Stealing Gold (The Logan Series Book 4) (11 page)

Her
mouth curved. “Like Vegas.”

Back
when all that mattered was feeling each other’s skin, tasting each other’s
mouths.

“I
want that too.” Her voice was low and husky. “I don’t want to think any more.
Tomorrow we have to walk out that door, and face the world. I have so much to
do.” She breathed in deep. “But tonight, I want what you want; more than that,
I need it.”

“So
let’s go.” Screw listening to the voice in his head. Screw everything but being
with her right now. Tomorrow could take care of itself.

In
the bedroom, her dress was unzipped, and eased it from her shoulders. Every
strokeable inch was lightly tanned—warm to the touch. The navy bra fastened at
the front, so he unclipped it and cupped her breasts. Old, unspoken lies had
festered for months. But new truth, was written in every touch they shared. At
her urging, he stripped, and in moments joined her on the bed.

She
pushed him onto his back. He reached out, but she shook her head, caramel hair
tumbling around her face. “I’m in charge tonight.”

He
hardened instantly.

She
held his wrists and guided them to the iron posts at the bed head. “Hold on.”

“You
going to tie me up?” He couldn’t stop grinning at the thought. Stacy’d never
shown this dominant side before; he liked it.

“Not
if you keep holding on. No touching, otherwise I will.” She traced a line across
his chest, with light, teasing fingertips. Then she straddled him, and bent to
claim his mouth.

God,
he wanted to touch. Wanted to feel. Not touching was already torture.

She
arched her back and flattened her chest to his, moving side to side, the hard
points of her nipples brushing against him. Her inner thighs contracted,
squeezing his hips. Then her hand moved lower, and her fingers curled around
his cock. She murmured words explicitly saying what she wanted, where she
wanted him.

“Condom.”
He forced out through gritted teeth.

She
sat up, and leaned over to reach the bedside table, retrieved one, and ripped
the foil, then scooted down his thighs a fraction, and sheathed him.

“You’re
doing very well.” She breathed in, expanding her rib cage, and forcing her
beautiful breasts up. In the dim light cast by the bedside lamp, she looked
like a fantasy. Like a Botticelli nude, or a playboy pinup. “I know you want to
touch me.”

He
did, but the game she was playing was worth not acting on his impulses.

She
rocked forward, until her heat was brushing against him, then rotated her
pelvis until he groaned. “You’re killing me.”

She
just smiled, a wait-for-it smile, then she did some sort of shimmy and he was
at her entrance. Deliciously slowly, she eased onto him, and that was it. The
game was over. He gripped her hips, and rather than complain she laughed, low
and throaty, and gripped onto his shoulders as he devoured her mouth.

Their
tongues tangled, her hair brushed against the side of his face, surrounding him
in a perfumed haze. He smoothed over the curve of her hips, the dip of her
waist, then flicked his fingers over her erect nipples. The desire to taste
warred with reluctance to shift her position, because the way her inner muscles
were clutching him was just too delicious. He palmed her breasts, loving the
way she moaned into his mouth, and let her ride him.

She
eased up until he was almost out of her, then slammed back down onto him, again
and again, faster and faster. He held her face, then her hips again, gripping
her so tightly his fingers would leave marks on her flesh.

This
was no soft and gentle loving, no unhurried exploration of each other’s bodies.
It was raw, primal, out of control. The sounds she was making heated his blood
to boiling, focused his attention on giving her everything.

He
forced a hand between their slick bodies, rubbed his thumb over her clit, and
felt a surge of male pride when her body shuddered and clutched around his.

Hold
on…

She
cried his name, and there was no holding on any longer. He wrapped his arms
tightly around her and with a couple of deep, desperate thrusts, followed her
into bliss.

Chapter
Twelve

As
they approached the studio the following morning, the hope that perhaps the
whole situation had died down was completely blown out of the water. A phalanx
of cars, and even a couple of camera crews were crowded around the front door.

Adam
swore. “Will we make a run for it?”

“Too
late.” They’d been spotted. The crowd was already heading their direction.
She’d  be damned if she’d abandon her plan for the day by running and hiding. “It’ll
be okay.” She breathed deep, and clutched her bag between curled fingers.

Once
Adam parked she exited the car quickly.

“Miss
Gold! Over here! Stacy!”

She
plastered on a professional smile. Took a deep breath. Then turned to face the
cameras. “Good morning.”

Someone
shoved a mic under her nose. “What’s your reaction to the news that your
manager is in critical condition?”

Biting
back her first response, she composed her expression to neutral. “It’s terrible
news. I’m afraid I don’t have any more information than you do, but I hope
Lester will recover.”

“We’ve
been hearing reports that he’s under investigation by the FBI for embezzlement.
Have you any comment?”

They’d
done their homework.
“I’m afraid I can’t comment.” She blazed her camera-ready smile. “I’m sorry,
but I need to get inside. I have work to do.”

