Extreme Bachelor (24 page)

“Then you should have been born with a
different face.” She abruptly reached up, laid her palm against his
cheek. A kiss wouldn’t have felt as tender as the touch of her
hand. He covered her hand with his own, moved his head, kissed her
palm.

Leah laughed and held up her drink, offering
him a sip, holding it to his lips. He took a sip, then settled
back, her hand still in his. She was changing, the hurt and anger
peeling off, a little at a time. Everything felt right in the back
of that limo, like this was where he was supposed to be—here, with
her.

The press was out in force in front of
Mann’s Village Theatre, as was the crowd, held back by police
barriers. There was a bit of a wait as they queued in line with
other limos, but Leah spent the time straining to see who was
there, calling out the names to Michael. There was enough star
power—A-list actors, directors, and movie moguls were all over the
red carpet, speaking to the fans lucky enough to have snagged a
position right behind the barricades.

When Michael’s limo pulled up at the
entrance, and the driver opened the door, he stepped out first,
reached down, and caught Leah’s hand to help her out.

She paused in front of the open door to
straighten her dress, but then gave him a huge smile, and together
they walked down the red carpet, into the premiere, Michael
whispering in her ear who several people were, Leah smiling and
waving when any member of the press—fearful of missing anyone
important—would call out to her to smile.

When they at last made their way into the
theater, they settled down just behind Ewan McGregor, which made
Leah giddy with excitement. The movie was an epic hero’s journey,
complete with swords and horses and spectacular special effects.
What Michael remembered was filming during an unusually cold fall
in Poland, where the ground was always muddy and the stunts always
impossible to perfect. But when the lights came up and the crowd
applauded wildly—of course they did, they were all movie people—
Michael felt a sense of accomplishment, like he always did when
they finished a film. He supposed he had found his true
calling.

They were leaving the theater for a studio
reception at a nearby restaurant when Michael felt his cell phone
vibrate in his pocket. “Damn,” he muttered.

“What is it?” Leah asked him, her eyes
shining brightly.

Michael just smiled and shook his head.
“Cell phone. I’ll turn it off.” When Leah happily turned around to
do more stargazing, Michael slipped the phone out of his pocket and
looked at the caller ID. Rex.

That was weird. He hardly ever spoke to Rex
anymore. He figured Rex wanted to know what his little chat with
Leah had done for Michael. He turned off his cell and put it back
in his pocket. He’d give his old friend a call later and fill him
in, but right now, there was nothing or no one who was going to
interrupt his evening with Leah.

At the reception, Leah
seemed to take wings. She moved gracefully around the room, talking
and laughing to whomever struck up a conversation, and frankly, it
seemed to Michael like there was a long line of guys waiting to do
just that. He could hardly blame them—in his eyes, Leah was far
more beautiful than Maria del Torro, the costar on
The Hero
.

He was content just to
watch her, his happiness derived purely from hers. He loved the way
she smiled, the way she seemed to shimmer beneath the lights. He
loved how men and women alike looked at her, wondering who she was,
admiring her dress, her lean, tall form. And he loved, he
absolutely
loved
the way she looked at him.

It was a look that he remembered well, a
look that used to make him feel like the most adored man on the
planet, and tonight, it put him over the moon. He would have been
content to just stand back and watch her, but he couldn’t—he knew
too many people. Cameron introduced him around, and Michael found
himself at the center of three women’s attention. He did what he
always did in that case—he flirted and charmed. But he kept one eye
on Leah the whole time, counting off the minutes when they could
leave the reception and he might have her all to himself.

After a couple of hours of hobnobbing with
stars, he couldn’t wait any longer. He tossed aside the phone
number one female producer had given him under the guise of
exploring some stunt options for her next project and made his way
to Leah. “Are you hungry?” he whispered into her ear.

“Famished,” she whispered back. He took her
hand in his, led her from that room of admirers, a few of which, he
noticed, gazed at her all the way to the door.

They dined at L’Orangerie, a French
restaurant renowned around L.A. for its sophistication and romantic
atmosphere.

