Reunion Girls (18 page)

All Lara cared about was Joaquin Cruz. His voice. His body. His lips. His tongue. His hands. His fingers. His . . . Oh, God, how could she be thinking this? What had this man done to her?

"Have I convinced you yet?" It was Finn, wanting an answer. "I'm dying for seafood. How does Blue Water Grill sound?"

"Fine," Lara agreed. Her heart constricted. What if Joaquin wanted to see her? "But my next meeting is still up in the air," she added. "If I get a call, I might have to ditch you at the last minute."

"I'll chance it," Finn said easily. "It'll be worth it to see your face when you see Aspen on this cover. By the way, I hope you don't have a craving for salmon."

Lara signed off and stepped out onto the SoHo street. Her car service was right there, the driver on his feet and opening the back door. She stood on the sidewalk and took in a deep breath. It dawned on her that she had no idea where Joaquin lived. She wanted to find out. Mechanically, she slipped into the Town Car and announced her next destination.

Her cellular jingled again.

The sound filled her with a tiny hope. Just as every telephone ring had in the last three days. This time she didn't check the screen. She just closed her eyes and said a little prayer. "Hello?"

"Do you miss me yet?"

Lara's body flooded with relief.
Oh, thank God!
It was him. That voice was instantly soothing. Like balm for the soul. She was already smiling. "Maybe." Her tone was silky.

"Maybe?" His voice was sharp, yet playful. "I should stay away longer then."

"No!" Lara blurted, alarmed at her own instant desperation. "I miss you. I've been missing you for three days."

"That's more like it." He paused a beat. "Where are you now?"

"On my way to meet a friend for lunch. Finn. He was my escort to the wedding."

"I remember. Which restaurant?"

"Blue Water Grill. It's on Union—"

"I know where it is," Joaquin cut in. He yawned.

Lara could hear him stretching. She imagined him sprawled out in bed. Naked. The image sent her heart racing. "Are you just now getting up?"

"A perfect day for me is to sleep until the crack of noon and then make love until three."

She swallowed hard.

"But you've got other plans."

"I'll cancel them."

Joaquin laughed. "You're a bad girl."

She fell silent.

"Aren't you?"

"Yes." It croaked out in a whisper.

"You're ready to bail on everything. You want it that bad, don't you?"

"Tell me where you live."

He called out an address on Second Street between Avenues A and B. "It's a sublet," he told her. "Run-down building. No doorman. No elevator. There's not even a sink in the bathroom. Just a tiny number in the kitchen. The whole apartment is about the size of your bedroom. It's filthy, too. I'm hardly ever here, and I keep forgetting to hire a maid service. You'll hate it."

"I don't care," Lara said.

"What if I told you there was no bed?" Joaquin asked. "Just a mattress on the floor?"

"I said I didn't care," Lara insisted, afraid that he might change his mind and want to rendezvous at her apartment She could just see herself trying to explain any of this to Privi. Covering the receiver with her palm, she announced her new destination to the driver.

"This probably isn't a good idea. Go on to your lunch. I'll—"

"Joaquin, please. I said I didn't care. It's a lousy sublet. You travel all the time. It's no reflection on you."

There was a long stretch of silence.

Lara shut her eyes and gripped the phone tightly. At this moment, she wanted him so bad that it felt like a sickness.

"Okay."

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'll unlock the door. Come inside and take off your clothes. Quietly. I don't want to hear your voice until I make you come. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good girl." And then he hung up.

Lara stayed on the line long after Joaquin had gone. Shel felt like the twit in
50 Shades of Grey
. She felt like Kim Basinger to his Mickey Rourke. The motivation in
9 1/2 Weeks
had always been lost on her. But Lara understood it now.

She called Finn and broke the news, citing a client meeting.

He sounded disappointed.

Lara made noises about doing something later but kept the specifics vague. Until she knew about Joaquin's plans, she didn't want to schedule anything.

The Town Car grinded through traffic. To travel a few yards took minutes. They even sat in one honking, halting snarl while a light changed three times. It was slow murder.

