After much pleading by Hunter, the LAPD had finally shown up last night and gotten rid of the photographers at the house, but by eight this morning, they were back in barely depleted force, yelling inane questions at him from the street: Had he talked to Siena, did he blame himself for the crash, were he and Camille now a couple?
One cheeky bastard even had the audacity to stick a note under the front door, offering Max a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for an exclusive on his side of the story, plus more if he was prepared to be filmed flying to Vegas to try and reconcile with Siena. What sort of tragic gold digger did these people think he was?
Hunter had suggested that the three of them—Tiffany had flown down from Canada last night to give both the boys some much needed moral support—escape for a long hike in the wilderness to try to talk things through in peace. The atmosphere at home was unbearable, like living through a siege.
So it was that, after some more nifty driving by Max, they had shaken off their pursuers, and were now sitting, exhausted but undisturbed, high up above the canyon.
“If I could just make her see me, listen to me,” Max was saying for the umpteenth time that hour, “I know I can turn this around. I mean, who throws everything away over one stupid mistake? Who does that?”
Tiffany thought privately that a lot of people did that, especially with a “mistake” as big as Max’s, and that she herself would probably be one of them. But she tried to sound encouraging. “Maybe she just needs some space?” she suggested. “She hasn’t had much time to get her head around it yet, has she?”
Max ran his fingers through his hair despairingly. “Oh God, what the hell have I done? How could I have been so stupid?”
Hunter sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. “Come on,” he said kindly. “You couldn’t have known the girl was going to leap on the phone to The National Enquirer.”
“I should have treated her better,” said Max miserably. “I was just thinking about myself, and how I’d betrayed Siena, and what a bloody fool I’d been. Maybe if I’d treated Camille with more respect, she wouldn’t have done the dirty on me.”
Hunter and Tiffany caught each other’s eye. Neither of them contradicted him.
“I can’t believe you didn’t throw me out of the house.” Max looked ruefully at Hunter.
“Come on, man, give me a break.” Hunter squeezed him tighter around the shoulders to emphasize his point. “I could never do that to you, and you know it. We all screw up every now and then.”
“You don’t,” said Max honestly.
“Oh, don’t you believe it!” Tiffany joked, desperate to lighten things up a bit. She’d never seen Max so down. “Hunter has his dark side.”
All three of them had to laugh at that. Santa Claus had more of a dark side than Hunter.
“Seriously, though,” said Max, picking up a loose pebble and hurling it violently across the canyon and into oblivion, “I know you always thought I wasn’t good enough for Siena. No one was good enough for her. And you were right, man. You were totally right.”
“Yeah, well,” Hunter began, “she is pretty special.”
Tiffany couldn’t believe her ears. “Whoa, whoa, now hold on a minute, honey.” She knew she was on dangerous ground saying anything against the saintly Miss McMahon, but she couldn’t allow Max to shoulder all the blame for the problems in their relationship. “What Max did was terrible, I think we can all agree on that.” Max looked down at his sneakers and nodded. No one could hate him more than he hated himself right now. “And I’m not making any excuses for him,” she went on. “But Siena was no angel either, so let’s not rewrite history here. She could be mean and selfish, she was always flying off the handle at you.” She looked at Max. “It’s bullshit to say you didn’t deserve her. You have so much to offer, and you put up with a lot of shit from that girl. We all did.”
Hunter was frowning throughout this little speech, and Tiffany waited for the inevitable defense of Siena. Sure enough, it came as soon as she stopped talking.
“I hope you’re not implying that Siena deserved any of this?” He looked as close as he ever got to angry. “That she brought it on herself in some way?”
“Of course I’m not saying that,” Tiffany snapped. “I just don’t think we should let Max start to feel that he’s somehow not worthy of Siena, like she’s some kind of saint. Because she’s not, Hunter. She’s not, okay?”
