Taming Hollywood’s Ultimate Playboy (6 page)

Which might be uncomfortable for her, but it was better than him having it down, undoing all the good work the diuretic was trying to do. She waited to catch his eye and patted her lap, and whispered, “Put it up.”

“I have my physical therapist with me. Actually, she's making me put my foot up right now, and she has been icing it and giving me the necessary medications since yesterday.” As he spoke, he swiveled and put his leg across her lap. “You don't need to speak with her. I can answer your questions.”

Why wouldn't he want her to talk to them?

A small argument ensued and he held the phone out, his expression grave. “Craig wants to talk to you.”

“Is that your agent?”

“Yes.”

“Who else is it?”

He listed several names and their importance, producer, director, blah-blah-blah.

She took the phone and answered questions. Who was she? Where did she work? What were her qualifications? It was like going to an interview for a job you already had, but once they got through the litany of questions they topped it with, “What's the diagnosis and prognosis for Carter's recovery?”

“He's got an inversion sprain. It's not the worst or the best one I've ever seen. It will heal and it's unlikely that he'll have much trouble with it in the future. We'll be starting actual therapy in a couple of days, once we're back in LA. Right now, I'm taping him and keeping him mobile.”

* * *

Liam didn't watch her speaking. She sounded confident but, then, she was a pretty together person. She was also the only person, besides him, as bothered by the amount of stress he was putting the injured joint through.

Would it be better if he could hear their questions or worse?

“Yes. We'll return to The Hollywood Hills Clinic and start his physical therapy in a couple of days in the pool so he can start working on motion and strengthening without the need to bear weight.

“In three months? I doubt there will be lingering effects, but in three months, if he's having trouble, it would be as simple as taping the ankle before he does anything that might make it roll out. There are some pre-sized tape kits that come with two to three wide, sticky strips, and, when they are placed appropriately, entirely concealable.

“Yes. Colored and those that are a medium tan color, which would blend in with his skin tone. But I expect if you really wanted to conceal them, your effects people could do a light airbrush to... Yes. Yes. He'll be on the carpet tonight. I'm going with him and he's using some support in the form of a camouflage cane.” She sighed. “No, it's not got a camouflage pattern. It's there to look useless but be useful.”

“A prop,” he whispered.

“A prop,” she dutifully repeated.

There was another break in her answering questions directly related to him, where she listed several athletes she'd worked with and fished her phone out of her bag to thumb through it. “If it will make you feel better, I can provide references. Aside from Dr. Rothsberg, I can put in a call to former clients and have them call you if you need it.”

Another moment and she hung the phone up and handed it to him. “You owe me. They know, they are convinced it's no big deal, and you can use your crutch at the premiere.”

“Cane.” He took the phone back, correcting her lest she get more ideas. She'd just told them cane, and if he showed up on crutches now, they'd need more reassurance. “Why didn't you tell them I'm the worst patient you've ever had?”

“Because you're not. You're just the worst one that I cared enough about to yell at.”

* * *

Two minutes, that's what she'd said five minutes ago.

Liam leaned against the wall beside the elevator, all his weight shifted to his good leg.

This was the other thing that happened whenever he took a date to a premiere: waiting.

Just when he was about to send Miles after her, the door to the room adjoining his opened and Grace stepped out.

Or backed out.

There was some jostling of material and some muttering, which dispelled any doubts about who was in the gown, if he'd had any.

Pink? Flesh? Sparkly...silvery beige? What color was that thing?

When the gowns had shown up two hours ago, Liam hadn't even looked at them, just sent Tom to Grace with the garment bags and boxes of shoes.

“Are you going to come with me, Gracie?” he called. “Or are you going to stand there muttering at your skirt for the evening?”

She moved, shifting from the low light of her doorway into a halo of golden light from above, looking over her shoulder toward him as she did. The back was modest by most standards, bare shoulders and supple golden skin to the mid-back. Sexy. Understated.

Her eyes found his, deep and full of contradictions. Worry. Sweetness. Promises he had no business even considering.

Liam's heart stopped in his chest and then launched into a fast, skittering beat.

Gathering the front of her dress, she turned fully and let it fall, hitting him with the full effect.

Beautiful women in glamorous gowns were like Tuesdays in Liam's life. But he'd never seen anything like this.

