the attention, but when Frank leans over and asks if it bothers me, I’m suddenly aware of being in the spotlight all over again.
“It used to,” I admit. “But I’ve made peace with it.” Damien takes my hand, and I smile at our joined fingers. “It’s worth it.”
“You two seem to be a good match,” Franks says.
“They are,” Wyatt agrees. “About as perfect a couple as you’ll find.”
Since I can’t argue with that, I raise my water glass in a silent toast of agreement, then clink it with Damien’s as he leans in to steal a quick kiss.
Q has become famous for its triple martini flights, and Damien had ordered one for each of us as we arrived. Now two waiters arrive and put a small tray with three different martinis in front of each of us—a classic gin martini, a dirty vodka martini, and a Mexican martini.
I start with the olive from the dirty martini, enjoying the mix of flavors, then take a long, slow sip. I have to admit, it’s pretty perfect.
Across from me, Frank tries the Mexican martini, then nods in approval. “You know, I should probably confess that I read up a bit on you both—I wanted to have a sense of who I was meeting with before this afternoon, and then I read some more before dinner—and everything I’ve seen suggests that you two have a strong marriage. That’s good.”
“Are you married?” I ask.
“I was once, but…” He trails off with a shake of his head, then looks pointedly at Damien. “How about you? You must be used to the media attention by now. You’ve spent your life in the spotlight.”
“Used to it and liking it are two different things,” Damien says. “And believe me, if I could shut it down, I would. For my sake and for Nikki’s. Neither one of us enjoys the attention. Unlike some people I can think of.” He nods toward a secluded two-top on the far side of the room. I hadn’t noticed it as we’d entered, but now I see that Dallas is there, and across from him is a woman who looks familiar but I can’t quite place.
“Isn’t that Francesca Muratti?” Wyatt asks. “Holy shit, it is.”
I crane my neck to look over Damien’s shoulder and see that Wyatt is right. Dallas is sharing a bottle of wine with Hollywood’s hottest star, a woman who won the Academy Award just a few weeks ago for her first serious drama following a string of action flicks. She also has a reputation for being a wild child, which being with Dallas seems to corroborate.
When I tell as much to the table, Damien’s brow rises with amusement.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“Let me guess—Jamie’s been coaching you?”
“Maybe some,” I admit, then laugh. “She says I can’t live in this town and not know at least a little about Hollywood.”
“Are they dating?” Frank asks.
“From everything I’ve read about Dallas Sykes,” Wyatt puts in, “he’s not the dating kind.”
I’m about to point out that we’ve all fallen into the kind of gossip trap that Damien and I were just complaining about when the story playing out at Dallas’s table grows juicier with the approach of a leggy blonde. She rockets toward them from across the room, scoops a glass of water from a nearby table, and without even breaking her stride, throws it into Francesca Muratti’s face.
Francesca leaps to her feet—and half the people in the room pull out their phones and start taking photos.
“You fucking bitch,” the leggy blonde shouts. “He’s mine. Tell her, Dallas. Tell her you’re mine.”
I can’t hear Dallas’s response, but I can see by the way that she pouts, it’s not the answer she wanted.
“Just go, bitch,” Francesca says. “I’m really not in the mood to share.”
“Bitch? Who are you calling a bitch?”
Francesca’s beautifully arched brows rise and so does Dallas, his expression conciliatory as he tugs the blonde toward him. He kisses her gently, and this time I catch his words as he says, “Not your turn, baby,” while he squeezes her
“It used to,” I admit. “But I’ve made peace with it.” Damien takes my hand, and I smile at our joined fingers. “It’s worth it.”
“You two seem to be a good match,” Franks says.
“They are,” Wyatt agrees. “About as perfect a couple as you’ll find.”
Since I can’t argue with that, I raise my water glass in a silent toast of agreement, then clink it with Damien’s as he leans in to steal a quick kiss.
Q has become famous for its triple martini flights, and Damien had ordered one for each of us as we arrived. Now two waiters arrive and put a small tray with three different martinis in front of each of us—a classic gin martini, a dirty vodka martini, and a Mexican martini.
I start with the olive from the dirty martini, enjoying the mix of flavors, then take a long, slow sip. I have to admit, it’s pretty perfect.
Across from me, Frank tries the Mexican martini, then nods in approval. “You know, I should probably confess that I read up a bit on you both—I wanted to have a sense of who I was meeting with before this afternoon, and then I read some more before dinner—and everything I’ve seen suggests that you two have a strong marriage. That’s good.”
“Are you married?” I ask.
“I was once, but…” He trails off with a shake of his head, then looks pointedly at Damien. “How about you? You must be used to the media attention by now. You’ve spent your life in the spotlight.”
“Used to it and liking it are two different things,” Damien says. “And believe me, if I could shut it down, I would. For my sake and for Nikki’s. Neither one of us enjoys the attention. Unlike some people I can think of.” He nods toward a secluded two-top on the far side of the room. I hadn’t noticed it as we’d entered, but now I see that Dallas is there, and across from him is a woman who looks familiar but I can’t quite place.
“Isn’t that Francesca Muratti?” Wyatt asks. “Holy shit, it is.”
I crane my neck to look over Damien’s shoulder and see that Wyatt is right. Dallas is sharing a bottle of wine with Hollywood’s hottest star, a woman who won the Academy Award just a few weeks ago for her first serious drama following a string of action flicks. She also has a reputation for being a wild child, which being with Dallas seems to corroborate.
When I tell as much to the table, Damien’s brow rises with amusement.
“What?” I ask innocently.
“Let me guess—Jamie’s been coaching you?”
“Maybe some,” I admit, then laugh. “She says I can’t live in this town and not know at least a little about Hollywood.”
“Are they dating?” Frank asks.
“From everything I’ve read about Dallas Sykes,” Wyatt puts in, “he’s not the dating kind.”
I’m about to point out that we’ve all fallen into the kind of gossip trap that Damien and I were just complaining about when the story playing out at Dallas’s table grows juicier with the approach of a leggy blonde. She rockets toward them from across the room, scoops a glass of water from a nearby table, and without even breaking her stride, throws it into Francesca Muratti’s face.
Francesca leaps to her feet—and half the people in the room pull out their phones and start taking photos.
“You fucking bitch,” the leggy blonde shouts. “He’s mine. Tell her, Dallas. Tell her you’re mine.”
I can’t hear Dallas’s response, but I can see by the way that she pouts, it’s not the answer she wanted.
“Just go, bitch,” Francesca says. “I’m really not in the mood to share.”
“Bitch? Who are you calling a bitch?”
Francesca’s beautifully arched brows rise and so does Dallas, his expression conciliatory as he tugs the blonde toward him. He kisses her gently, and this time I catch his words as he says, “Not your turn, baby,” while he squeezes her
Similar Books