Max groaned inwardly. He could see Hunter’s face clouding over. That was all he needed, to have him and Tiffany at each other’s throats again over Siena. Before hostilities could escalate any further, he jumped in. “Look, this is all beside the point. What we have to figure out is, what am I going to do now? How am I going to get her back?”
Hunter looked at him pityingly. It obviously hadn’t sunk in yet. “Max, I’m not sure there’s a whole lot you can do,” he said. “It’s up to Siena if she’s going to forgive you, or at least try to work this out. But I gotta tell you, when I saw her yesterday”—he paused, looking for the kindest way to phrase it—“things didn’t look too good. You really hurt her, man.”
Max stood up purposefully. “I know. I know I did. But I have to see her, I have to at least try and explain.” He turned from Hunter to Tiffany and back again. They both looked highly doubtful. “Oh, come on, you guys,” he said. “Have a little faith would you? Faint heart never won fair lady, right? I don’t know how, but I’m telling you, I’m going to do it. I’m going to get her back.”
Later that night, Siena was sitting opposite Randall, gazing out across the Las Vegas skyline and feeling more than slightly drunk. The view from the roof terrace was quite incredible.
Anxious not to suffer any more unwanted press attention, Randall had taken her to a private apartment—on loan from a friend, he said—where the most incredible table had been laid for two in the fortieth-floor roof garden.
Her initial reaction had been panic: Candelabra, white linen, silver service, and total privacy were not the usual ingredients of a business dinner. The scent of the bougainvillea alone was enough to make her feel faint, and the illuminated azure blue of the pool behind them lent the whole place a summery, romantic air.
But Randall seemed so sure and relaxed that she couldn’t really say anything. She had already made a fool of herself once today by blatantly accusing him of coming on to her. Besides, after he had come to her rescue so gallantly, the least she could do was accept his hospitality without being churlish. After all, how many up-and-coming young actresses wouldn’t kill to have dinner with Randall Stein?
Dinner itself had been delicious—lobster tails in garlic butter, wonderfully juicy rosemary-encrusted lamb, and lemon mousse for dessert. To her surprise, Siena had found she was famished, wolfing down all three courses greedily. She had always read in magazines that men found girls with big appetites to be a turnoff, but Randall seemed delighted. Judging from his waistline, she assumed him to be another food lover.
She had also been drinking champagne to wash it all down, in blatant disregard of doctor’s orders. Apparently, alcohol disagreed with her medication, but she hadn’t had that much. In fact, she was sure that Randall had drunk the second bottle almost completely by himself.
Well, pretty sure.
In any event, the ensuing haze of alcohol-induced contentment enabled her to banish all thoughts of Max and that fucking girl from her mind completely. Which, as far as Siena was concerned, was the object of the exercise.
“Coffee?” asked Randall, leaning across the table and taking Siena’s hand. She permitted the gesture. All that champagne had really loosened her up. “Or perhaps you’d like another drink?”
“No, God no.” Siena shook her head. She was very conscious of the warm, slightly rough touch of his hand, and the unmistakable jolt of desire it triggered in her. Unconsciously, she began stroking his wrist with her thumb. “I think I’ve had more than enough. The city’s swaying.”
“Coffee, then,” said Ra
ndall, pulling his hand away just when she’d hoped he wouldn’t, and signaling to their very own private waiter. “I don’t want you to be too far gone. We still have that business to discuss.”
Inexplicably, Siena felt her spirits fall at the mention of business. She gazed dazedly out over the twinkling lights of Vegas, apparently lost in her own thoughts. Randall carried on. “Perhaps I should start by saying that I know more about you than I let on this morning.”
“Oh?” said Siena, woken momentarily from her reverie.
“Yes,” he said enigmatically. “And this afternoon I had my L.A. office fly me up a tape of the pre-screen version of The Prodigal Daughter. I watched it twice, as a matter of fact.”
