satisfaction of that lust. Nothing more, nothing less. No angle. And she liked him. She realized she hadn’t really liked Damien in years. Amazing. She’d wanted to marry Damien and still, Celeste now realized, she really didn’t like him. Had she ever? It seemed so silly now.
Celeste reached for her glass of red wine. She ought to get up, dry off, and go home. But why? The house was empty. Mathilde was gone. Damien was in New Zealand.
Before he left for his meeting, he asked if she’d stay.
“Please stay the night. I have a meeting, but I’ll be back by eight. We’ll have dinner. I can send someone to pick up your clothes.”
“You’re lovely,” Celeste said, turning her back to him and rolling toward the edge of the bed. “But really, this is what it is. I’ll take a soak and then head home.”
“Celeste.” He placed his hand on the small of her back. “It’s not like that for me. I don’t … I haven’t … Well, this just isn’t my thing. I know it could seem that way. But really it’s not.”
She rolled back over and looked into his blue eyes. He was telling the truth. It wasn’t a line. She could feel it in her gut.
“I care for you. I know it sounds hokey, but you are an amazing woman. I’d love it if you’d stay.”
Celeste smiled her oh-please-you-are-sweet-but-don’t-be-so-silly smile and ran her fingers through his hair. “You are a lovely man. And I enjoyed every moment of the last four hours. But you have a meeting, and I have a dinner engagement. Some other time?”
He smiled. His lips turned upward, but his eyes looked so sad. “Of course, another time. Any time. Please, know that,” he said, and kissed her fingertips as she slid away from him.
So she could stay. Surprise him. But what man really liked surprises? How embarrassing if he showed up with woman number two of the day and woman number one was still lounging around in a Four Seasons robe? Not a good scene. She could call. He’d left his cell phone number. Besides, his meeting was at CTA. She had that number. There were a million ways to get in touch with him. Hmmm . She sipped her cabernet (nice year). It was enticing. The sex. The man. Dinner … companionship.
The whole idea of someone who cared whether you stayed or left appealed to her. Someone who checked in throughout the day. Someone to miss. She hadn’t really had companionship in years. The irony astounded her. Married, biggest star in the world, and no one to make her feel missed? Jeez , Celeste thought, I’m getting sappy. It’s a bad romantic comedy for sure. She was going home.
Chapter 10
Lydia Albright and Her Christian Louboutin Peekaboo Pumps
Lydia was glad she'd traded in her Christian Louboutin peekaboo pumps for Pumas before disembarking Worldwide Pictures’ private jet, because she wasn’t sure what was in the brown sludge she’d just walked through to get to this Balinese hellhole, but the muck was near her ankles and sticking to her shoes (it would have demolished her nine-hundred-dollar heels). Lydia gazed at the dilapidated building before her. She’d read somewhere that Balinese women were the most beautiful in the world, but that little tidbit of information didn’t apply to the ninety-year-old toothless crone squatting in front of the hotel. If nothing else, this woman’s existence proved that Balinese women didn’t age well.
At least it was meant to be a quick trip (if you disregarded the eighteen-hour flight each way). Lydia hoped to spend less time on the ground than the round-trip took in the air. She only had the Worldwide jet for another twenty-six hours (it was the longest she could keep it out without Arnold knowing). Shit. She had to find Zymar.
She’d started south of Kuta, on the coast, where Zymar was famous for hibernating between films. But his home, a hut with a porcelain pot in which to pee and no running water, was empty. His neighbor, a tiny stick of a man, told Lydia’s interpreter (Thuan, a
Celeste reached for her glass of red wine. She ought to get up, dry off, and go home. But why? The house was empty. Mathilde was gone. Damien was in New Zealand.
Before he left for his meeting, he asked if she’d stay.
“Please stay the night. I have a meeting, but I’ll be back by eight. We’ll have dinner. I can send someone to pick up your clothes.”
“You’re lovely,” Celeste said, turning her back to him and rolling toward the edge of the bed. “But really, this is what it is. I’ll take a soak and then head home.”
“Celeste.” He placed his hand on the small of her back. “It’s not like that for me. I don’t … I haven’t … Well, this just isn’t my thing. I know it could seem that way. But really it’s not.”
She rolled back over and looked into his blue eyes. He was telling the truth. It wasn’t a line. She could feel it in her gut.
“I care for you. I know it sounds hokey, but you are an amazing woman. I’d love it if you’d stay.”
Celeste smiled her oh-please-you-are-sweet-but-don’t-be-so-silly smile and ran her fingers through his hair. “You are a lovely man. And I enjoyed every moment of the last four hours. But you have a meeting, and I have a dinner engagement. Some other time?”
He smiled. His lips turned upward, but his eyes looked so sad. “Of course, another time. Any time. Please, know that,” he said, and kissed her fingertips as she slid away from him.
So she could stay. Surprise him. But what man really liked surprises? How embarrassing if he showed up with woman number two of the day and woman number one was still lounging around in a Four Seasons robe? Not a good scene. She could call. He’d left his cell phone number. Besides, his meeting was at CTA. She had that number. There were a million ways to get in touch with him. Hmmm . She sipped her cabernet (nice year). It was enticing. The sex. The man. Dinner … companionship.
The whole idea of someone who cared whether you stayed or left appealed to her. Someone who checked in throughout the day. Someone to miss. She hadn’t really had companionship in years. The irony astounded her. Married, biggest star in the world, and no one to make her feel missed? Jeez , Celeste thought, I’m getting sappy. It’s a bad romantic comedy for sure. She was going home.
Chapter 10
Lydia Albright and Her Christian Louboutin Peekaboo Pumps
Lydia was glad she'd traded in her Christian Louboutin peekaboo pumps for Pumas before disembarking Worldwide Pictures’ private jet, because she wasn’t sure what was in the brown sludge she’d just walked through to get to this Balinese hellhole, but the muck was near her ankles and sticking to her shoes (it would have demolished her nine-hundred-dollar heels). Lydia gazed at the dilapidated building before her. She’d read somewhere that Balinese women were the most beautiful in the world, but that little tidbit of information didn’t apply to the ninety-year-old toothless crone squatting in front of the hotel. If nothing else, this woman’s existence proved that Balinese women didn’t age well.
At least it was meant to be a quick trip (if you disregarded the eighteen-hour flight each way). Lydia hoped to spend less time on the ground than the round-trip took in the air. She only had the Worldwide jet for another twenty-six hours (it was the longest she could keep it out without Arnold knowing). Shit. She had to find Zymar.
She’d started south of Kuta, on the coast, where Zymar was famous for hibernating between films. But his home, a hut with a porcelain pot in which to pee and no running water, was empty. His neighbor, a tiny stick of a man, told Lydia’s interpreter (Thuan, a
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