Braden
I jogged briskly down the steps. It was just a little bit cold inside the concrete stairway, but it didn’t matter because of how rarely they were used.
Just before I’d left the apartment, Lilianna had called, unhappy about being left behind at the Douglases’ party, unhappy I’d instructed the driver to take her home instead of to my apartment, mad when I’d told her as gently as I could over the phone that it was better if we stopped seeing each other.
I dismissed her from my mind. She would find someone else soon enough, rich enough to afford her expensive requirements, maybe even interested enough to marry her and set her up for life.
I slowed down, wondering when my thoughts had become so jaded. There had probably been a time when I used to think the best of people, before I built a career in tech investment banking, before making billions with my own private equity firm. I’d seen the worst of people in the later part of my twenty-nine years, and it had colored my perspective.
Maybe I just needed some sweetness in my life.
I turned to go down the fourth flight and ground to a stop when I saw a figure seated midway down the stairs, facing away from me.
Waves of gleaming gold hair covered her neck and were swept over one shoulder to reveal the perfection of her bare back, arms, and shoulders. Even as she sat, I could see the hints of her sensational figure in the cut of her soft pink gown, the slim waist and the gently flaring hips.
I forgot what I was doing on the stairs, inexplicably drawn to the figure in front of me. Was she a guest at the party? It was very likely. What was she doing out here? Was she drunk? Or worse, crying in the privacy of the stairwell? I couldn’t decide whether to walk past her or just return to my apartment, somehow hesitant to disturb her solitude.
She raised a small hand to smooth her hair, and there was something vaguely familiar about the gesture. I frowned as it occurred to me that I’d been standing and watching her for far too long. Maybe she was waiting for someone, a boyfriend, in which case she wouldn’t be too grateful that I was standing there gawking at her.
I took a step forward, and the noise alerted her. She turned around, her eyes wide and startled.
I froze and reached for the handrail to steady myself against the force of her stunning emerald gaze. Recognition flooded me, followed by wonder, and for a moment I completely forgot who and where I was.
God, she was so fucking beautiful.
More so in the flesh than on screen. Her face was heart-shaped, with a delightfully pointed chin below full pink lips with a perfect Cupid’s bow. Her nose was small and straight, her eyebrows perfectly arched, but it was her eyes—those twin pools of cool, burning verdant—that made me unable to look away.
I stared, breathless, a memory of the first time I’d seen her face coming unbidden into my mind from a movie premiere I’d attended with a woman I could barely remember now. She had transfixed me, and throughout the movie, I’d been unable to take my eyes off her perfection.
Allie Gilbert.
Actress
Movie star.
Sexiest woman alive.
America’s sweetheart.
I realized I probably looked like an idiot, frozen and just staring at her. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so awkward around a woman, and I’d been around some of the most beautiful and sophisticated women in the world. I tried to tear my eyes from her face, but a stubborn part of me decided the loss would be too much. I wanted to look my fill, to drink in the beauty in front of me.
She cocked her head to one side and gave me a measuring look. A small frown flitted over her stunning face, and her eyes stayed on mine for a long moment of silence then her lips curved slowly.
I tried to smile back, but it felt like I had forgotten how. How was I supposed to react to running into a movie star in an empty stairwell? I’d never been interested in Hollywood people much. The faces usually came and went as the world gained and lost interest.
She, however, had been on the cover of every newspaper and magazine for the past year, words like ingénue, multitalented, and extraordinary beauty repeatedly used to describe her. She had been compared to every movie star of Hollywood’s Golden Age, and I could see now that neither the comparisons nor the praise had done her justice. She was too extraordinary for description, and I felt lost just looking at her.
“Seriously, you have to stop staring at me like that, or else I’m going to start thinking there’s something wrong with the way I look.” She sounded amused, and her voice was light and soft, making me think of satin sheets, of her naked body splayed over those sheets, her moans of pleasure sounding in my ears.
It took some effort to get rid of the explicit thoughts. “I’m sorry,” I said, wondering why I was so affected, so off balance. “I didn’t expect to find anybody here.”
“I was counting on that,” she said with a shrug of those slender shoulders. “Nobody being here, I mean. I got tired of all the noise and the partying.”
Of course, she had been at David Hurst’s party. That would explain the number of paps outside the building—people couldn’t get enough of her. A picture of her doing anything, even something as mundane as walking to the store, was in high demand long before it was taken.
“You weren’t at the party,” she stated, peering intently at me. I almost got lost in her voice again. When I’d heard it on screen, I’d convinced myself it was fake, a contrived whisper she put on for the cameras. Now, listening to her talk, so close to me, it felt real, even softer, lighter, more arousing.
I let out a soft breath, willing away the ache of arousal. I’d never wanted for a woman’s companionship in my life. I wasn’t vain, but I knew I was good-look