“We have to go, Miss Watson,” Miles called. Herding Liam toward his obligations was part of his job but even with his ankle aching he didn't want to hurry her. He wanted to look at her. Far away. Close-up. All the steps in between.

She still hadn't smiled at him, and he wanted it. The grumpiness plaguing her had been replaced by nervousness. She'd turned her lips in and chewed at the inside. He could act the fool, say something cute and meaningless, but...that wasn't the right kind of smile. Not amusement. Happiness. He wanted her to smile at him because being there with him made her happy, everything else aside.

“Of course. Sorry.” She reached toward Tom, and a small flat handbag of some kind was passed to her, but as she began moving toward Liam it was a conscious effort to square the knowledge that this was Grace with the Gracie he knew.

She'd always been the girl next door. Pretty. Wholesome. Quietly unattainable. And he'd always wished he could attain her. Even during the time that he'd done his best to put her from his mind and had got on with living, anytime he'd seen that shade of sun-kissed light brown hair he'd thought of her. Every time he'd spoken to his best friend he'd thought of her, even if just to remind himself not to ask about her. He'd told himself she'd never fit into his world...but the truth was something else entirely. He was the misshapen one here.

But in that dress she was the best of Old Hollywood—flowing lines and glittering, silken elegance.

Her light brown wavy tresses had been braided somehow around her head, so the blonde highlights stood out. A style she could wear to the beach or on a picnic... He could imagine her poking daisies into the woven crown. More sweetness, and at odds with the gown and the glittering jewelry, but somehow on Grace it worked. This was how Grace would fit into his world, taking the best parts from both.

As she got closer, he felt an overwhelming desire to straighten. Stand taller. Say something to let her know, make sure she knew... If this were a movie, a writer would have given him a great line, something that would let her know just how gorgeous she was.

“You look...” He paused, completely at a loss. Oh, was he in so much trouble...

“Do my scars show?”

“Scars?” The word fit nowhere in his mind right now. “What scars?”

She held up one of her arms and turned it so that he could see the inside.

The pain in his ankle faded as he stepped forward, tucking the cane under his arm, and reached for her elbow so he could angle her toward the light better.

A blast of cold shot into his chest as his eyes found what she referred to. A thin puckered line led from the inside of her arm back, around her triceps.

Suddenly, his hands were the ones shaking. It had come from a large injury of some kind, or had it been a surgery? Something big enough he should've damned well known. “What the hell is that from?”

“You're going to get makeup on your hands. I don't want you to have tan handprints on your tux. Believe me, makeup stands out on black material about as badly as it does on white.”

“It won't smudge,” Tom said from behind her, interrupting Liam's questioning.

And she'd said scars. Not scar. “There are more?”

“Other arm too, but the rest are covered. Dress...”

More? He peeled his hands off her before he lost control, and took a step backward, still not using the cane but putting her outside of the reach of his hands so he didn't shake her until she answered him.

“What happened? What happened to give you scars?”

“They're from my accident.”

“What accident?”

The elevator doors opened with a ding and Miles interrupted them. “The car is here, Liam. If we don't go down now, it's going to cut into your carpet time.”

Confusion flashed in her eyes, and behind it regret. He didn't know about her accident. She might as well have said the words for how clearly he could read it in her expression. Another reminder of their time apart. Or was it memories of this accident when he hadn't come to visit her as she'd recovered?

Stepping toward him, she pulled his cane from under his arm and put it into the appropriate hand. “We'll talk about it later. Don't want to be late, right? We'd better go before you have to do something sensible like spend less time walking on your injured ankle.”

A moment later the elevator whisked them downward, leaving him with too many questions to think about. But she was right. If they didn't go now, he'd have to move faster than his ankle would appreciate. Something else to talk about at dinner.

“Do I match you?”

“Match?”

He shuffled a little back so he could see her again.

“Like complement? Does my dress complement your tux? It's got kind of an old-fashioned cut...”

“It's made to look like something from the era.” He confirmed the cut of his tux, but the nervous light that had replaced the regret in her eyes made him add, “I think it does, but really anything complements a black tie.” Her nervousness redirected his teeth-gritting focus. “Besides, I'm pretty sure I'm the one complementing you tonight.”

