The Ex Factor (11 page)

With a lascivious smile, Mitchell takes my hand and turns, leading me across the palatial living area to the bedroom. It’s every bit as lavish as the rest of the penthouse, but I barely register all the grand details because my focus is well and truly on the unmade king bed at its centre.

I go directly to it, sit down and kick off my shoes. Wordlessly, I pat the sheet next to me. Mitchell takes a step forward, then stops, suddenly hesitant. He rakes a hand through his close-cropped hair.

‘Kitty, I . . .’ He looks troubled.

I risk a glance below the waistband of his jeans. The straining fabric there tells me his thirst for me remains unquenched. Still, something tells me I’m not going to like whatever he says next.

‘Before we do this,’ Mitchell continues. ‘
If
we’re going to do this, I think there’s something we need to talk about.’

My heart sinks a little. He wants to
talk
? He has a half-dressed woman in his bed and he’d rather chitchat?

‘You know I’m only going to be in Sydney for a few more weeks. Shooting on
Solitaire
is actually on schedule and I start another movie in LA as soon as I’m done here,’ he says.

The penny drops. Mitchell is telling me he can’t offer me anything beyond his stay in Sydney. He wants nothing more from me than no-strings-attached sex. It’s the ‘I want you but I don’t
want
you’ speech. I feel my cheeks flush with shame. Of course he only wants a bed buddy while he’s in town. What’s the alternative – a long-distance relationship between Sydney and Los Angeles? He abandons his movie career to shack up with the crazy dog lady in Narrabeen? I must be the most deluded not-quite notch on a bedpost ever.

I get to my feet, hastily buttoning my blouse and searching for my shoes. I find one, but the other seems to have vanished.
Damn it
. I’ll run out of here barefoot if I have to.

‘What are you doing?’ Mitchell says, jumping up. His face a picture of confusion. Someone give the man an Oscar.

‘What does it look like? I’m leaving.’

‘What? Why? Kitty, I don’t understand.’

I finally locate the errant stiletto under a corner of Mitchell’s bedspread and jam my foot into it.

‘I do. I understand exactly what you’re saying, Mitchell, and I suppose I’m grateful to you for being upfront about it. But I’m not in the habit of sleeping with guys who put a use-by date on our . . . whatever this is. I’m not here to just help you pass the time until you jet back to Hollywood. I’m sure there are plenty of women in Sydney who’ll gladly play that role for you, but I deserve to be more than someone’s “arrangement”.’

I stride out of the bedroom and into the hall, pausing only to pick up my discarded trench. Mitchell is hot on my heels. He grabs my elbow as I reach for the door handle.

‘Kitty, wait! You’ve got it all wrong. Don’t you remember what I said last night?’

‘Oh yes. That was a nice touch. All that stuff about rushing to my side whenever I need you and how we could really be something? You’re certainly thorough, Mitchell, I’ll give you that. Inventing a whole story for us. And giving me a car! You’re quite the method actor.’

He squeezes his eyes shut tight and rubs his hands over his face. ‘Kitty Hayden, you are easily the most exasperating woman I have ever met,’ he says at length. ‘Have you ever, in your life, stopped and waited to get the whole story before you fly off the handle?’

I fold my coat over my arm and arch one eyebrow. ‘Go on, then. What am I missing?’

Mitchell looks me straight in the eye. The ferocity of his gaze is quite unnerving. ‘You’re right about one thing. I do want you . . . that way. Right now and tomorrow and every day I’m in Sydney.’

I roll my eyes. ‘I thought you said I had it all wrong.’

‘And every day after that as well.’

Okay.
That
I was not expecting.

‘Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I’m trying to protect myself a little here. It’s well documented that I’ve been battered and bruised, emotionally speaking, and it’s taken me a long time to feel like I’m ready to get back in the game.’

In spite of the anger bubbling away inside me, I feel myself softening ever so slightly. He looks so earnest that I almost believe him. Surely he’s not
that
great an actor? And damn that Vida Torres; somehow she manages to encroach on the most private of moments. Mitchell might be over his ex, but his memory of that heartache is still so raw.