Lara wanted to scream. She was practically itching to feel Joaquin inside her. Just hearing him give voice to his intentions triggered a secret wetness. The only thing keeping her sane right now was the realization that every passing second led her closer to him. To the dirty apartment with the mattress on the floor. To the feel of his smooth skin and firm touch and forceful kisses.

Another ring of the cellular.

A sudden fright seized her. And for a moment, it was the greatest fear she could ever imagine. That Joaquin had changed his mind. But traffic had started to move at a rapid clip. She was almost there. He couldn't deny her...

"Hello?"

"Lara?" It was Dean Paul. "Are you okay? You don't sound like yourself."

"I'm fine," she murmured. "Just rushing from one appointment to another." It dawned on Lara how many times she had longed to hear from him out of the blue like this. Right now it was happening. Yet she felt nothing. Just a mild sense of annoyance. "Are you calling from Greece?"

"No." He paused meaningfully. "We came back early."

The Town Car pulled up to Joaquin's building.

It seemed an impossible turn of events. That Dean Paul Lockhart could ever become a nuisance to her. Someone she just wanted to get rid of. But that's exactly how she felt about him now.

"There's something I want you to know, Lara."

What a loaded statement How many castles in the air would the old Lara have built upon that? It was amazing. She honestly didn't care to hear anything that he had to say. Everything Lara wanted was six flights up.

"I can't talk right now. I just arrived at my next appointment."

"What—another meeting with Joaquin Cruz?"

Lara was shocked. And more than a little angry. "That's none of your business."

"Stay away from him, Lara. He's bad news. I could tell you stories."

"I'm not interested in your stories."

"Meet me for a drink. Hear me out. I don't want to see you get hurt."

Lara laughed bitterly. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds coming from you?" She stepped inside the building and started up the stairs.

"I've done a lot of stupid things—"

"That's the understatement of the century. Add this phone call to the list." And then she hung up.

When Lara walked into Joaquin's apartment, she followed his instructions to the letter. She stripped silently. She joined him on the floor. She submitted to his eager embraces. And she remained quiet. The first sound out of her mouth came when she did.

By then, Dean Paul was a distant memory. Joaquin had been right all along . . .

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

Everyone knows that two actors in a relationship is a certain recipe for disaster. Do you think two aspiring authors stand a better chance? Don't bet on it. He's the rising cable star who knows how to throw a punch with his new tome. She's the slinky shutter-bug causing a stir in publishing circles with a tell-all proposal about her very famous ex. But his book is just hitting stores, while her deal is stuck in legal barbed wire. In fact, spies are reporting back that it's dead in the water. Professional jealousy can be napalm to a new romance. Translation: Don't book the church yet, darlings.

Babe

"NOBODY WANTS THIS PROPOSAL. ALL the editors are sending it back to me," Linda Lala said. "I'm sorry, Babe. This would've been a great book. But his family is more powerful than I ever imagined."

Babe, shocked and crestfallen, just held the receiver. "I don't understand."

"He's saying you forged the release."

"That's a lie!" Babe shouted. "Aren't there handwriting experts who can prove it?"

"Yes, but every legal maneuver costs money, and publishing is about the bottom line." Linda sighed. "And there's more."

"I'm listening."

"Dean Paul's mother is involved now. I don't think it's a coincidence that Sophia Mills's agent has chauffeured her around to every big house over the last few days. There's been interest in her memoirs for years. The implicit message is that anyone who takes on your book won't stand a chance at landing hers. So the complications are just piling up."

"Does that mean it's over? I should just put these pictures in a scrapbook?"

Linda hesitated. "A small publisher from the West Coast called this morning. To be honest, I didn't get a good feeling from the editor. My guess is that he's just curious and wants to pretend to be in play. I don't think he's even worth the postage."

"So it
is
over."

"A lot is working against us. And your boyfriend's stunt sure didn't help matters. I hear it did wonders for his book, though."

"He's not my boyfriend," Babe snapped.

"See? There's a silver lining. Out of this experience you developed better taste in men. It's not a total loss."

Babe was silent. She wouldn't claim the bastard as her boyfriend, but here she sat having this conversation in his apartment. How screwed up could a girl get?

"I'm not writing you off, Babe. I like you. And I think you're a very talented photographer. Who knows? Maybe there's a project we can work on together sometime in the future."

