Command Performance (8 page)

What about the horniness?
Mason thought to himself. He supposed it was his burden to bear until he got his shit together. He took one more long, yearning look at Constance and forced himself to walk out the door. On the way to the car, he fumbled with his phone and dialed Miri’s number.

“Hello?”

She sounded so happy to hear from him. He wanted to ask if he could come over. He wanted to sleep beside her in her bed and hold her and stroke her golden blonde hair, even if he couldn’t fuck her. “I’m sorry I’m calling so late. Do you want to go out again? I want to see you again. Are you free any time next week?”

“Sure, Mason. I can go out anytime. I’m not working at the moment.”

I’ll help you find work. I’ll help you. I’m not going to be an asshole.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? We’ll set something up after I check my schedule.”

“Okay. Awesome!”

In those two little words he could feel her giddy excitement. Oh, God, this whole situation was horrible. And wonderful.

He was losing his fucking mind.

Mason sent the driver to the door. He couldn’t deal with her father’s growls and grimaces at the moment. They were off to dinner at Mr. Chow’s, then a studio party, because it would help Miri.

Help Miri. Help Miri.
That had become his new mantra. Photos of them still flooded the tabloids and entertainment blogs. The photos from the poetry reading popped up everywhere and seemed proof to the public that their relationship was deepening fast. Mason had to admit there was an intimacy and charm to the ones he’d seen. Candid amateur photos always came across as more real, even if they were underexposed and blurry. Maybe because they were underexposed and blurry.

Mr. Chow’s would be a great photo opportunity for paps and amateurs alike. Celebrities who wanted to be seen only had to breeze through Mr. Chow’s doors, where a gauntlet of paparazzi camped most hours of the day. And the studio party... Mason had been to hundreds of them, but he hoped Miri would find some use in it. He had his next four projects lined up, but she had far less options. She had the talent though. If he could help get her career off the ground, help her navigate the transition from child star to serious actress, he would feel less guilty when this whole PR stunt was over. Not that she had the least inkling she was participating in a PR stunt.

Not that it was only a PR stunt. Not anymore.

She ducked her head into the limo, her wide smile infectious. “Hi, Mason.”

“Hi, gorgeous. I love that color on you.”

She was in a semi-formal gown, a slinky confection in deep blue that still managed to communicate a certain alluring innocence thanks to a matching wrap. No flashy jewelry, just some pretty teardrop earrings. He would have to text his stylist later and give him a raise. He was really outdoing himself with Miri. Mason took her hand as she slid across the seat, then pressed a kiss on her cheek. “I love your smile too. You always smile when you see me.”

She laughed. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He thought of his ex-wife Jessamine. In the end, she’d only smiled at him in front of the cameras, in the public eye. But Miri wasn’t Jessamine. He had to stop comparing the two. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

He couldn’t help stealing a look down the front of her dress as she shifted to pull at the strap of one of her pumps. He was starving too, but not for Chinese food. She collapsed against his side, unlike Jessamine, who never let him touch her on the way to any event.
Don’t wrinkle my dress. Don’t kiss me—my makeup!
She’d been a consummate professional. Miri was...well...

An innocent, Mason. She’s not for you.
He’d done the math, knew exactly how many years separated them. Not only that, but they had wildly disparate levels of sexual experience. He still put his arm around her and took her hand, breathing in her fresh, floral-scented sweetness.

“You look handsome, as always.” She gazed up at him, her pretty eyes far too worshipful. “What are you wearing tonight?”

“Dior.”

“Very dashing.”

“Have you been to Mr. Chow’s before?” he asked.

She wrinkled her nose. “It’s a paparazzi trap, isn’t it? I’ve been a few times, but no one’s bothered to photograph me.”

He ran his thumb over her hand, squeezing her fingers. “They will tonight. But you’re probably getting used to it.” There’d been paparazzi camped out for days at her little house in suburban L.A. Her father had called to insist he do something about it, but Mason had very little power over them.

She shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me. You deal with it all the time, a thousand times worse than I do.”

There was that, then, to lessen his guilt. When he let her go, the paparazzi wouldn’t hound her like they were now. That would be a relief to her, surely.