“Really?” Siena’s face lit up. She was deeply flattered that someone as powerful as Randall Stein should take such an interest in her work, particularly after he’d dismissed her that morning as just another model wannabe. Instinctively, she tossed back her hair and pouted at him, giving him the very best angle of the face that had made her a small fortune. Notwithstanding her bruises, she looked breathtakingly sexy. “What did you think of it?”
Randall took a sip of his freshly poured espresso. “I thought it was predictable and a little bit derivative.”
She flushed with indignation and humiliation. He had set her up for that, the little shit.
“Oh, did you?” she said, standing up unsteadily and gathering up her purse with as much dignity as she could muster. Fucking asshole. If he thought she was sticking around to be insulted, he could stick it up his fat billionaire ass. “Well, I’m afraid you’re alone in that opinion, Mr. Stein. The other critics have been universally impressed with my performance. In fact, I’ve been inundated with scripts already, and The Prodigal Daughter doesn’t even open for another week. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she turned on her heel, “it’s been a long day, so I think I’ll get back to my hotel and make a start on some of those scripts before I turn in. Thank you for dinner.”
“Sit down,” said Randall. He took another sip of his coffee, utterly unperturbed. “Don’t be such a spoiled child.” Siena hesitated. The only other person who had ever spoken to her like that was Max. “If you’re serious about this business, Miss McMahon,” he mimicked her, “you’ll have to learn to listen to criticism without being so damn petulant about it. You didn’t let me finish.”
Scowling warily, Siena sat back down.
“I did think it was predictable. You’re making some silly mistakes.” She opened her mouth to speak again, but he ignored her. “But I also think you have potential, huge potential. With your looks and your name, you could go a long way.”
It was exactly what Siena didn’t want to hear.
“Yeah? Well, fuck my looks!” she said, shaking her head in anger. “And fuck my stupid name. I’m only interested in making it on the back of my talent.”
Randall smiled. God, he could be patronizing. “I see,” he said. “Unfortunately, I’m only interested in making money. If we’re going to do any sort of business together, you may as well get that straight right now.”
Leaning over the table he grabbed her arms and pulled her face close to his. For one awful, confusing moment, she thought he might be going to kiss her.
Instead, he began talking with an urgency and an authority that forced her to listen. “Do you know how many girls out there have ‘talent,’ as you call it? And by the way, I hate that word. How much talent does it take to pretend to be someone else? You’re an actress, sweetheart, not a rocket scientist.” Siena sat motionless. “I’ll tell you. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Maybe even millions of people can do what you do, Siena. And all of them are competing for the attention of guys like me. So how come it’s you sitting here and not them, huh?”
Siena assumed correctly that it was a rhetorical question.
“Because you’re different, that’s why. You’re lucky. You have something they don’t—the McMahon name. And if you don’t use it, then you’re a bigger fool than you look.” He was holding her so tightly, his fingers were leaving livid red imprints on the flesh of her upper arms. “You need to think long and hard, baby, about what it is you actually want.”
“No I don’t,” said Siena on autopilot. “I know what I want.”
Although at that moment, her statement couldn’t have been less true. She found Randall’s physical closeness both unnerving and arousing. She had rarely encountered anybody with a stronger will than her own, and she had absolutely no idea how to handle it.
“Do you?” asked Randall. “Because if you’re going to bleat on about talent, you might as well take up a fulfilling career in the theater in some butt-fuck nowhere little town in the Midwest and be done with it.” He released her and sat back in his chair. “But if you want something more than that”—he signaled to the waiter to refill his coffee cup—“if you want to be a real star, like your grandfather was . . .”
“I do.” Siena’s eyes lit up despite herself. “I do want that.”
“Then you’re going to have to make some changes,” said Randall, a new harshness in his tone. “Big changes.”
“Such as?” She was intrigued.
“Such as quit dragging yourself down with some deadweight loser of a boyfriend.”
“Max isn’t a loser,” said Siena, stung. “He’s a director, and he has enormous talent.”
