’d been determined to avoid.

  They’d made no promises, no commitments. How long was he even likely to remember her name? After all, a man didn’t make love like that unless he’d had a lot of practice.

  She slipped out of the bed. She’d seized her Cinderella moment and made the most of it. But she’d taken a foolish, self-indulgent risk falling asleep in his arms. She wasn’t about to make it worse by hanging around like some star-struck groupie until he woke up.

  Having wiggled into her underwear and the heavily creased gown, she gathered up her shoes and crossed the room. She hesitated next to the antique desk beside the door, then picked up a pen and dashed off a quick note on the hotel’s letter-headed stationery. She folded the thick white paper, scribbled Mac’s name across it, then tiptoed to the bed to prop it by the phone on the bedside table.

  Tilting her head, she took one last opportunity to admire Mac’s magnificent body sprawled across most of the bed. And felt the inevitable throb of response.

  How could he still look so dangerous when he was fast asleep?

  She took a fortifying breath and crept back across the silk carpet barefoot, suddenly eager to get as far away as possible. But as she shut the door the soft click of the lock echoed in some small neglected corner of her heart.

  Five hours later, a raucous ring jolted Mac out of a nicely carnal erotic fantasy. Swearing, he kept his eyes shut and groped for the phone.

  ‘Brody,’ he grunted into the mouthpiece once he’d finally located the damn thing. ‘This better be really good.’

  ‘Mac, why have you had your cell off for two days? And what the heck are you doing in France, man?’

  Mac groaned, recognising the harassed Brooklyn accent of his personal publicist, Mickey Carver. ‘None of your business, Mick,’ he said, his head now throbbing as insistently as his groin. He went to dump the phone, but heard Mickey’s panicked plea crackling down the line.

  ‘Don’t hang up, Mac. I’m begging you, here.’

  He exhaled slowly and brought the handset back to his ear. There was no point hanging up on Mickey. He’d call the management and have them storm the hotel room. ‘All right, Mick.’ He opened his eyelids and got blasted by five thousand watts of sunshine in both retinas for his trouble. ‘But keep your voice down,’ he whispered, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m not alone.’

  He eased over onto his back and blinked groggily at the indent on the fluffy goose down pillow beside him.

  Holding the phone away from
his ear, he strained to hear any sound from the en suite. All that greeted him was Mickey’s muffled voice and the rustle of a breeze in the terrace vines.

  He frowned. Strange. Where was the woman who had starred in the dream Mickey had so rudely interrupted?

  ‘Hold up, Mick,’ he said, interrupting the whining monologue he hadn’t heard a word of. ‘Can I call you back?’

  Mickey heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘Sure. But do me a favour. Next time you decide to rearrange the tonsils of some London shop girl, give me a heads up, will you? I’ve been fielding calls from the British tabloids most of the night. They haven’t quit yet and it’s now six in the morning LA time.’

  Mac bolted upright, his knuckles whitening on the handset. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, somewhat redundantly, as he’d heard every word this time—and was having the heart palpitations to prove it.

  ‘The photos are all over the morning papers in the UK.’

  ‘What photos?’ Why couldn’t Mickey ever get to the point?

  ‘Of you and the shop girl,’ Mickey said, sounding taken aback. ‘Getting physical on some balcony in France.’

  Mac’s astonishment turned to fury.

  Some bastard had snapped their photo last night. And now that private, impossibly sexy kiss had been served up for public consumption, to titillate people over their morning coffee. A snarled expletive cut the country quiet as his stomach turned over.

  ‘Hey, man. Don’t sweat it.’ Mickey’s voice drifted on as Mac’s temper surged out of control. ‘They’re long-range but you both look really hot. All we need here is our own angle.’

  He hated those damn parasites. Why couldn’t they leave him the hell alone?

  ‘It’ll be great publicity for the European release of Death Game,’ Mickey wittered on. ‘Especially as the girl’s British. Hey, she’s not there with you, is she?’ Mickey’s voice peaked with excitement. ‘Could I get a quote?’

  Mac took a couple of deep breaths. ‘No, she’s not here,’ he growled, suddenly glad of her temporary absence.

  He wanted to kill someone and it might as well be the messenger. ‘I don’t want any damn quotes. Not a one. I’ve told you before, my sex life is no one’s business but my own and if you give a single column inch of mileage to this story you’re fired.’