There
were calls for her to pose to the right and to the left, but she ignored them;
the last thing that was appropriate was to be photographed smiling like an
idiot above an article about her crooked manager fighting for his life. Adam
curled a hand around her elbow. He stood close, forming a solid barrier between
her and the throng, then quickstepped her into the building.

Sean
unlocked the door as they approached. “We’ve had people sneaking in all
morning.” Before the journalists could intrude, he twisted the key in the lock.
Turning to them with wild eyes, he shoved a hand through his hair. “It’s crazy.
I didn’t even get a chance to call you, to warn you...”

Stacy
placed a hand on his arm. The poor guy looked stressed enough to have a heart
attack. “Now they have my statement and have taken a few pictures, they should
leave us alone.” She tried to give the impression that she wasn’t bothered, but
the presence of so many people wanting access to her made her nervous and set
her pulse racing. It was always like this, whenever she found herself in a
situation she couldn’t control. Apollo had shielded her from most of it, his
huge bulk commanded respect and kept people at bay.

She
glanced back. The crowd was watching through the glass, still taking
photographs. “We should move.” She walked with studied nonchalance into the
safe confines of the studio.

“Thank
god for the lack of windows in here.”

Christine
and the director, Eamonn, hurried over. “You can’t be expected to work under
these conditions,” Eamonn said. “I’m so sorry to hear about your manager.”

“Thank
you.” She moved away from that topic of conversation—there was no point in
discussing Lester. “But I’ll be fine. I just need to catch my breath.” She
swung a chair around and sat down. “They scent blood in the water. There’s no
way I’ll be able to find any peace today, they’ll follow me wherever I go.” She
dropped her bag onto the floor. “I want to be here. Today, I don’t want to be
Stacy Gold. I want to be the squirrel.”

“You
want to be the squirrel?” Eamonn’s expression matched Sean’s. “You...uh...”

“She
wants to be the squirrel.” Christine crossed her arms. “What Stacy means by
that is that she wants to get into character.” She arched a brow. “She’s been
doing an excellent job of being the squirrel all week.”

“Right.”
Relief was evident in Eamonn’s smile. “I thought you were losing it then.”

Stacy
shook her head. “I just want to work.”

When
the others left, she went to the corner of the room and poured a cup of coffee.
Christine joined her. “How are you?” Her head tilted to the side, and the
warmth of her genuine concern cut through the walls Stacy had erected to get
through the day. “Whatever you want to do today, I’ll do.”

“I
wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted to work. Things are crazy, and likely to
get crazier over the next few days. I want to make sure that we get the work
done we need to. I don’t want to slow production of the film.”

“You
won’t.” Christine patted Stacy’s back. “We have a studio in the States, so if
you have to leave, you will be able to continue recording from a distance. I
just needed to be here to help you until you got the hang of things. But I’m
confident you can continue without me if needs be.” She handed over a sheaf of
papers. “Okay, so how about we work on this scene this morning?”

It
was a relief to retreat from the world outside and immerse herself into the
world of a country squirrel making her way in the big city. Christine read the
alternate parts, really living the roles she portrayed, making it easy for
Stacy to record her segments, and time passed quickly. Before she knew it, they
had the first scene in the bag, and rather than taking a break, Stacy continued
on to the next scene. When that was done, Christine suggested they look through
the rest of the script at the table.

“After
lunch, I’d planned on recording a scene where Bibi hears that her mother is
sick, but it’s fairly intense, so maybe you want to skip that today. We could
work on another fun scene instead?”.

“Let
me just read through it.”

Christine
passed over stapled sheets. “I’ll just go and talk to Eamonn for a couple of
minutes.”

Stacy
scooted back in the chair and started to read. The scene started with Bibi
giving her first public performance in front of a live audience in The Nuttery,
a nightclub in the big city. She’d made a couple of friends at this stage, and
they sat in the audience, cheering her on. When the performance was over, a
local talent scout involved with The Springtime Festival, sidled over and
offered her a spot in the festival in the park that was happening the following
day.

Bibi
was delighted. Excited. All her plans were coming to fruition. Her friends
toasted her success with acorns full of mead. Who knew squirrels drank mead?

Then,
in the crowd, she saw a familiar face. A neighbor and friend from home, Benji, a
rabbit from the nearby hillock hopping toward her. When he passed on the news
that her mother was sick—that she’d crawled into their drey and was refusing to
eat, Bibi instantly knew what she needed to do. Even though she would miss the
concert the following day, even though she might be throwing away the chance
she’d come to the big city to find, she had to go home.

There
followed a sequence of her trekking out of the city, avoiding obstacles like
people and traffic, with Benji by her side. When they made it safely into the
countryside, the script reported that the visuals would be a montage of ‘fun
times Bibi had with her mother’. Stacy’s lips moved as she soundlessly read the
words, bringing them to life in Bibi’s voice.

Bibi’s
mother tucking her into bed at night, after reading her a story. Making her breakfast,
walking her to school, and being there the moment the bell rang to bring her
home again. Nursing her when she was sick. Lighting the candles on her birthday
cake, and singing Happy Birthday as she blew them out.

