Lovegame Read online

  Lovegame is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  Excerpt from Stepping Over the Line by Laura Marie Altom copyright © 2016 by Laura Marie Altom

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Stepping Over the Line by Laura Marie Altom. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  ebook ISBN 9780553395020

  Cover design: Caroline Teagle

  Cover photograph: © Photographee.eu/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Tracy Wolff

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Stepping Over the Line

  Prologue

  Bedroom eyes.

  Fabulous ass.

  Mysterious smile.

  Great rack.

  Epically fabulous ass.

  Legs that go on for miles.

  Bee-stung lips.

  Fuck me hair.

  Fuck me tits.

  Just fuck me, baby. Just fuck me.

  Best ass on the planet.

  Best body on the planet.

  Most beautiful woman in the world.

  A perfect ten…maybe an eleven. Maybe a fifteen…

  Fantasy woman.

  I mean, who wouldn’t want to tap that?

  Who wouldn’t want to tap that.

  Who wouldn’t want to tap that…

  These are only a few of the things that run through my head as Veronica Romero climbs out of the black stretch limo that just pulled up in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in L.A. Everything I’ve ever read about her or heard about her or yes, even thought about her floods my brain as she waves to the crowd before starting her long trek down the red carpet.

  In my (very) meager defense, I was a red-blooded American graduate student when topless photos of her on a yacht in the South of France leaked and nearly imploded the Internet. The epic horniness of the twenty-four-year-old male is a cliché for a reason.

  I like to think that if the same thing happened now, I wouldn’t look, considering it was a total invasion of her privacy. But that’s probably a lie. After all, I’ve spent too much of the last year as close to obsessed with her as I can get and still stay on the right side of the law. Then again, watching her now in her natural habitat, dressed in a white gown that is anything but innocent and diamonds that rest in just the right spot to draw attention to her perfect breasts, who could blame me?

  Certainly not the guy behind me who keeps telling his friend how much he wants to ram his cock down her throat.

  Or the guy to my left who really, really wants to fuck her “perfect peach of an ass.”

  Not her. Just her throat. Just her ass.

  No, they wouldn’t blame me and it’s no use blaming them, not when all they’re doing is giving voice to the things that are written about her pretty much every day, pretty much everywhere. The tabloids. Wikipedia, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr. The hundred and one unauthorized biographies that have come out about her through the years…

  No, no one can blame them for the filthy things they’re saying. Or for all the dirty, disgusting, depraved things they’re thinking.

  But I do it anyway. Fuck, yeah, I do. I blame them and myself and every other person on the planet who sees only what they want to see when they look at her.

  The goddess.

  The whore.

  The “perfect ass.”

  The fact that after all these years it’s all she lets them see says as much about them as it does about her.

  Her walk down the red carpet is painstakingly slow, her heels high and the demand for attention nearly crushing with its expectations.

  I move along the rope line with her, shadowing her from the crowd. When she pauses, I pause. When she walks, I walk. When the fans call her name, I watch her eyes, her smile. The set of her shoulders. Everyone has tells, little breaches in their own personal defenses that give away more than they want to share.

  Everyone has secrets.

  I’ve spent the last year learning hers.

  A reporter stops her—one of many—and asks a question that makes her laugh. That makes her pat his shoulder and then slide her hand down his arm in a slow, lingering caress. His eyes glaze over and she blows him a little kiss before going on her way.

  Idly, I wonder what he said to get himself into that much trouble…

  A group of girls chant Veronica’s name from the crowd and she holds a hand out as she moves toward them. She signs their autograph books, smiles for their selfies, takes their hands and their hugs and their words. She takes all their expectations, gathers them like a bouquet—or an army—and gives out pieces of herself in exchange.

  She moves on before they’re ready to let her go, but there’s always another reporter to talk to. Another picture to pose for. Another autograph to sign or fan to greet.

  So many pieces to give out that I wonder how she has any left. If she has any left.

  And still I keep pace with her. Still I want her attention—and the piece of her that comes with it. My own little piece of her to add to everything else.

  It will never happen, I tell myself, as she gets closer and closer to the building and to the freedom away from prying eyes. She doesn’t know to look for me, doesn’t have a clue that I’m right here, watching her every move.

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I’m not disappointed. That I didn’t come here—to the craziness of this movie release—because I want anything from her. Because I don’t. I really don’t.