“No,” she said, reaching up to smooth his jacket at the shoulders and down the sleeves. “That's silly. You're the star of the movie, which I'm looking forward to seeing.” She stopped smoothing, her hand resting on his chest where she'd fluffed the silk kerchief in his pocket. “Are you sure you're up to this?”

Fretting. Fussing. Focusing attention away from herself. Away from the scars...which he hadn't even assured her barely showed. Later. He couldn't bring them up again right now.

“I'm up to it.” He'd keep her hand resting on his chest all evening, keep her there in that small space in front of him, looking up in that way that made him feel...something he didn't want to feel. Possessive. And destructive.

But he recognized his chance to start evening things out between them. “Even if I wasn't up to it, I'd be up to it...just to have you on my arm tonight.”

For a moment the worry disappeared from her eyes, a kind of wonder replacing it.

Those were good words. Maybe not the perfect thing to say but it was close.

He shifted her hand from his chest to his elbow as the elevator stopped and opened on the ground floor, then planted the cane and used it to lead her out.

As they walked, she was still looking up at him, the wonder turning to shock. They passed through the lobby of red marble and dark walnut, and when they made it to the car she still looked shocked. He lifted a finger to her chin. “You're beautiful, Grace.”

The urge to kiss her nearly overwhelmed him. If she were his, he would've.

Instead, he closed her mouth and let his hand fall to the small of her back to steer her into the car.

Did no one ever tell this golden angel how magnificent she was?

God help him, he was in so much trouble.

CHAPTER SIX

O
N
 
THE
 
FLIGHT
 
down to Virginia, Grace once more had Liam with his foot propped up, shoe off and a cold pack placed over those injured ligaments.

It seemed she'd no sooner settled herself in her dress than they were out of the plane and in a limo.

It all happened so fast. They stopped at the curbside where the carpet started, and when Liam had his cane in position and her on his other arm, he moved her forward.

People, screaming and cheering, lined both sides. Flashes came from all directions. A quaint refurbished theater with gilded fixtures on tall, heavy doors awaited them after a blessedly short carpet walk. Liam shook hands as they went, posed for pictures, took a couple selfies with a fan, then a number of group selfies with cameras Grace funneled toward him and then back to the crowd.

And then they were inside the theater, a manager leading them through to a back exit where the limo waited.

Grace couldn't swear she'd even taken a single breath before it was all over and they were back at the airport, with her once more settling a cold pack on his ankle.

“You all right?” Liam asked.

When she looked at him, he nodded to the seat beside him. “They want us buckled in so we can get back into the air.”

“Right. Right...” She gathered her dress as best she could to prevent wrinkling, and sat down.

“You look shell-shocked, Gracie. Want something to drink?”

“No. I'm fine. I just... That was... A lot.”

“Not to scare you but that was small. The next one will be much bigger. But it was overwhelming to you because it was your first. That's over. You've done it now, and we won't be in such a rush to get through the next one. Just lean back and breathe.”

Breathe. She didn't really have anything to do but make sure Liam didn't walk all over the place. And she was very good at walking.

* * *

“Do you always go from one right to another one?” Grace asked Liam, sitting by the door in the back of the limo as it spirited them through crowded evening streets toward the New York theater.

“It's not unheard of, but not usually. We were on location in Virginia for three months, and the film was based on a book written by a local author, who's like a hometown hero to them. So that's why it was scheduled.”

“I get that,” she said, “But why have two on one day?”

“Sometimes they hold the theater launch back until after the premiere. Though it's pretty common to have more than one, and they don't want to hold the film any longer than necessary. It's all decided by the marketing people for best impact. I just go where they tell me.”

He scooted a little closer and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him. “You thought it was all fancy parties where everyone stood around telling each other how amazing they looked, and drinking too much.”

“Actually, I thought you all got dressed up, but then behaved like it was a frat party, with gobs of public nudity and body shots,” she filled in, grinning at him. His heat felt good at her side. It was still summer, and the Virginia carpet had been hot, but the air-conditioning on both the jet and in the cars had been high enough to chill her.

Liam looked at her, the fondness in his eyes cutting through some of the chill too. Enough that she didn't know how to respond again. He'd done that to her earlier too, when he'd said she was beautiful.