When they arrived, he got out first. A hundred flashes went off as he reached down to help her from the car. Mr. Chow’s always told the paps which celebrities had reservations, and with Mason and his new date expected, there were droves of press on the curb. He was used to the yelling and jostling, but he fretted over Miri’s little glance of alarm, and the way she tried to hide it behind a forced smile. Inside the restaurant, things weren’t much better. He’d asked for a private table but they were put on display in the center. Lots of stars around them, lots of schmoozing. By the time the food arrived he felt frazzled, and he was sure Miri felt worse. Even though she’d claimed to be starving, Mason noted she ate almost nothing at all.

Well, the party would be better. More private, less frenetic. An aspiring actress like Miri would be thrilled to hobnob with so many industry people. Not just actors, but directors, producers, big money folks. They sailed into the luxe ballroom together, her sweaty hand clutching his.

“Don’t be nervous,” he whispered as a photographer swept by to capture a discreet pic. “These are just people. Remember that.”

She smiled up at him. “I know. I remember when you freaked me out big time. Now you’re just a person. A really wonderful person,” she added with another worshipful gaze.

Jesus Christ. The guilt. He kissed her, a short, sweet kiss. Was it only because the photog was still there sneaking pictures? No, it was because she was kind and effusive and...authentic. He looked around the room. Jeremy and Nell. Great to see them but he didn’t dare hang out with them. He saw the director of his last film, the one before
Revelation
. Nice guy. Slightly crazy. Gareth was there too. He came over to greet the two of them and they small talked for a while. Mason could see Gareth trying to ferret out the truth from their body language, their responses. Were they really together? Mason knew everyone suspected it was a stunt. Everyone but the American public—who wanted this fairy tale—and Miri, who thought he was a
really wonderful person
.

Well, he did feel like a wonderful person around her, when he wasn’t fantasizing about cuffing her to a rack and forcing his cock into her virgin ass. She made him want to be a wonderful person rather than the oversexed pervert he knew himself to be, so he set about introducing her to any influential people he came across. There was a lot of good shop talk about big projects, even if Miri wasn’t in any of them. Yet. In a very promising powwow, a producer Mason respected very much asked her where she was planning to take her career. Mason hovered like a nervous parent, but she held her own. By the end of the conversation, the producer gave her his card and urged her to contact him. When the man left, Miri grasped Mason’s hand and squeezed it secretly, as if to say,
Holy hell
.

He leaned down to give her a quick nuzzle. “He liked you. You’re good at this.”

She sagged against his side. “I’m freaking out.”

Mason turned and watched in dread as David Ferris, arrogant producer and all around annoying blowhard, swaggered up to him, extending his hand. When Mason pretended not to see it, David clapped him on the arm instead—and he wasn’t a weak guy. Mason attempted a smile. David was powerful enough in Hollywood that a star of Mason’s caliber still had to play nice. And, well, this might be another opportunity for Miri. David had an eye for pretty ingénues and a very pretty one was slinking around somewhere behind Mason’s back. Gritting his teeth, he clapped David on the arm just as hard and met him head on. “David—” he began, reaching behind him for Miri.

“Mason, you dog,” David crowed. “Whose stroke of genius was it, having you squire Mireille Durand around town?”

Mason froze in the act of nudging Miri and suddenly wished she was miles away. “David—” Mason said again.

“Did a double take when I saw you with her at the Golden Globes, but then a friend spelled it out for me.” The portly man held up his drink as if in a toast. “From sexpot to sweetheart, and your image is restored. Great campaign. Who does your PR?”

Mason frowned. Was it his imagination or was everyone in the room suddenly staring at them? In the deepening silence, he felt rather than heard Miri move away. He felt the loss of her warmth, the loss of her presence.
Ah, Miri, don’t let them see you fall apart. They’ll just enjoy it, and they won’t forget.

David pulled a face. “God, hope I didn’t just put my foot in my mouth. Or your mouth. Didn’t see her back there.”