They were seated at a table nestled between
two huge vases filled with fresh flowers. Michael recognized the
quality of the table linens, as well as the china and silver—he’d
seen something comparable in a Middle Eastern prince’s palace once.
At the center of the table was a box of fresh-cut roses, their
scent still strong.

Leah seemed to be mesmerized by the
place—she kept looking around, touching the silver, the flowers,
and the silky linen table cloth, admiring the nineteenth-century
French paintings that adorned the walls, and the woman playing a
soothing tune on the grand piano.

The first of many waiters appeared and
handed Michael a wine list that resembled the L.A. phone book. He
ordered a very expensive Châteauneuf-du-Pape wine for them and
loved the way Leah’s face lit up as he did so.

“You remembered,” she said.

“Of course I remembered.” He’d given up
trying to forget her long ago.

They perused the menu, settling on a tasting
menu, which included a foie gras crème brûlée as an appetizer,
Swiss chard ravioli, and filets of John Dory, among other
things.

They chatted about the premiere through the
first course, and then their talk turned to the reception.

“Ewan McGregor is so nice,” Leah gushed. “He
spoke to me like we were old friends.”

“Did you meet Vincent
Vittorio?” Michael asked, having worked on
The Dane
with him—not to mention his
disaster of a wedding.

“I did,” Leah said wrinkling her nose a
little. “He’s really short.”

“Yes, he is,” Michael said with a laugh.

“I think he’s about boob-level, and I had
the distinct impression that he likes it like that.”

Michael laughed. If there was one guy in
this town who loved women more than him, it was probably Vince
Vittorio.

“And I met the producer
and Mr. Cameron, and they were so
nice
.” She glanced up at him through
thick lashes. “Especially after I told them I was there with you.
You know what the producer said then?”

“No, what?”

“That he would love to have a look at me for
a part in an upcoming film, so I gave him my card. Michael—” She
suddenly leaned forward, her eyes blazing with excitement. “Can you
believe it?” she whispered. “I’ve been trying to get film roles for
five years, and all I had to do was go to a premiere. And mention
your name.” She sat back and laughed at that. “If I’d known that
was all it took, I would have . . .” She paused, thought the better
of what she would say, and waved her hand. “You know what I mean,”
she said cheerfully.

Unfortunately, he did.

But she remained bubbly, and he loved it.
Every dish she tasted she said was divine, every sip of wine was
heavenly. By the time the waiter had cleared their plates, Leah had
talked herself nearly to death and proclaimed herself stuffed. And
she had a delightful glow of having drunk a little wine.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked him
pointedly as he gazed at her.

“You really want to know?”

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, and she
leaned forward as her fingers drummed lightly on the stem of her
wine glass. “Yes,” she said. “I really want to know.”

Now it was Michael’s turn to lean forward.
He took her hand from the wine glass and held it in his. “Remember
the night we went to the opera?”

“Yes. I’ll never forget those box seats,”
she said with a wink.

“Is that all you remember? Or do you maybe
remember what happened at home afterward?” he asked, one corner of
his mouth turning up at the thought of it.

Leah glanced around the tables near them
before whispering, “How could I forget that? It was fabulous.”

“Well that’s what I was thinking about. Only
this time, I think I’d tie you up,” he said, looking at the top of
her blond head, “and lick you down,” he murmured, his gaze sliding
languidly to the revealing décolletage of her gown.

“Michael,” she said. “We’re friends,
remember?”

“We had a great sex life, didn’t we,
baby?”

She sighed with a bit of exasperation, but
then cheerfully acknowledged, “We did.”

“You’re squirming,” he noted, squeezing her
hand affectionately.

“Hey, we all have our memories.”

“So what do you remember?”

She smiled wickedly. “I remember how you
always liked me to put my tongue in a particular place—”

With a laugh, Michael broke her gaze and
looked away a moment. When he glanced at her again, she raised a
brow and smiled knowingly. “Now who is squirming?”

He grinned. “Leah . . . would you like to
see my place?” he asked.