"That would be great," Babe murmured.

"I'll be in touch if anything changes. Stranger things have happened. But for your own peace of mind, I would just move on."

"Thanks for trying." She slammed down the receiver.

Damn Jake.

Damn the Lockharts.

Damn Dean Paul.

This book could've been her ticket out. No more late nights flashbulbing New York's social animals. No more paparazzi cat-and-mouse games to earn an extra buck. But now it was back to square one.

Her gaze fell on the hot-off-the-presses tabloid Jake had left on the kitchen counter. The money shot of Aspen Bauer-Lockhart stuffing her face with a salmon wrap stared back at her. Proof positive that the Lockharts couldn't win every battle. Babe smiled. Score one for the girl with lower-middle-class roots.

She checked the clock. Jake would be back soon from the gym. She had to get out of here. The last thing she needed today was to hear him bragging about his book.

But just as Babe started to gather her things, she heard him click over the dead bolt.
Shit.

Jake walked inside and headed straight for the fridge to grab one of his homemade post-workout power smoothies. He drained it to the halfway mark, then stopped to look at her. "I thought you were going to the gym, too."

"I'll go later." She zipped up her overnight bag. "Why the sudden interest in my exercise routine?"

He shrugged. "Just making conversation."

"It's not your passive-aggressive way of suggesting that I'm getting fat?"

"Don't worry. If I have a problem with the way you look, you won't have to crack a code. I'll just tell you."

His gaze darted to the file folder near the phone. "Any news on the book?"

"No. Thanks to you." She snatched the folder, stuffed it into her bag, and tried to move past him.

But Jake held her arm. "You look a little deflated. Want to talk about it?"

"I just got off the phone with my agent. The deal is dead. Congratulations."

"What happened?"

"Don't play dumb."

"You're blaming me? That's rich. My show put your little project on the map. You went from a few blind items to headline news."

Babe twisted out of his grasp. "Exactly! My deal was happening under the radar until you hijacked my photographs, did your grandstanding routine, and shined the klieg lights all over it. That's when the Lockhart family got involved. And now it's DOA."

Jake put down his drink and reached for her.

She pushed him away. "I hate you right now! You ruined this for me! But it worked out great for you, didn't it? Your ratings are up, it's contract renegotiating time at the network, and the print run for
your
book doubled!"

"Come on, Babe—"

"No, Jake, this isn't something you can screw your way out of this time. God, I'm such an idiot! I can't believe I came here last night. Every time I swear to myself that it will be the last time. But this is it. We're over."

"You want to lay all of this on me? Go ahead. But that's bullshit, and you know it. If you stopped blaming me for five minutes, maybe you'd realize that this is a blessing in disguise."

Babe shook her head. "I want nothing more than to get the hell away from you, but I think I'll stay just to hear this. I could use a good laugh."

"You're better than that book, Babe. You might not believe that about yourself, but it's true."

Babe stared at him. Jake Asshole had metamorphosed into Jake Sincere.

"A cheap tell-all by an ex-lover?" he went on. "I thought you were above bad clichés. Fast-forward a year, Babe. If you sold that book, you'd be the It Bimbo for a week, maybe two. Every talk show. Every radio show. Every weekly magazine. Howard Stern asking you obscene questions. Is that how you want to be defined? Because that's the journey for women who cash in like that. Nobody cares about them. America just wants the gory details. And once those are spilled, you're out like yesterday's garbage. On to the next. I know. I've interviewed these women. I've sat in on the production meetings that ridicule them. I've seen the focus-group research that rips them apart. Don't be that woman, Babe. You don't have to be. You've got real talent."

"It's not just a tell—"

Jake cut her off. "Don't fool yourself into believing that the pictures make it art. Sure, they're great photographs. Technically sound. Interesting composition. Even back then you were a pro. But that jazz is lost on the crowd your publisher would go after. Have you seen the message boards from my show? Every dumb-ass from here to Seattle has posted an opinion. One girl's pissed because she sees more in a Calvin Klein underwear ad. And the gays—they don't care about natural light and shadows. They just want a nice crotch shot."