“Why are you looking like that?” she asked, needing him to stop before he confused her again.

Not that he stopped, he just smiled too. “Because you finally smiled.”

“Didn't I smile enough in Virginia?”

“You did. But you weren't smiling at me until now.”

She felt her cheeks going pink and forced herself to look down. He'd said she was beautiful earlier, and now he'd looked at her like she was sunshine. In one day. What her earlier self would've given to hear those sweet words from him.

Even so, she couldn't keep the smile from her face right now, though she tried to edge back to the earlier subject. “My real mental image was that it was all about the after-party with champagne and wild behavior. If it is, I'd like you to keep that from me. I much prefer this, even if I'm really tired of posing for pictures.”

He let her get back to it without doing anything else that might make her emotions go haywire. “We're skipping the after-party.”

“Oh, thank God.” That would be less time in the dress and less time with him on that foot.

“This time it will start the second we step out of the car. Hope your cheeks aren't too sore from the last round.”

Half a block in front of them crowds had gathered, and police stood in front of barricades, directing traffic—regular traffic in one direction, and them another.

They'd just done this a couple hours ago, but he'd been sitting still since then. And when you did that with an injury... “Remember to use the cane more when you first put your weight on the leg. It's been resting for a while, so that pain is going to scream through your leg when you first—”

“I know. I've figured that part out.” His hand moved to cup her bare shoulder, the pad of his thumb stroking the front curve.

The car stopped and her stomach lurched with it.

“You've already done this once,” he said, obviously picking up on her discomfort. “You're the belle of the ball, Grace. Just remember to smile.”

The door opened and she had to make herself move. “I'm the belle of the ball,” she whispered to herself as she accepted a hand out from the man who'd opened the door. “Thank you.” She stepped to the side, reminding herself to smile as she made room for Liam.

As soon as his handsome head appeared above the door, so many flashes went off that as she turned to look at him and check his balance, all she could see were spots in her vision.

“I'm okay, Grace,” he said, before she could ask, then slipped his hand into hers and steered her around the door so they could make the walk. “Just follow my lead. Stop when I stop. Pose and smile. Just like before. Only with more stops this time. We'll also make a wide zig-zag path down the carpet.”

“How many zigs?” She stopped when he did and turned slightly toward him, her heel butting against the center of the other foot, just like Tom had told her to stand.

Pause. Smile. Walk.

“I don't know. Ten.”

“Two,” she countered. “The more you zig, the more you walk. You said I was here to keep you from having to walk too much. Otherwise why am I wearing this dress?”

“Because you're my date, and you have to wear clothes to a premiere, no matter what your freewheeling California inclinations say. Hippy.”

She laughed despite herself. “Idiot.” But his joking made her relax. “I'm willing to up to four zigs. Any more than that and I'm going to take your cane and start clubbing your fans so that they stay back.”

“Five.”

They were moving again slowly, with him waving, as they headed for the first point of the zig.

“Fine, but only because an odd number would flow better toward the door with you going in this direction first.” She quieted down as he approached the edge.

Once again, pieces of paper, magazines, pictures...things were thrust at Liam, and he dutifully signed and shook hands.

Every time he was ready to walk again she joined him and they made their way back to the other side, pausing for photos along the way, and once to speak with a camera crew who called to him for an interview.

Why was he using a cane?

Who was his date?

Was she the reason he'd broken up with Simone Andre?

Though she saw a tic in his jaw with the last question, Liam answered everything politely. Sprained ankle. Grace Watson. No. He'd begged Grace to come with him last night, and she'd miraculously been available.

At the last leg of the carpet, a very little boy at the front asked about the cane. Even though Liam had given this answer at least thirty times since that first crew had asked, he stopped in front of the boy and shifted his weight to the good leg so he could pinch the pants leg and lift it, showing the expanse of white tape poking up above his sock. “I fell down when I was running.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Oh, it hurts, but I wanted to come and have fun here tonight with everyone. Plus, they gave me a cane to use and it's got a sword in it.” He pulled the handle up to give the boy a peek of the blade. “I couldn't pass up a chance to use a sword cane.”

And he actually had been using the cane, and not just as a cool prop. Why he'd ever been upset to begin with still didn't compute with her.