‘Are you saying you haven’t . . .’ I can’t even finish the sentence. It seems impossible that someone like Mitchell Pyke wouldn’t have turned to his hordes of adoring female fans to soothe his broken heart. Then again, I’m learning that Mitchell Pyke isn’t the ‘someone’ I thought he was at all.

He shakes his head. ‘Not since Vida,’ he says. ‘I’ve been too wrapped up in work. Plus, I haven’t wanted to. Not until I met you.’

‘So what are you saying, Mitchell?’ He’s so used to having screenwriters eloquently summarise his emotions for him, it’s as if he’s forgotten how to do it himself.

‘I don’t want this – 
us
 – to be an arrangement either, Kitty. I don’t want to take this next step if, in your mind, we have a sell-by date. I don’t want it to end when I leave Sydney.’

I lay my coat on the hall table and take a step toward him, caressing his cheek with the backs of my fingers. The tangible vulnerability emanating from him is almost too much to bear.

‘Okay. You’re pretty clear about what you don’t want,’ I say softly. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you
do
want?’

He takes a deep breath. ‘I want you to come back to LA with me when
Solitaire
wraps.’

I frown. ‘For a holiday?’

‘No. To live. With me.’

‘Oh! Wow.’ I look down at the floor. There’s a trail of tiny divots where my heels have sunk into the carpet. I’m momentarily stunned into silence.
Is he serious?
I risk a glance at Mitchell’s face; he’s watching me expectantly. How can I possibly make a decision like this right now? There’s so much to consider – the house, Frankie, the dogs. Not to mention the job I’ve just accepted. Plus there’s the not-inconsequential fact that I’ve known Mitchell less than a week. We haven’t even slept together, much less said the L-word. Who knows if we have a future together? Could I even get a visa to live in America? What would I
do
there?

I need time to think it all through. I look up at Mitchell again and square my shoulders, ready to tell him all this. Instead, my mouth opens and I say, ‘Yes.’

His eyes widen in surprise and delight. ‘Yes? You mean you’ll come with me?’

I nod. ‘I will.’ I have no idea how – or even if – it’s going to work, but I feel strangely, wonderfully resolute.

And then he’s kissing me again with the same passion as before. In seconds we’re back in the bedroom and all the buttons on my poor blouse are unceremoniously dispatched.

‘I’ll buy you a new one,’ Mitchell growls as he slips my bra straps from my shoulders and exposes my breasts.

I unzip his jeans and they drop to the floor, his shaft springing free into my waiting hand. I caress the smooth, hard length of him, offering a silent thank you to the universe for disproving that age-old rumour about movie stars being less than stellar below the belt.

He grabs his wallet from the bedside table and extracts a condom while I wriggle out of my skirt. I hear Mitchell’s breath catch in his throat as he takes in the sight of my stockings, suspenders and lacy knickers.

‘Help me out of these?’ I purr.

But he shakes his head. ‘Leave them on.’

So he’s a lingerie guy. I file that little tidbit away for future reference.

Gently, Mitchell eases me onto the bed and then lowers himself on top of me, all the while showering me with exquisite kisses. He reaches between my thighs and pulls the flimsy silk aside, dipping his fingers into my wetness.

‘Oh god, Kitty,’ he whispers in my ear.

‘Now,’ is my reply.

Mitchell glides inside me, and all at once, I’m lost. There’s nothing else in this moment but the movie star and me.

It’s still dark outside when Mitchell wakes me with a kiss the next morning. I feel exhausted, as if I’ve run a marathon. Which I guess is to be expected given the entire previous afternoon and evening passed in a tangle of sheets in Mitchell’s bed. An impressive performance deserves an encore, after all.

My stomach growls beneath the sheets. Did we even eat yesterday? I vaguely remember leaving the bedroom once, to place a call to a terse Frankie and ask her to feed the dogs, but I don’t recall eating anything myself.

‘Sorry to wake you,’ Mitchell whispers. ‘I have a ridiculously early call time today and Mack’s waiting downstairs.’