“No,” she said instantly. “Well . . .” Her
gaze didn’t waver, but she was clearly debating it behind those
blue orbs. And after several moments of what was obviously an
internal debate, a lovely smile spread across her lips. “Yes. I
would like to see your place.”

He could not have been more elated if he had
just been handed a wad of cash and a Porsche. “Great. Let’s blow
this place.”

“Wait, are you kidding?” she exclaimed.
“Before the soufflé with Grand Marnier? I don’t think so, pal,” she
said, and withdrew her hand from his, picked up her wine, and
leaned back, watching him smugly, with clearly no intention of
going anywhere until she had dined on every last morsel. That was
his girl—never one to pass up good food or good wine or good
sex.

“I’ll ask for a doggie bag,” he said, and
although it was obvious Leah thought he was kidding, he was not. He
couldn’t get the check or the Grand Marnier soufflé out of the head
waiter fast enough, but by the time he had finally invested a full
$600 in L’Orangerie, he had what he wanted. He helped Leah up then
walked closely beside her out of the restaurant, very aware of the
many male heads swiveling around to have a look.

Leah, however, seemed oblivious.

In the limousine, she took the gold box with
the soufflé from him. “I’ll hold that,” she said briskly.

“You don’t trust me?”

She laughed. “Clearly you haven’t heard a
word I’ve said in the last two weeks,” she said, tucking the box on
the other side of her body. “I don’t trust you in the least.”

“Yeah, well, we’re going to change all
that.”

“Don’t be so sure. And don’t get any grand
ideas, Mikey. We’re just checking out your place. We’re friends,”
she said again.

He smiled, settled back. Maybe she didn’t
trust him, and maybe she thought they could pretend to be just
friends, but there was one little detail she had forgotten—Michael
knew how to make her come.

HE didn’t tell her that he lived in one of
those ornate downtown loft complexes, where fabulously wealthy and
famous people now lived. It was the sort of place built around what
was supposed to look like an Italian piazza, and had better
furniture in the lobby than most middle-class homes across
America.

And Michael certainly didn’t tell her that
he owned a loft on the top floor with its own private terrace,
overlooking the L.A. skyline and the Hollywood Hills.

“Wow,” she said when the elevator opened
onto his living room. It was enormous, like a house without walls.
Big floor-to-ceiling glass windows formed two walls, and sheer
drapes lifted with the night breeze. The room still had the look of
the warehouse from which it had been converted—exposed ventilation
in the ceiling, four big columns, and scored concrete floors. There
were no walls between the kitchen and the living area, and the only
evidence of a bedroom or bathroom was a single door at one end of
the room.

In the middle of the enormous living area
was a thick shag rug, buttery leather couch and chairs, and a
distressed coffee table topped with several books and
magazines.

“Great place,” Leah said as she walked into
the room. “Great rug,” she added, looking down at her feet. “I
don’t think this one came from the Discount Barn.”

Michael laughed as he shrugged out of his
jacket. “It came from Turkey. A friend owed me a favor.”

She could only imagine what sorts of favors
people owed an ex-CIA operative. Best not to think about it at
all—those sorts of questions only led to more questions. Leah
walked to one of the windows, pushed aside the sheer drape, and
looked out at the skyline. “I guess you guys do pretty well in the
stunt business,” she said. “This is prime real estate.” Real estate
that made her bungalow in Venice Beach look like a shack.

“We do well,” he said. “But I’ve also
invested wisely.”

Another couple of questions popped into her
head. Where he’d gotten the money to invest. What did he invest in,
and did it have anything to do with his former line of work? Just
the usual sorts of things one thought of when standing in James
Bond’s very expensive and very chic loft apartment.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked from
somewhere behind her.

Leah ran her fingers down the sheer drape.
“I’d love one.” What in the hell was she doing here? Curiosity to
see how he lived, okay, she’d admit to that. But there was an
unspoken expectation, and no matter how much she pretended they
were only friends, she was skating out onto some extremely thin
ice.