Tamed by You (3 page)

He wasn't certain that wouldn't be an improvement over his current state.

"What about sex?"
Bull asked. It would’ve been a random and awkward transition coming from anyone else. Bull, however, was always thinking about sex, so it wasn't a shocking question in the least.

For some reason,
Ethan
thought of that little redhead who'd accosted him a number of weeks ago.
Valentine Jones
,
it said on
the card that she'd shoved at his chest. A matchmaker.

She'd barely looked old enough, especially in the Stepford Wife outfit she'd had on
. O
ddly, her proper little sweater and pearls really turned him on. Of course, he was one bump away from being a permanent vegetable
, so he took it all with a grain of salt
.

"Well?"
Bull
backhanded his shoulder. "When was the last time you got laid?"

"No comment." Lately,
when he took care of himself,
he thought about Valentine Jones and unbuttoning her little sweater.

"Dude." His friend shook his head. "Don't you miss the ladies?
Ethan 'the Predator' Hunter
used to have so many of them."

"I'm no longer the Predator."
He shoved off the ergonomic kneeling stool he'd bought for himself when he started working on his mouthpiece idea. "I used to have a lot of things I don't have any more."

Bull
studied him silently, his thoughts guarded. Then he shrugged and said, "I was invited to a party on Friday. Wanna go? I could hook you up with a hottie. There's this girl named Lisle who's half blind, which is necessary for someone like you
,
who
wasn't blessed with good looks like me
."

Ethan looked at
Bull
's craggy face
,
with its crooked nose
,
scars
,
and freaky vague outline of a tattoo,
and shook his head. "Can you go be
blessed
somewhere else?"

"I have a date anyway." He pushed off the chair. "Come work out with me tomorrow."

"No."

"Come on, E. Just an easy workout. I'll let you beat on me."

"No." Going anywhere near the ring was torture. It reminded him of
what
he'd lost and everything
they'd told him he'd never have again
.

But he'd show them. He was determined to prove them wrong.

"Fine, be that way. But I'm going to get you to go out
eventually,
because living like this blows."
Bull
pointed a finger at him. "It's time, dude. Man up."

Ethan turned back to the worktable he'd set up in the small dining room. The thing was, his life had been taken from him. He wasn't even a person, much less a man.
He didn't have anything to offer anyone.

Unless he could get his mouth guard idea off the ground. If he made a mouth guard that could distribute the force of a blow, he could fight again. He'd feel the thrill of walking to the ring, fans screaming his name. He'd feel adrenaline from facing a worthy opponent and winning. He'd have purpose again.

He'd be whole.

Ethan pulled his notes forward. He'd do it. No doubts, no distractions. He'd been a winner, and he'd prove that he was one again.

Chapter Three

Sophie Martineau huddled in a blanket (not hers), in a kitchen (also not hers), holding a cup of hot water with lemon squeezed into it.
She had her journal open in front of her but, instead of writing, she stared out the window to the eucalyptus grove behind the house.

She'd
never felt so alone or adrift
.
E
ver.

When had her life gone so wrong?

She shivered and pulled the blanket closer around her. She
never saw it coming. One m
inute,
she was on top of the world. The next
,
she was swimming in dregs, dark and murky.

Rejection.

She hated that word, but it was hounding her. It started when
her boyfriend,
Jeremy Priest, the hottest actor on the Hollywood scene,
had
dumped her. They'd been together for six months—the longest she'd ever been with anyone—and he'd dumped
her
.

Worse, he
'd
dumped her for an actress who was twenty-four and perky.

Sophie hadn't been perky in years, and she was afraid she'd never be perky ever again. At thirty-
eight,
it was a downhill slide
, especially for someone who banked on her youth and looks
.

But young actors like Jeremy were a dime a dozen, and she was Sophie Martineau. She was one of the top-paid
actors
in the business. She was wanted.

Just
not by Jeremy, and not by Vince Cummings for his next movie.

As far as romantic comedies went, Vince was it. She'd worked with him over and over in the past ten years. When he'd told her about
his
latest movie
,
she’d been excited about starring in it.

Unfortunately, he wasn't. He hadn't even had the guts to tell her to her face—he'd called her agent and told him: She was too old for the part.

Which is
why
her agent
dumped
her.
Not because Sophie was getting old, but because she'd
yelled at him
for saying so, which lead to him saying
he was done with her dramatics. Forever.

No boyfriend. No part. No agent.

And then her birthday
came
, and she had no cake.

It'd been the last straw.

Not
that she liked cake, or even ate
it. S
h
e never ate anything with sugar. But she'd wanted a cake by Daniela Rossi, who only baked for royalty, Hollywood
or
otherwise.
Sophie had
decided she'd be damned if she wasn't getting a cake. So
after Daniela refused to make one for her, Sophie
hopped on a plane and came to Daniela's ho
us
e in San Francisco.

Some people would have called that insanity
, but that was what you did when you wanted something badly—you went for it.

What was
actually
insane was that
Sophie had
arrived at Daniela's house and never left. It was going on a month now. She didn't know where to go. She had no agent, no job, no life.

Although it was
n
't Daniela's home any longer. The baker had moved out to live with her
fiancé
. Now Daniela's brother lived in the four-story house by himself
.