Sleepily, I reach for him in the darkness and feel the rough fabric of his off-duty uniform: cotton T-shirt, hoodie and jeans. He smells soapy and clean from the shower. I slide my hand up under his shirt and run my fingers over his chest, circling his nipple with the pad of my thumb. His skin is still damp.

Mitchell’s breathing quickens. I sit up in the enormous bed and push up the T-shirt, tracing the line from his navel to the waistband of his jeans with my tongue.

‘Kitty, I’ll be late,’ he says, trying to sound as if he cares.

‘You’re the star. They’ll wait.’

I feel him hesitate a moment longer. ‘You’re right,’ he says finally. ‘They will.’

He pulls me on top of him and another hour of my life disappears in the most delicious fashion. The sun’s first rays are peeking around the edges of the blackout blinds when Mitchell finally leaves for the set with instructions to order room service and make myself at home.

I’m still bleary-eyed, but I know there’s no point trying to go back to sleep. Not when I feel so overwhelmed by everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. The moment the fog of lust clears, my brain is crowded with thoughts, worries and what-ifs.

I pull on Mitchell’s fluffy white hotel bathrobe and pad into the living room. We didn’t get around to drawing the curtains the night before and the room is bathed in an incandescent tangerine glow. Far below, Circular Quay is coming slowly to life; swarms of joggers pound the cobblestones as ferries pull in and out of their berths and café owners set out their al-fresco tables and chairs.

I pick up the phone and dial the hotel kitchen, ordering waffles, poached eggs and tea. I can’t remember the last time I had such a ferocious appetite – and not just for food. I shiver as fragments of our night together flash through my mind like a slideshow. Never before have I been so wanton with a man; there’s just something about Mitchell that inspires total abandon.

But although I feel sated in some ways, something else gnaws at the edge of my thoughts. I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s still so much I don’t know about him. And if I don’t really know him, can I trust him? Would I have gone to bed with Mitchell yesterday if he hadn’t asked me to move to Hollywood with him? I came to the hotel with seduction in mind, but I was halfway out the door when he made his offer of cohabitation. Did he only make it because he wanted me between his sheets?

Frankie’s voice drifts to mind: ‘For god’s sake, Kitty, stop overthinking everything and just do it!’ Frankie wouldn’t hesitate to pack her bags and follow her movie-star beau to La La Land. She’s much more free-spirited than I am, much more comfortable throwing caution to the wind – as her many spontaneous purchases prove. But Frankie can afford to have a devil-may-care approach to life. She’s only twenty-one and has no ties, nobody relying on her. Not like me. I’m the one everybody relies on; the one always left behind to pick up the pieces.

What was it Frankie had said to me during our shopping trip? ‘Maybe you should try and be a bit more like me, big sister. You might like it.’ She was absolutely right, of course. My sister wouldn’t be moping in a sumptuous hotel suite the morning after having the most incredible sex of her life. She wouldn’t be consumed by thoughts of all the things that could go wrong. She definitely wouldn’t be on the verge of convincing herself the man who offered her the world hours earlier did it only to deceive.

No. Frankie would jump straight onto her laptop and book herself a one-way ticket to California. First-class, naturally.

And I’m going to do the same.

As I glance around the room looking for Mitchell’s laptop, the doorbell rings. I race to admit a cheerful porter who rolls a cart draped in white linen into the room. Mouth-watering aromas drift from the silver-cloche-covered plates and my stomach emits another unladylike growl. The porter hesitates by the door on his way out and I suddenly realise he’s expecting a tip. I rummage in my handbag and come up with a two-dollar coin. He’s probably more used to receiving crisp hundreds from the high-rolling inhabitants of the penthouse, but I’m not about to go helping myself to the contents of Mitchell’s wallet.

I finally spot Mitchell’s computer shoved under the coffee table and settle onto the sofa with it, my credit card and the plate of waffles on my lap. I call up the Qantas website, select a date six weeks from now and click the ‘First Class’ option, which gives me a little thrill. I hit ‘search’ and almost choke on my breakfast at the price displayed on the screen.