There was some gasping over the awesome sword cane, the boy lifting his own pants leg to show Liam his bandaged knee.

As much as she wanted to usher him right off into the theater and make him sit, make him take the weight off it, there was no way she'd interrupt wound comparisons and “I fell too” stories.

By the time she thought her face would split from smiling, the little guy's mother opened her bag and after some digging produced and unwrapped a colorful bandage.

She watched as Liam lifted his cuff and the little boy crawled beneath the velvet rope to pull Liam's sock down and place the bandage right over the bump of his taped ankle, a cartoon character bandage in an expanse of white tape.

Her heart squeezed as she watched. He might complain about how crowds drained him, but he loved it too. He was so sweet to the boy she had to look away briefly to banish sappy tears.

He fought to be at all these events, and it wasn't just because he wanted his career to continue being wildly successful—although, of course, that had to factor in. It was something more.

He posed for pictures with the boy this time, and their matching bandages, then made it the last few steps into the theater.

“Let's find where we're sitting. I need to sit.”

“Of course you do. It still took forty-five minutes to make it into the building.”

“And that was fast, Grace. I've spent two hours out there before.” He leaned on the cane heavily and gestured for an usher. Soon they were being led to a small balcony to sit down. “Will we have people here with us?”

He nodded and then proceeded to name names—all of which she'd heard before, and none of whom she'd met.

Before they got there, she leaned forward in her seat to look at his leg. The tape looked tight but not tight enough to cut off circulation. She pulled the sock up for him, and set it all to rights. “Will there be any empty seats?”

He did a quick seat count and then shook his head. “Probably not.”

“Can we get a footstool brought up?”

“Oh, that we might be able to do,” he said, and then looked at her long enough to demand her attention. “You're always concerned about my leg and pain level.”

“Of course I am.”

“Because you know how it is to have an injury?”

There was an edge to his voice, prompting her to make eye contact again in the low light of the theater.

“I'd like to think that I'd still care without that painful time in my past.”

“How did you get hurt?” He didn't sound angry, as he had in the hotel, but there was more emotion in his voice than she'd expect from someone who'd stayed away so effectively. And who hadn't felt the same way about her as she'd felt about him.

Even if she'd avoided asking about Liam, she'd always thought he'd probably still kept up with her through Nick. Nick was a talker, and he had spent a lot of time in the hospital with her while she'd recovered. “Nick really didn't tell you about my accident? I thought you two told one another everything.”

“No. He never did. Which is pretty weird...”

Yes. Weird. Unless Nick knew about them. “I had a motorcycle accident when I was nineteen.”

“I never heard about you having a motorcycle either.”

“I didn't. My boyfriend at the time... It was his motorcycle. After that, I had a lot of rehab. But it pretty much scratched professional swimmer off my career list. So I'm doing the next best thing.”

He made some sound of affirmation, but it didn't sound settled.

Liam leaving had made her reckless, always seeking out the bad boy. That particular bad boy had made her go to the other extreme. Which made this premiere business so out of character for her that it could've been a joke. If someone had said to her last week that she'd be glittering from head to toe at a New York City premiere she'd have definitely thought it was some kind of joke where her dullness was the punch line. Because her life had been dull, probably. Other people would find the clientele exciting, and sometimes she did, but it was hard to be impressed by celebrities when she'd known Liam as long as she had. He was a real person, and that made them all too real and flawed as well.

Maybe they were all wounded too. Maybe it took that kind of hurt to get someone from talented to artist.

“I'm going to go find the usher,” she said, mostly because she didn't know what else to say. “See if we can get that footstool.”

Before her musings moved onto lamentations of what she couldn't have.

* * *

“The movie was good,” Grace said, shifting in the back seat of the limo, not sure of where or even how to sit now that their charade of a date was over. “You were good. Not that I expected anything different. But all those period costumes, I loved it. It felt like a real story. Not just all the flash-bang stuff that goes on in your action movies.”

For the entire evening she'd been pretty much plastered to Liam's side, and now, sitting with space around her, she felt cold. And lonely. Making useless small talk also felt awkward.

“Grace Watson, are you saying you don't like my action movies?” Unlike earlier, Liam had taken a spot up by the door, his legs stretched out in front of him.