“Excuse me,” Mason replied in a carefully modulated voice. He turned from Ferris, now gleefully, falsely apologetic, and scanned the room, ignoring the assessing glances. Which way had she gone? Jeremy caught his eye and nodded in the direction of the bar. Mason strolled that way, unhurried and serene. Acting. Unpleasantness followed David Ferris like a stench, but this unpleasantness affected Mason directly. And it affected poor Miri in a very big, public way.

The bar area was crawling with people. Whether by savvy or pure instinct, she’d done the right thing and not hidden. She was seated halfway down the leather-trimmed bar, looking small atop an oversize wooden stool. She was having an animated conversation with the bartender. The man turned away. As Mason approached, he saw him pour three generous shots of raspberry vodka into what was otherwise a perfectly disguised Shirley Temple.

Mason took the stool to the right of Miri as the bartender delivered the brightly colored drink. Mason waited for her to speak, bracing for wrath, reproach. He deserved whatever she dished out to him.

She took a small sip of the concoction. “Keeping up appearances for your ‘campaign,’” she said. “I asked if he could make a Shirley Temple that would get me drunk.”

Mason blinked, took out his wallet, and slid the bartender a hundred dollar tip. He ordered vodka straight up for himself. “I’m sorry, Miri.” Mason wanted to hold her, wanted to soothe her. His hands made helpless fists in his lap. “I’m so sorry.”

She looked at him sideways. “It’s true?”

Somehow, those words pained him more than anything else she could have said. She had doubted. Wonderfully, she had assumed David Ferris was full of shit, but Mason couldn’t backtrack now. He decided on pure honesty, because she deserved no less.

“At first, dating you was a PR maneuver. Yes. I didn’t tell you because... I don’t know. It seemed so calculated.”

She choked a little on her drink. “That’s because it was calculated.”

He leaned closer, wary of eavesdroppers. “But I’ve enjoyed our time together. That’s not a lie, it’s the truth. I started dating you as a PR stunt but I’ve enjoyed every moment I spent with you. I’ve been missing something genuine, something pure in my life. I didn’t realize that until I met you.” He looked over at her. She was tonguing the cherry from her drink with a complete disregard for what it might do to any man watching. He did a quick scan of the room. Yes, several men leering.

“Can I have your cherry?” he blurted out, literally wanting to make the damn cherry go away, but then the other meaning hit him and he felt a rush of heat to his groin.

Miri, unsurprisingly, didn’t catch the subtext. “If you want a cherry, I’ll get you one.” She waved over the bartender, her new best friend. Was she already buzzed? “Can we have some more cherries?”

With a nod and a priceless look of irony, the young man deposited a heaping bowl of red, shiny fruit in front of Mason.

“Enough?” the bartender asked. “Let me know if you need more.”

Mason scowled at him. Fucking upstart. He was torn between giving the young man his business card and punching him in the face. He looked down at the bright red bowl of cherries in front of him. He hated maraschino cherries. Miri was still tonguing hers in between delicate sips of vodka and sweetness. She twirled the cherry on its stem, dipping it in and out of her cocktail.

“Money can buy anything, huh?” Miri asked, gazing over at him.

“No money ever changed hands. I swear. It wasn’t like that—” He stopped at the expression on her face. “You meant the cherries.”

“I meant the cherries. Yes.”

Mason took a deep swig of vodka, feeling it burn down his throat and into his lungs. “Miri, I know I’ve given you no reason to trust me, or believe anything I say, but I’ve enjoyed our time together, I swear. If we weren’t so mismatched... Well.” His courage petered out. “I don’t know.”

“Are we mismatched?”

“I’m way too old for you,” he said gently. “I’m jaded and cynical”—he lowered his voice—“and sexually deviant. I’ve been married twice, divorced twice. I’m dishonest.” He forced his gaze to hers. “Worst of all, I use people without thought to how they might feel.”

None of the anger he wanted from her was evident. She reached out instead, with wide, sympathetic eyes, and stroked his cheek. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. I was using you too.”

Those words, coming from her, were like a roundhouse kick to the neck. Mason pounded the rest of his drink and signaled for another. Miri stared at the section of the bar between them. “I hope you’re not mad. But, see, I have PR problems of my own.”

He shook his head, confused. “PR problems? Everyone remembers you as sweet little Hannah on
Two Wonderful
. They watched you grow up. They love you.”