‘Thirteen thousand dollars!’ I scream into the empty apartment. ‘Tell’em they’re dreaming.’ Trying to emulate my sister’s off-the-cuff approach to life is great in theory, but not if I have to mortgage my house to do it. I select ‘economy’ and charge a much less terrifying fourteen hundred dollars to my credit card instead.

It’s only after the payment has been processed that it dawns on me that Mitchell probably doesn’t fly commercial. He no doubt jets around the world by private plane. But I’m glad I’ve booked my own flight. I might have agreed to move to the other side of the world with Mitchell, but it doesn’t mean I have to be beholden to him for every little thing.

Just as I’m about to close Mitchell’s laptop, a telltale
ding
sound indicates the arrival of an email. A preview window pops up in the lower right corner of the screen.

Oh.

My appetite suddenly vanishes and I push my breakfast plate away. Just when I think I’ve escaped the spectre of Mitchell’s ex, here she is again. Even in a luxe penthouse on the opposite side of the world, Vida manages to haunt me.

The preview window reveals the first line of her email:
Mitchell, I know it’s been months, but there’s so much I need to . . .

Seconds later, the window fades from view and I’m looking at Mitchell’s screensaver once again – an aerial shot of a packed Indianapolis Motor Speedway during the Indy 500 car race. So much she needs to what? Tell him? What could Vida possibly have to say to Mitchell after all this time, after the way she treated him? Unless . . . has she finally realised she owes him an explanation for the callous way she trampled on his heart? But why now, six months later?

A cold fear grips me like a hand around my throat.
Does Vida want Mitchell back?

My finger hovers over the computer’s trackpad. With a single click I could open Mitchell’s email and solve this little mystery. I could read Vida’s email and discover exactly what it is she’s playing at. But then, like a good angel on my shoulder, Frankie’s voice is in my head again: ‘Don’t be that girl, Kitty. Don’t be so needy.’

I snatch my hand away from the keyboard, slam the laptop closed and push it back under the coffee table. Of course I can’t read Mitchell’s emails. It’s none of my business what Vida has to say to him. I hope her message
is
an explanation, or at least an apology. She owes him that at the very least. And if – 
when – 
Mitchell wants to talk to me about it, I’ll be ready to listen.

I won’t be
that
girl.

I shake my head in an effort to shift the sense of unease that now plagues me. Suddenly, the idea of spending the day languishing alone in Mitchell’s penthouse isn’t quite so appealing. Who knows what I might do with that email mocking me just an arm’s length away. Besides, I should really get cracking on planning the rest of my move stateside. Yes, that’s it. Planning. Planning is what I’ll do until I drown out the evil angel on my other shoulder; the one whispering, ‘This is a competition you can’t possibly win’ in my ear.

I jump in the shower, but the thought of dressing in yesterday’s clothes makes me feel slightly seedy. Plus, my blouse no longer has any buttons, so that’s not an option. I go to Mitchell’s walk-in wardrobe and pick out a red T-shirt, which I pair with my pencil skirt. Scraping my damp hair back into a ponytail and sliding on a pair of emergency ballet flats I always keep in my handbag, I feel at least vaguely presentable.

Taking the lift back down to the lobby, I’m aware yet again of the hush that descends as I cross the marble floor and hand my parking ticket to the valet.

‘That’s Mitchell Pyke’s girlfriend,’ a middle-aged woman wearing too much makeup stage-whispers to her companion.

And for the first time since I met Mitchell, being talked about as though I’m invisible doesn’t make me recoil inside. Mitchell wants me to move to Los Angeles with him.
He chose me
. I slip on my sunglasses, offer the old birds a dazzling smile and strut out into the sunshine.

By the time I get home, I’ve compiled a mental to-do list a mile long. First, I need to talk to Frankie. Part of me still wants to strangle her for buying that ridiculous clock, but I’m determined not to spend the few weeks before my departure on bad terms with my sister. Besides, she’s going to have to take responsibility for running the house while I’m gone and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to some misgivings about that. We have a lot to talk about.

