to attend. Christina hadn’t been single for all that long. She’d recently broken up with a New York finance guy. And so, Bill would later tell her, when Christina walked into the party that night, she was looking a little wistful. “Like that pre-Raphaelite painting of the lady in the boat,” he said. They could neither of them remember the painting’s name or that of the artist but it didn’t matter. Though Bill’s status as a huge movie star meant Christina was automatically on the alert for acharm offensive, she was flattered to be compared to a classic work of art and by the end of the evening, Bill had almost convinced her that losing the “love of her life” was actually a lucky escape.
Having spent the previous month panicking that she would never find another man of the right caliber, Christina was delightedly surprised to feel that familiar tingle of arousal when Bill brushed her arm to draw her attention to something on the other side of the room. She didn’t even mind when he used one of the oldest tricks in the book on her.
“I can read palms,” he said, taking her right hand between his and stroking it gently. “And the lines on your hand tell me that you’re coming home with me tonight.”
“Bill Tarrant, I hardly know you,” she said, channeling a Southern belle.
“So you’ll be glad of the opportunity to get to know me better.”
They quit the party ten minutes later. She followed him in her little silver Mercedes SLK convertible up through the winding roads above Sunset Plaza to his bachelor pad—an enormous Frank Lloyd Wright-style house with glass walls and panoramic views. He made them nightcaps, which they drank by the pool, looking out over the glittering city below. By the time she had finished her drink, Christina knew for sure she would be staying the night. The cognac had put her way over the limit for driving home. Bill had almost certainly planned it that way. But she didn’t mind. She’d already decided she was going to sleep with him. Even if she never saw Bill Tarrant again, she didn’t care. When her ex found out that she had ended her post-break-up run of celibacy by sleeping with a movie star…
Bill got to his feet and started to take off his clothes.
“It’s hot out here. I’m going for a swim,” he announced.
He wore nothing beneath his well-cut black linen pants.
Christina followed Bill’s lead, discarding her pale blue silk dress on the poolside lounger. She kept her bra and panties on and jumped into the pool. Bill swam across to her as she surfaced and when she opened her mouth for air, he covered it with a kiss. Moments after that, he divested her of her underwear. He plunged his penis into her and the deal was sealed.
Afterward, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror in Bill’s en-suite bathroom, Christina thought she hadn’t looked that good since the first time she had Botox (it had never worked quite so well again; she’d simply found other ways to frown).
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met,” Bill told her as she climbed back into bed. “And I’ve met most of
FHM
’s top hundred,” he added with a smirk. Christina swatted him with a pillow but for some reason it didn’t bother her. She knew that the first part of his assertion was true. There was something in his eyes as he said it.
Christina never went home. They had the traditional Hollywood whirlwind romance. The very next morning, Christina was photographed outside Bill’s home in a baseball cap and one of his big blue shirts. A week later, they were pictured looking cozy in front row seats at a Lakers game. They were seen leaving The Ivy on Robertson Boulevard in Bill’s Hummer. Just a month later, they were snapped “window-shopping” at Harry Winston (in fact, they were just strolling past). They ended the leases on his bachelor house in the Hollywood Hills and her pokey place in Santa Monica and bought somewhere together in Beverly Hills.
Having spent the previous month panicking that she would never find another man of the right caliber, Christina was delightedly surprised to feel that familiar tingle of arousal when Bill brushed her arm to draw her attention to something on the other side of the room. She didn’t even mind when he used one of the oldest tricks in the book on her.
“I can read palms,” he said, taking her right hand between his and stroking it gently. “And the lines on your hand tell me that you’re coming home with me tonight.”
“Bill Tarrant, I hardly know you,” she said, channeling a Southern belle.
“So you’ll be glad of the opportunity to get to know me better.”
They quit the party ten minutes later. She followed him in her little silver Mercedes SLK convertible up through the winding roads above Sunset Plaza to his bachelor pad—an enormous Frank Lloyd Wright-style house with glass walls and panoramic views. He made them nightcaps, which they drank by the pool, looking out over the glittering city below. By the time she had finished her drink, Christina knew for sure she would be staying the night. The cognac had put her way over the limit for driving home. Bill had almost certainly planned it that way. But she didn’t mind. She’d already decided she was going to sleep with him. Even if she never saw Bill Tarrant again, she didn’t care. When her ex found out that she had ended her post-break-up run of celibacy by sleeping with a movie star…
Bill got to his feet and started to take off his clothes.
“It’s hot out here. I’m going for a swim,” he announced.
He wore nothing beneath his well-cut black linen pants.
Christina followed Bill’s lead, discarding her pale blue silk dress on the poolside lounger. She kept her bra and panties on and jumped into the pool. Bill swam across to her as she surfaced and when she opened her mouth for air, he covered it with a kiss. Moments after that, he divested her of her underwear. He plunged his penis into her and the deal was sealed.
Afterward, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror in Bill’s en-suite bathroom, Christina thought she hadn’t looked that good since the first time she had Botox (it had never worked quite so well again; she’d simply found other ways to frown).
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met,” Bill told her as she climbed back into bed. “And I’ve met most of
FHM
’s top hundred,” he added with a smirk. Christina swatted him with a pillow but for some reason it didn’t bother her. She knew that the first part of his assertion was true. There was something in his eyes as he said it.
Christina never went home. They had the traditional Hollywood whirlwind romance. The very next morning, Christina was photographed outside Bill’s home in a baseball cap and one of his big blue shirts. A week later, they were pictured looking cozy in front row seats at a Lakers game. They were seen leaving The Ivy on Robertson Boulevard in Bill’s Hummer. Just a month later, they were snapped “window-shopping” at Harry Winston (in fact, they were just strolling past). They ended the leases on his bachelor house in the Hollywood Hills and her pokey place in Santa Monica and bought somewhere together in Beverly Hills.
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