Well—and with her.

Antonio Rossi didn't seem to mind too much. He hadn't been enthusiastic when she'd asked to stay there temporarily, but he hadn't tried to kick her out either. Sophie just stayed out of his way as much as possible. In a four-story house, it should have been easy, but he was always around.

He
bothered
her.

She pulled her knees up and rested her chin on them. She'd met Tony Rossi a few times before she'd moved into his house. They were in the same business
—
it was a given that they'd run into each other from time to time. But he'd always been an enigma, treating her with cool reserve.

Normally she
owned
men
.
She knew exactly how to use her power over them. But Tony made her uncomfortable. He didn't respond to any of her usual methods. Helplessness didn't work, and neither did anger or flirting. He watched her like he could see deep inside her, past the clothes and makeup, to the girl she'd been before she'd arrived in Hollywood. To Sarah Martin.

She hated that girl.

It was her worst fear: that she was becoming
her
again. That everything was going to fall apart, and one day she'd be back living in a shack similar to the one she'd grown up in.

Tony didn't like that girl either, if his expressions were any indication. There was always impatience and a not-so-subtle hint of annoyance on his face when he talked to her.

Dragging her journal closer, she wrote a snippet of dialogue.

Desiree:

I hate you
.
I wouldn't touch you if you were the last man on earth.

Charles [inches closer]:

You don't really believe that.

Desiree:

Wanna bet?

Charles [traps her in his arms]:

Careful with that wager, love. The odds are in my favor.

F
ootsteps echo
ed
on the marble floor
in the hall
, the tap of expensive Italian leather shoes.

Tony
.

Sophie slapped her journal closed, her stomach fluttering.
She should have been used to him bursting into the kitchen, but seeing him was a jolt to her heart. Every cell in her body shifted the moment he entered the kitchen and headed straight for the coffeemaker. He was dressed in custom-made clothes that fit his Adonis body to perfection. His dark curly hair was damp from the shower, and his face shaved smooth.

She wanted to touch it, to rub her cheek against his.

Not that she'd let him know he affected her that way. She grabbed her lukewarm lemon water as she pretended to dispassionately stare out the window. Inside, she felt like a teenager, unsure but giddy. On the outside, she knew she looked unimpressed. If her peers at the Academy could see her performance, she'd have won the Oscar, hands down.

"You realize that you've been sitting in that spot every morning
since you started squatting here
," he said
over the burble of the waking coffeemaker.

"T
h
is is a nice spot." She surreptitiously inhaled, taking in the scent of the
brewing
coffee. It was
wonderful
. There was a simple pleasure to drinking coffee. N
o
t that she allowed herself that luxury. She didn't touch
dark liquids
—
they yellowed her veneers.

Leaning against the counter, h
e
crossed his arms and studied her
. "You've been sitting in that seat for a month. Isn't it time you got off it?"

Probably
, but she had no idea what
to
do.
H
er
former
agent had told her she'd burned so many bridges that no one was willing to work with her. Ever.
Based on the calls she'd made, he'd been right. No one wanted to touch her. She had a reputation for being difficult; one agent had told her flat out.

Funny. She hadn't become successful until she'd started acting like a diva. The moment she'd started acting the part, her star had started to climb. She shook her head. What a catch-22.

Tony took a mug out of the cabinet and clanked it onto the counter. "Aren't you going to say anything? Are you
just
going to sit there and mope?"

"I'm not moping," she lied. "I'm considering my options."

"What options?"

Exactly.

Not that she'd admit that to him. She faced him. "You're an agent. Maybe you should rep me."

"Not in this lifetime."

She let her lips form a charming moue. "Why not?"

"Because I don't mix business and my personal life, and you're living with me."

"If you can call sharing this mausoleum 'living with you.'" She waved her hand. "This place is so big a person could go for weeks without seeing someone else."

"And yet I see you every day." He poured himself coffee.
"You want to know what I think your options are?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He ignored her. "You can get off your ass and do something meaningful with yourself."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you implying my life isn't meaningful?"

"
I'm not implying anything.
" He took cream out of the refrigerator.
"
I'm flat out stating.
"

"
I'm only taking a momentary break
."

"
Darling, your break has turned into a
calling
. Not that what you did before was all that great.
"

Stiffening, she set down her props.
"
Excuse me?
"

"T
he movies you make
and
the life you lead
are
all without substance.
" He drank his coffee, staring at her from over the rim of the cup. "I doubt you even like doing any of it. It only feeds your ego."

"I like making movies. Romantic comedies serve a purpose,"
she argue
d
.
"
People need to be happy.
"

Tony looked at her in his damn superior way. "And you're a qualified
happiness advocate?
"

"At least
I'm
trying to be happy." Gathering her things, she took her mug to the sink. Out of habit, she washed it and set it to dry.

"Are you insinuating that I'm not happy?" he asked, coming to stand next to her.

He smelled delicious, a mix of spice and coffee, and she wanted to lap him up. For a moment she just stood there and breathed him in. But then she faced him, lifted her brow, and gave him her haughtiest look. "If the custom-made suit fits . . ."

He leaned in. "I'm not the one who's hiding from the world."