Then I need to get online and investigate the visa situation, as well as figure out how to get Reggie, Dolly, Carl and Bananarama to America with me. Mitchell and I haven’t exactly had a chance to discuss the dogs coming too, but if he knows me at all then he knows leaving them behind is not an option.

But as I park the van in the driveway behind the Plymouth, I realise all that’s going to have to wait. Before I can do anything else, I’m going to have to battle through the media scrum assembled on my front lawn. What tasty morsel has the vultures salivating this time? As I step out of the van, my thrown-together outfit and makeup-free face suddenly seem less ‘modern woman owning her sexuality’ and more ‘walk of shame’.

‘Kitty! Do you have anything to say about the rumours?’ Erin McInerny, the same perky blonde reporter who felt my wrath via the dogs, thrusts a microphone in my face. If she’s feeling even vaguely sheepish or apologetic, it doesn’t show. In fact, she’s looking at me as if she’s never seen me before.

I know I should ignore them all and just get inside the house, but I can’t help myself. ‘What rumours?’

There’s a flash of something in Erin’s eyes. If that look could talk, it would say, ‘Gotcha.’ The half-dozen other reporters present also wave their mics at me, but seem content to let their towheaded ringleader do the talking.

‘The rumours about Vida Torres separating from Ellis Chevalier because she’s still in love with Mitchell Pyke,’ Blondie goes on.

‘They separated?’
For sobbing out loud, Kitty. Don’t engage with these people!

She nods. ‘They released a statement overnight.’ Well, that certainly casts the timing of Vida’s email to Mitchell in a whole new light.

Erin casts a critical eye over my clothing. ‘Were you with Mitchell last night, Kitty?’

As a matter of fact I was, Erin. We were at it like rabbits. Multiple orgasms like you would not believe.

‘I don’t have any comment to make,’ I say, pushing through the pack and striding to my front door.

‘No words of advice for Vida?’

I turn to face her, my mouth agape. ‘What could I possibly have to say to that woman? I’ve never even met her.’

I step inside and slam the door behind me.

‘They’ve been there since before dawn,’ Frankie calls from the living room. ‘It’s lucky you’re home. I was about to turn the hose on them.’

I go in to find her in her customary position on the sofa, computer whirring on her lap.

‘The dogs went sick at them when we went out for our walk,’ she says, looking up at me.

‘You walked the dogs?’ That’s a turn-up for the books.

Frankie nods. ‘I thought it was the least I could do. Considering . . .’

I sit down next to my sister. ‘Look Frank, about yesterday. I didn’t —’

But she holds up her hand, motioning for silence. ‘Please don’t apologise to me, Kitty. I should be grovelling to you. Everything you said was absolutely right.’

For the second time in as many minutes, my jaw hangs open. This may literally be the first time Frankie has ever uttered the words ‘you’ and ‘right’ in my direction.

‘I have been irresponsible since Mum died,’ she goes on. ‘I haven’t been pulling my weight around here and I do expect you to sort my life out for me. At least, I
did
.’

I frown. ‘You did?’

Frankie nods. ‘Yes, but that’s all going to change. I’ve been talking to . . . my friends, and I realise now that I need to grow up. Think things through a bit more. Make a valuable contribution.’ She sounds like she’s reciting a checklist. I don’t know which of my sister’s friends is so wise, but I’d like to shake her hand.

‘I’m applying for jobs, too,’ she says, nodding toward her laptop.

‘Well, that sounds amazing, Frankie. I look forward to seeing this new you in action. Though it’s totally bizarre that you’ve had your Oprah “aha!” moment now.’

The irony of Frankie’s about-face is too extraordinary to ignore. Just as I decide to take a leaf out of my sister’s life handbook and live my life a little closer to the edge, she resolves to take a more softly-softly approach. Who’d have thunk it? Not me, that’s for sure.

‘What do you mean?’ my sister asks.

‘Well . . . Mitchell and I . . . we sort of . . .’

Understanding dawns in an instant. ‘Ohmigod! I wondered where you were all night, you dirty stopout! So?’

‘So what?’