Flawed (Ethan Frost 4)

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 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 LA—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 in 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—an

d 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 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 LA?” 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.