Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) (33 page)

Removing my glasses, I gawked when I saw my reflection. Wow! The LBD accentuated every little curve in my body and made my long legs look impossibly longer with the six-inch heels on my feet. I did look unbelievably sexy.

“Bradley better have you on a tight leash tonight,” teased Libby.

“Nah, sis. This girl needs to get unleashed.”

Chaz’s words whirled around in my head as I stared at myself in the mirror. But it wasn’t my reflection that filled my head. It was the image of Blake Burns.

The art gallery was located not far from our house on chic Melrose Avenue. While we could have easily walked there, I was glad Chaz was picking us up in his Jeep. The thought of walking in my six-inch heels scared me. Given how accident-prone I was, the possibility of tripping and breaking my ankle was a reality.

While the event began at six o’clock, we showed up at seven—fashionably late as Chaz put it. We were not the only ones. We stood in a long line of expensive cars—Mercedes, BMWs, and Ranger Rovers, not to mention a few Bentleys, Rollses, and limos—waiting our turn for a valet to take our vehicle. Paparazzi were lined up outside the gallery.

“Look! There’s Jennifer Lawrence!” I cried out as I watched her gracefully step out of a stretch limousine, followed by her handsome date.

“Ooh! I’m so in love with her,” cooed Chaz as he inched up the car.

Oh my God! Brangelina!” exclaimed Libby, who was a total celebrity hound.

Wearing contact lenses at Libby’s insistence, I found the gorgeous Hollywood power couple in the crowd. Paparazzi were stepping over each other to take photos. Wow! This wasn’t any ordinary gallery opening. It was the kind that made headline news on
Entertainment Tonight.
My heartbeat sped up with apprehension and anticipation.

We dispersed as soon as we stepped foot inside the bustling gallery. I didn’t even have a chance to grab a flute of champagne when a familiar angry voice assaulted me.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been here for an hour.”

I spun around. Facing me was Bradley, sticking out like a sore thumb in khakis and a navy Brooks Brothers blazer, in this über-cool sea of black. While I felt out of my league, I felt grateful to be wearing Chaz’s chic little black dress. It was perfect.

“We just got here,” I muttered.

“Well, I want to leave soon.”

My heart fell to my stomach. Why couldn’t he for once do something I wanted to do? And didn’t he even notice my new dress?

“Okay. Let me take a quick look around and we’ll go.” Damn. Why didn’t I tell him I wanted to stay? Take in the art and hang out with Libby and Chaz.

“Good. I’m going to look for some herbal tea. By the way, the food here is awful and I’m starving. We’ll pick up something on our way home.”

Lowering my eyes, I noticed that two of his fingers were thickly bandaged. “What happened—”

He stalked off before I could ask. A white-gloved server passed by me, holding a tray of skewers. The alternating cubes of grilled meat and veggies looked and smelled delicious. As Bradley faded into the crowd, I grabbed one and savored it. I was starving too. For some nourishment. And affection.

Dozens of intriguing paintings lined the walls of the spacious gallery. I was eager to check them out, but first helped myself to a glass of champagne from another passing server. I took a sip of the bubbly. The zing took the sting out of Bradley’s words. Sometimes, he could be such a jerk. With my champagne in hand, I padded over to the painting nearest to me.

I studied it. It was a self-portrait of the artist PAZ, whose full name was Payton Anthony Zander. Upon entering the gallery, I’d been handed a short bio. He had painted hundreds of oils, but his career was tragically cut short by a self-inflicted gunshot at the age of forty-five. A suicide. Such a shame because the artist was truly talented. I admired the rich Van Gogh-like brushstrokes and the juxtaposition of bright colors. I moved on to the next painting. Another portrait entitled
Portrait of Delilah at Noon
. It was a portrait of the late artist’s beloved wife and muse. An abstract nude. Her captivating, dark-eyed beauty lit up the canvas. Sadly, her infidelity and their subsequent divorce had driven PAZ to his untimely death.

A warm breath curled on the nape of my neck. “What does this painting do for you, Ms. McCoy?”