“There you go again, talent, talent, talent. Wake up, kid! The guy’s a fucking zero. He’s nothing. Nobody.” Each word was like a dagger in Siena’s heart, but some force compelled her to keep on listening. “He cheated on you, didn’t he? Went out and had some fun with that dime-a-dozen waitress. Why do you think that was?”
“I . . .” She struggled to hold back her tears. Why was Randall bullying her like this? What did he care about her and Max anyway? “I don’t know,” she stammered. “I thought he loved me.”
“Jesus, listen to yourself. Would you grow up?” said Randall brutally. “He did it for two reasons, Siena. One.” He held up his forefinger. “Because that’s what men do. All men. Sooner or later, that’s what we do.”
“Including you?” she challenged him.
“Absolutely including me.” He didn’t miss a beat. “And two.” He waved a second finger menacingly in her direction. “And this is where your boy and I differ: He did it because he’s too much of an insecure prick to deal with your success.”
She hated hearing Max’s character being shredded by this total stranger. But she had to admit, there was more than a grain of truth in what Randall was saying. Max had always been jealous of her success. Besides, she didn’t see why she should be defending him, after the way he’d betrayed her.
“He’s holding you back. Get rid of him.” Randall cracked his fingers for good measure, as if he’d just finished wringing something’s neck.
“I have gotten rid of him,” said Siena.
And then she did something she couldn’t really explain. She reached across and touched Randall on the cheek.
He didn’t smile or flinch. He simply held her gaze until, what seemed like hours later, he lifted her hand from his face and pressed it to his lips. To her dismay, Siena found herself fervently wishing he would put his lips all over the rest of her body too, and the sooner the better.
“I can help you,” he said at last. “I can give you what you want. But you have to do as I say. No more hanging on to the coattails of that soap-star uncle of yours.”
“Hunter? Oh no, you can’t say anything against Hunter, he’s been wonderful to me,” she protested.
“Fine. Send him a postcard. Spend Thanksgiving with him,” said Randall. “I don’t give a shit about your family life. I’m talking about your image, about the way you want to be perceived. As long as you live with him, as long as you’re joined at the hip to a guy at his level, then that’s the level people will see you at. Is that all you want to be, some two-bit TV star’s sidekick?”
“Of course not,” said Siena.
“I told yo
u,” said Randall, moving his chair closer and placing a warm, proprietorial hand on her thigh, which Siena did nothing to remove. They both knew by now that she was headed for his bed. “I knew Duke. Pretty well, actually. I think you have a lot of your grandfather in you.”
The hand was moving achingly slowly upward. Siena felt herself sweating and her mouth parting in desire for him. Her pupils were dilated and her eyelids heavy with lust. Three days ago she’d felt like she would never look at any other man, that she and Max would be together for the rest of her life. Yet now here she was, up on some Las Vegas rooftop with Randall fucking Stein of all people, so horny she thought she might explode.
“I should mention one other thing,” whispered Randall, his face buried in her neck as his fingers deftly pulled aside the cotton fabric of her panties.
“Hmmm?” murmured Siena dreamily. The pain in her ribs and chest seemed to have magically disappeared.
“I also know your father,” said Randall, lowering his head to kiss her shoulders and collarbone before moving down to the tops of her beautiful, round, high breasts. He eased one of them out of her bra and began slowly tracing the outline of her nipple with his tongue, while simultaneously sliding two fingers deliciously slowly in and out of her. Siena moaned with delight and put a hand on the back of his bald head, pulling his face back up to hers.
“I hate him,” said Randall. “And he hates me. I hope that won’t be a problem?”
She smiled.
Randall was no oil painting. But by God, he knew how to turn her on.
“No problem at all,” she said. “In fact, Mr. Randall Stein . . . I think I might be starting to like you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
For the next three months, Siena’s feet didn’t touch the ground. She never went back to the beach house. After Vegas, she flew back into town with Randall and moved directly into his Malibu estate.
“What about my stuff?” She’d suddenly panicked, strapped in beside him in the back of his private G4. “I have to at least go back and get my things.”