  At least not until she turns unexpectedly, her eyes skimming the crowd until her gaze slides over my face. Locks on.

  In that instant, all my best intentions disappear. Everything does but her and me and the millions of battered, broken moments that stretch between us.

  And when she blows me a kiss—all red lips and wide eyes and smoldering sex appeal—I know I’ve fucked up beyond all repair.

  Chapter 1

  It’s a sunny Wednesday afternoon in L.A.—just one more perfect day if you don’t count the heavy blanket of smog hanging over the
city like acid-tinged perfume. In the distance, the Hollywood sign that is ubiquitous to this small section of Southern California is nearly obscured by the cloying, smothering stuff, but no one on the patio where I sit, waiting, even seems to notice, any more than they notice the goddess—no, strike that—the legend,—no, not that either—the siren—yes, that works—any more than they notice the famed siren who weaves her way between the cramped and crowded tables.

  The lunch rush is over, but the small sidewalk café several blocks off the main see-and-be-seen drag that makes up so much of Los Angeles’s entertainment-based culture continues to do a brisk business as Veronica Romero slides into the seat across from mine.

  She’s all bright eyes and smiles, all shiny blond hair and tight jeans and colorful gemstones glittering on every finger. Her blouse is white—her signature color—and oversized. Her shoes are high heeled, and the telltale soles of Christian Louboutin are the same shade of crimson as her lips. And yet there’s a casualness about her, an openness, that I don’t think anyone expects when they think of Hollywood’s most powerful—and highest paid—actress. As she introduces herself, I even catch a glimpse of the elusive dimple that many speak of but few ever get the chance to see.

  It’s charming, and so is she.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she tells me in the throaty rasp that has sent shivers down the spine of many a red-blooded male through the years, myself included.

  “You’re not.” A quick glance at my watch speaks to the veracity of my answer. “I’m always early.”

  “I like that in a man.”

  It’s a canned response, one that I can’t help thinking is beneath her. At least until I see the dimple flash again and realize she’s poking fun—at herself as much as at me and the artificiality of this situation.

  “So, how do you like L.A.?” she asks after ordering a sparkling water from the hovering waiter. The patrons might not have noticed she’s here yet, but the waitstaff certainly has and they circle like buzzards around a freshly killed carcass.

  “It’s…” I pause, try to think of a description that isn’t a lie but that also won’t offend this Beverly Hills–born- and –bred icon.

  She just laughs, though. “Yeah. That’s what I figured. Thanks for doing this”—she gestures between the two of us—“out here. I just couldn’t fit in a trip to New York this week.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s my job to come to you. You’re the star, after all.”

  “And you’re the Pulitzer Prize–winning, New York Times bestseller who’s slumming by doing this piece.”

  I crook a brow. “Writing the cover article for Vanity Fair is never slumming. Doesn’t matter who you are.”

  “Funny. That’s exactly how it feels to be on this side of the story, too.”

  She grins at me—and it’s not the exotic—sexy—man-slaying—grin that graces so many movie screens. It’s softer, more human. The goddess with feet of clay.

  “What does it feel like?” I ask after the waiter has delivered her water and taken our order—a grilled salmon salad for her and a burger for me. “To be on that side of the story?”

  She reaches up, toys with one perfect, golden lock of hair, and for a moment—just a moment—a shadow falls over her face. It’s gone almost before I can register it and then she’s tossing her hair, stretching languorously, yawning delicately, one pale, fine-boned hand pressed to her mouth.

  “Are we there already?”

  “Where is ‘there’ exactly?”

  “The boring interview questions.”

  “And here I was trying so hard to be interesting…”

  “Oh, you don’t have to try.” Her smile is impish now, inviting me to share the joke. “I’ve spent the last few days trying to cull down the million or so questions I want to ask you.”

  Now both my brows are up. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how these interviews are supposed to work.” This one in particular, considering I have a limited amount of time with her and so many, many things to figure out. Only a few of which are also part of Vanity Fair’s agenda.

  “Interview-shminterview. Let’s just have a conversation. You ask me a question and I’ll answer it. Then I’ll ask you one and you answer it.”

  “Oh, so that’s how a conversation works.”

  “Yes, well, one never can be too careful with writers. You people are…”

  “Crazy?” I offer.

  “I was going to say eccentric.” She tries out an innocent look. It might work, too, if she didn’t have a body made for long, sweaty, sex-filled nights and a mouth made to—She tries out an innocent look. “But crazy works, too.”