Stacy’d
never had a birthday cake.

Or
been walked to school.

Even
a fictional squirrel had a better childhood than she had.

She
tossed the script onto the table, and covered her eyes with her hand.

A
year after her first album came out, she’d begged Lester to take her back. The
hope was still alive that maybe they’d be proud of her. That somehow the fact
that she’d managed to make something beautiful might change things.

Her
mother looked smaller than she remembered. She stood in the doorway and stared
at Stacy with no recognition in her blank eyes. Her name was Belle, but there
was nothing beautiful about her drink reddened face and unwashed skin. When
Stacy’d introduced herself, she’d shaken her head so vehemently her greasy hair
swung.

“I
don’t have a daughter.” She made to shut the door, but then glanced over to
Lester at Stacy’s side. She blinked. “I remember you. You’re the guy who sends
the money.”

Lester
nodded.

“You
still send the money, right?” Her eyes narrowed.

“I
still send the money.” He stepped to the side, partially shielding Stacy from
her mother’s sight—if her mother could be bothered to look, that is.

“I
do what you say. I remember. I don’t have a daughter.” There was pride in Belle’s
raspy voice. “Say, I’m running short this month, could you spare me something
to tide me over?”

Lester
peeled off a couple of fifties and handed them over.

Stacy
never asked to be taken to see them again.

She
threw the script onto the table, and cursed how unsettled she felt reliving the
past. He may have stolen from her, but when Lester had taken her away from that
life he’d saved her too.

Then
another memory materialized. Of school, and the teacher who had mysteriously
brought too much lunch every day. An extra sandwich, which she’d handed Stacy
surreptitiously. What was her name? The answer was elusive, long forgotten,
even though the face of that teacher, who had also taught Stacy to play the
guitar and wanted her to join the school band, could never be forgotten.

She’d
be proud
.
Instead of her parents, she should have asked Lester to take her back to
school, to show the teacher what she’d achieved, despite her start in life.

But
just as she couldn’t remember that teacher’s name, the teacher probably never
even learned her student’s new name. Ten years ago, Stacy had driven away in
Lester’s car, never looking back. A new life, a new identity, a new beginning,
all wrapped in denial of what had gone before, what had shaped her, had been
the way she’d dealt with everything.

And
when the woman at the door of the apartment that had been her home for fourteen
years wouldn’t even acknowledge her, that last spark of hope had been snuffed
out.

A
lifetime of rejection had taught her to avoid the risk and run.

The
door swung open, and Christine walked in. “Let’s go to lunch.” Her gaze took in
the discarded script. “Have you decided what we’ll work on this afternoon?”

“Yes.”
Stacy stood. “Anything but that.”

*****

Their
contact at Plaxtair was unhappy. So unhappy, he’d forced himself from bed to
host an urgent Skype call.

Adam
and Sean sat one side of the desk while the flinty-eyed, suit-clad executive
stared at them through the screen. Adam had only had a couple of meetings with
Barney Meisner—both of which had been laid back get to know yous, rather than
the hardball kick-assing that Barney now seemed ready to deliver.

“Management
isn’t happy, guys. We don’t want the name of our corporation linked to a
possible conman, and right now every time Lester Jones is mentioned, the fact
that Stacy is working on our movie comes in the next sentence. You need to get
a handle on this.”

“Stacy
is a victim here.” Adam crossed his arms. “Her manager took a for everything
she had.”

“Yet
she knew this when she took on the job.” Barney’s eyes narrowed. “As did you.
You knew damn well that the character’s image was important—hell, we fired the
previous actress for immoral behavior—and yet you still failed to flag this as
a possible problem.”

“Stacy
has done nothing wrong.” Adam gritted his teeth.

“In
that case, all she has to do is make a statement. Tell the world that she isn’t
involved in any fraudulent dealings. That her manager cheated her. I don’t want
to recast the role again, but I will if we have no choice. We can’t afford bad
publicity.” His brow furrowed. “We won’t accept it. The contract between us
states you comply with our conditions.” He leafed through the stapled sheaf of
papers before him, then stabbed at the text with his index finger. “Here.
Clause nine: neither party will bring the project into disrepute. This is a
deal breaker. We’ve pumped money into this project, and I know you have too. We
want to see this project made; the last thing we want to do is cancel, but if
you don’t get this cleared up within thirty-six hours, it’s either a new
actress or the end of our collaboration.”

Sean
leaned forward. “You can’t do that to us.”

Barney
stared back, resolute. “We can, and we will. You don’t seem to understand,
Sean. Plaxtair isn’t just a company, it’s a juggernaut. If legal gets involved
I’ll have no chance of redeeming the situation. I’ve been given thirty-six
hours, no more.” He looked to his left and the sound of someone speaking could
dimly be heard. “Yes.”

He
returned his attention to the Skype call. “Thirty-six hours. Keep in touch.”

The
screen went blank.