Startled by the familiar velvety voice, I spun around and almost spilled my champagne. Oh my God! It was Blake Burns. In my six-inch heels, I was nearly eye level with him.

“What are you doing here?” I gasped.

“The artist’s son, Jaime Zander, is my best friend. I want to introduce you to him. He’s the head of the advertising agency that’s doing our upfront presentation.”

“I’d love to meet him,” I stammered, soaking him in.

God, he looked delicious! In head-to-toe black: tight-ass jeans that hung low on his hips, an unzipped leather battle jacket that broadened his already broad shoulders, and a T-shirt that clung to his defined pecs. Sexy black leather boots finished off his ensemble. I quickly shifted my vision back to his face, staying away from anything below his waist. His eyes burnt into mine.

“So answer my question about the painting.”

I swiveled around to take another look. My eyes absorbed the subtleties and innuendos. “It moves me. I can tell the artist was extremely in love with his former wife. There’s so much passion in his strokes.”

“Very impressive and perceptive. You must have taken quite a few art history courses in college.”

“I only took one.” My voice was shaky. “So, what does the painting do for you?”

“It makes me hot.”

A sudden chill ran down my spine and that familiar tingling sensation gathered between my thighs.
I
was heating up.
Stay cool
. I turned around to face him.

“Do all naked women make you hot, Mr. Burns?”

“Only beautiful ones.” He eyed me from head to toe. “And I must say, Ms. McCoy, you happen to look extremely beautiful tonight.”

“Thanks,” I stammered, all hot and bothered. I moved on to the next painting with Blake hot on my trail.

This painting was an early portrait of the artist with his wife. Her bare, contoured back faced me; the artist’s hand was tugging on her waist-length ebony ponytail, pulling her head back. It was called
The Kiss.
I stared at it wordlessly, mesmerized. A rush of emotion poured through my veins. My eyes teared up. I’d never been so profoundly affected by a piece of art. It was not what I saw that moved me, but what I didn’t see. His lips consuming hers. The fire. A flame of passion and desire. I could feel what Delilah was feeling all the way to my toes. My chest rose, my heart thudded, and my breath caught in my throat. All time stood still.

“Do you like this painting?” Blake’s soft voice brought me out of my trance-like state and back to the moment.

“I love it.” My voice was thin and watery. I knew what this kiss felt like. I’d experienced it. Only once. Blindfolded. With a beautiful stranger.

Blake’s warm hands splayed across my bare shoulders. His breath heated my neck. I was paralyzed. And then he whispered in my ear.

“It’s special, isn’t it, Jen—”

“Blake, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

A shrill, unfamiliar voice cut him short. Blake’s hands jumped off my shoulders. We pivoted on our heels at once. Facing us was a drop-dead gorgeous blond goddess, dressed in a low-cut, body-hugging black mini dress that revealed her melon-sized boobs, clearly fake, and mile-high shapely legs that were anchored in stilt-like shoes. She looked familiar to me—maybe a supermodel or actress.

Blake’s face flushed visibly as he gulped. “Kitty—”

“It’s Kat,” she hissed. “You know I hate when you call me that.”

Blake’s jaw tightened. I held back laughter. My urge to laugh was short-lived.

Kitty-Kat narrowed her predatory cat-green eyes at me. Her long, lacquered nails morphed into claws. I shuddered. I could mentally feel them dragging down my flesh. She hissed again. “Blake’s with
me
.”

She intimidated me. But worse, a bolt of jealousy shot through me. This was Blake’s type. Tall, blond, and gorgeous. Even in my sexy LBD and heels, I paled next to her.

“Well, I should be going.”

A triumphant smile snaked across Kitty-Kat’s full crimson lips. Blake looked flustered.

“Tiger, wait. Don’t go!”

Just as I was about to flee, Bradley returned with an iced tea in his hand. His eyes darted from me to Kitty-Kat to Blake.

“Why it’s you again,” he sneered.

“This is my boss, Blake—”

Bradley cut me off. “Oh, your boss? The one who practically bit off my fingers.”

I chewed my bottom lip, on the verge of laughter. What was wrong with me? I should be feeling sorry for my poor fiancé. Blake shot me a wry look and shrugged.