  It really does. But then, there are all kinds of crazy in the world. “I prefer honesty to diplomacy.”

  “Well, that’s certainly unique.” She makes a face at me—eyes crossed, tongue out, nose all scrunched up. She looks ridiculous and still far too gorgeous. “And total bullshit if I’ve ever heard it. In this town, nobody prefers honesty.”

  “Yes, but I’m not from this town.”

  “That,” she says as she squeezes an extra lime into her sparkling water, “is a very good point. And now that it’s out there, I really will insist on asking you questions. And you answering them.” She pokes a finger at my chest for emphasis. “Honestly. Since it’s your thing.”

  “Quid pro quo?” I suggest.

  She sighs. “I suppose. If you insist upon thinking of it that way.”

  “Is there another way to think of it?”

  “As fun.” She lifts her water to her lips, takes one long, thirsty sip. I very deliberately don’t watch the way her throat works as she swallows. “You do know what fun is, don’t you?”

  Fuck. I expected a lot of things from this interview. I never expected to like her.

  “I believe I’m familiar with the concept, yes.”

  “I hoped you would be. I know there probably isn’t much fun in true crime, but you can improvise a little, right?”

  “Is that what you do with your scripts? Improvise?” She gave me the opening and I can’t resist sliding in with the first of my questions. “I’ve heard working with you always involves the unexpected.”

  “No answers to your questions until you promise that you’ll answer some of mine.” Her smile is bright white and beaming.

  This may be my first celebrity interview of this ilk, but I know when I’m being taken for a ride. I’m pretty sure this wide-eyed, friendly approach works on most of the Hollywood journalists she runs into, but I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my life interviewing people whose lives—not just their livelihoods—depend on their ability to lie. Murderers, policemen, federal agents, witnesses, family members of the victims, not-so-innocent bystanders. I’ve interviewed them all and those varied experiences let me see, all too clearly, the calculation lurking in the depths of those world-famous violet eyes.

  Recognizing it doesn’t keep me from taking the plunge, however. Some things are inevitable, after all. And calculation isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  Sometimes it’s prudent.

  Sometimes it’s fun.

  And sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.

  I wonder which—if any—it is for her. Or if it’s all of the above.

  Veronica Romero is a lot of things. An ingénue isn’t one of them, no matter how many she played early in her career.

  She’s patiently waiting for my response, though, so I nod. “I’ll be happy to answer whatever questions you have. As long as you extend me the same courtesy.”

  “Of course. That is what we’re here for, isn’t it?” She glances down at her nails, which are surprisingly short and painted a purple so deep and dark that it’s almost black. The way she doesn’t look me in the eye is how I know she’s telling the truth—and feeling vulnerable—defenseless—exposed about doing so. “Life is full of surprises. I feel like art should be, as well. I don’t improvise just to improvise while on script, but there’s an honesty in t
he unexpected, isn’t there? In the responses that have nothing to do with preparation and everything to do with…” She pauses, looks uncertain for the first time.

  “Being thrown off your game,” I fill in. “And scrambling for purchase.”

  “Yes. Exactly.” She smiles approvingly.

  “Do you like it?” I ask. “Being off your game? Not knowing what’s coming next?”

  “Are you kidding? I hate it.”

  “And yet you force yourself and your co-workers into it several times a film.”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Some would say that’s foolish. Arrogant. Courting disaster, even.”

  The dimple flashes again and she laughs a little. “Some have said that.”

  “And still you do it.”

  “Still I do it. True art doesn’t come from complacency. You of all people know that.”

  “So you consider yourself a ‘true’ artist?” I ask.

  Something flickers across her face and for the first time I wish that I was videotaping this interview instead of just audio recording it. I would love to be able to come back to this moment later and analyze each of her facial expressions.

  “And if I say I do?” Her chin is up, her voice pure bravado.

  “I’d agree with you. I think doing that—dropping the mask to get the rawest, most real moments—is very brave.”

  “Brave?” She says it like she’s never heard the term applied to herself before. “And here I just thought I was masochistic.”

  The words are loaded, the look she gives me even more so.

  I feel myself respond despite all the lectures I gave myself to the contrary before she got here. But she’s got a good laugh and an even better outlook on her life. Plus that word, masochistic, calls up all kinds of images of her that are better left unimagined.