“It was an accident.”

Steam was coming out of Bradley’s nostrils. I could practically see it. His lips snarled, his shoulders hunched, and his hands fisted. He had a major anger management issue and could easily be roused.

He grabbed my hand and jerked me away. “I’ve had enough. We’re out of here.”

Wordlessly, I let Bradley drag me through the crowd, the tumbler of champagne still in my hand. I felt like hurling it at him. Only steps away from the entrance to the gallery, I turned my head to look back.

Blake Burns had not moved. His eyes bored into mine, and I realized they had never left me.

Jennifer

T
he ride back to Bradley’s place was steeped in cold silence. Bradley was in one of his moods. His hands were tight on the wheel of his Prius, and his lips were pressed tight in a thin, tense line. Whenever he got into one of these bad moods, which lately was often, he preferred to listen to talk radio than to talk to me.

Nearing his Sherman Oaks condo, we made one stop on Ventura Boulevard at one of his favorite takeout restaurants. Vegan Delight. I waited in the car, with the engine running and radio still on, while Bradley plodded into the small storefront, located in one of the city’s many ugly strip malls. He didn’t even bother to ask what I wanted to eat. Which was okay by me because I didn’t have much of an appetite.

The program playing was one of those call-in shows. My ears perked up at the newest caller. Her name was Rose from Cerritos, and she was having fantasies about her boss. What should she do?

The host listened attentively as she ranted on about her wildest fantasies. Tearing off his clothes. Sucking his dick. Fucking his brains out. Her voice grew tearful as she revealed how much she secretly loved him, having no clue if the feeling was reciprocal, especially since he was married. Poor Rose. She was sobbing. I so felt for her. My stomach twisted painfully as the image of my own boss, Blake Burns, flashed in and out of my head. That gorgeous face! That hard, sculpted body! That magnificent cock! I craved them all.
Stop it,
Jennifer.
But no matter how much I mentally slapped myself, I couldn’t stop thinking about him and imagining . . .

Just as the host was about to give advice to Rose, the car door swung open. Bradley scooted inside with a bagful of takeout. He turned the radio off and backed up the car. The pungent smell of curry and garlic filled the air, and I began to feel nauseated. As Bradley took off, I lowered my window and inhaled some fresh air to clear my passageways. And to clear my mind of the fantasies dancing inside it. When we pulled up to Bradley’s condo, Blake Burns had just ripped off my dress in my fantasy world. I had totally lost track of place and time.

In a haze, I followed Bradley into his condo. He flipped on the light, illuminating a roomful of monotone brown furniture that looked like it came out of a furniture-for-rent catalog. Actually, it did.

Bradley set the food down on a Formica counter that divided the kitchen and the living room.

“I’m going to put my pajamas on,” he mumbled, already heading to the bedroom down the hallway. “Help yourself to some food.”

Listlessly, I ambled over to the counter and removed the three containers of Vegan Delight from the brown paper bag. I tore open the lids. Upon eyeing the
vomiticious
(yes, that made-up word again) concoctions of strange looking vegetables disguised in assorted brown sauces and inhaling their unpleasant, incongruous aromas, I decided to pass on dinner and plunked down on the massive brown corduroy couch. It faced the built-in plasma TV—the one thing in the condo Bradley had splurged on. Bradley loved to watch TV—especially reruns of the nineties shows he’d grown up with.
Home Improvement
was his very favorite. He’d seen every episode dozens of times, yet each time he watched one, he bellied over in laughter as if he’d never seen it. Our mutual love for television—especially the shows from our childhoods—had been one of the things that had brought us together and bonded us, but his obsession with them was now a door that shut me out of his life.

In a flash, Bradley was back—in his crisp blue and white striped Brooks Brothers pajamas (last year’s splurgy Christmas present) and with a carefully arranged plateful of Vegan Delight. He plopped down next to me, with the plate on his lap and his legs stretched out on the oak coffee table facing us. With one hand, he shoveled forkfuls of the saucy mush into his mouth, while the other, with the bandaged fingers, deftly channel-surfed until he landed on Teen Nick. His eyes lit up and a wide grin spread across his face.