Tell Me What You Crave Page 5

  Grace.

  She was younger, skinnier, and paler, but her angelic face was the same. She knelt in front of the boy, shook his hand with a warm smile. A stethoscope draped around her neck. The kid opened his shirt. With a shaky hand, she placed the end of the stethoscope on his chest.

  A few seconds of listening to the boy’s chest, she started to cry. Her shoulders quaked, along with the rest of her.

  Which made everyone else weep harder. Including Ruben Wilde.

  Grace eventually hugged the boy, long and tight. When his small arms wrapped around her, more cameras flashed.

  Then, Ruben Wilde wrapped them both in his much larger embrace. The trio knelt there like that for at least a minute, oblivious to the crowd around them.

  The recording stopped.

  A lump rose in his throat. He scrolled down to the short article below.

  “Ruben Wilde’s youngest son, Pax, received a heart transplant four years ago after a long battle with congenital cardiomyopathy, diagnosed shortly after birth. Two years ago, he met the mother of his organ donor, Grace Evans, who heard her daughter’s heartbeat again for the first time since her tragic death. Pax’s organ donor, Margaret Evans was nine-years-old when she passed in a car accident, along with her father. Since the transplant, Ruben Wilde has been a strong advocate for pediatric transplant services, and has donated a substantial amount of his television contract proceeds to non-profit charities assisting families with pediatric transplants. Anonymous sources claim Ruben Wilde and Grace Evans became close friends after this event.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Dorian cleared his throat, and swallowed. He rose and greeted the delivery guy. He paid for the food, and closed the door.

  Then stood there, holding the bag by the door. As if the information he just absorbed kept his brain from functioning.

  She had a daughter. And a husband.

  Both lost in a car accident. No wonder she’d thrown herself into her work with such vigor. It was her way of coping. The previous evening’s charity had been for pediatric transplant services. A much more personal cause to Grace than he could’ve ever known. Until now.

  The thought tugged at his gut, and he cleared his throat again. He brought the bag to the kitchen, setting her phone on the counter. As he prepped their meal, something kept nagging at him.

  The video wasn’t a sex tape, or showing anything controversial. It was actually a very sweet, emotional moment, where a little boy was given back his life.

  Why is the media going ape-shit over this?

  The bathroom door opened, and Grace emerged with an empty wine glass.

  “More?”

  She nodded. The color had returned to her cheeks, and the bags under her eyes not as visible. More importantly, her shoulders weren’t sprouting from her neck anymore. She handed him the glass, which he refilled.

  When he returned, she was inhaling the vibrant smell of her shrimp linguine. She’d braced her hip against the counter, with her bent knee accentuating the curve of her thighs. Silence filled the air around her, and she excelled at avoiding eye contact.

  Until she started to eat her dinner, right there at the counter. Her long, thin fingers curled around the fork, and twirled the noodles around the tines. Finished off by stabbing a shrimp, and bringing it to her full lips.

  Dorian could nearly taste the sweet and salty shellfish just by watching her. “One question,” he asked. “And I’ll never mention the video again.” Then he took a bite of his ravioli.

  Grace stopped twirling her fork, and looked up. Still didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Does Ruben Wilde ever style his hair differently? Seriously. He’s wearing the same haircut from four years ago.”

  Her lips parted, and she finally locked her gaze with his.

  Dumfounded didn’t cover it.

  Then she laughed. Actually put her fork down and threw her head back to let her laugh consume the kitchen.

  A deep, throaty sound that instantly brought a smile to his cheeks.

  It was the exact reaction he’d hoped for.

  She had been far too serious for too long, and it was about time she lightened up.

  When Grace finally looked at him, tears glistened in her eyes. “I said the same thing to him at the fundraiser.”

  He chuckled. “Good. It’s not just me.”

  “He has all these fan girls gushing over him and his fancy suits.” She continued laughing. “But all his wife and I can look at is the ridiculous swirl of hair above his forehead. He uses more hairspray than me.”

  Dorian widened his grin.

  “Just before he went onto his show, his stylist called it debonair and flashy, but Julie and I are over in the corner, snorting at the cowlick up front.” Grace scooped more food onto her fork. “But then Pax walks in and calls him Ace Ventura.”

  He snorted on a bite of ravioli, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “Yeah, a five-year-old at the time. So finally, Ruben looks at the stylist—dead serious—and says tone it down.”

  Dorian took a sip of his wine. “Amazing that Pax even knew who Ace Ventura was.”

  Her laughter finally calmed. “The next week, his show went number one.” She swirled more pasta on her fork, but didn’t eat it. “The network swooped him and his agent off for a bunch of interviews and photo shoots. I flew back from L.A. with Julie and the kids…”

  “Julie’s his wife?”

  Grace nodded. “She invited me to go with them to his show’s opening. We’d become really good friends after…everything. Julie didn’t want to go through the wilds of Los Angeles alone, with Daisy and Pax in tow. She’s done a great job of keeping those twins out of the limelight through all of Ruben’s stardom.”

  Just like that, her smile was gone. She hid her face behind another large gulp of wine.

  “How old is Daisy?”

  “Seven. They’re twins. But it’s not the kids I’m worried about through all of this tabloid shit. They’re so resilient. It’s Julie I’m concerned for.”

  “Why?” Dorian asked behind another bite of ravioli.

  “She’s already so high strung from all of the stress of Pax’s medical condition. Long-term anxiety does incredible damage to the nervous system. She was doing so much better the last few years, seeing him respond beautifully to the transplant. I’m afraid today’s crap is going to set her back.”

  “Why would it? You said it yourself, the boy’s doing great. The world gets a firsthand look at how beneficial those services are.”

  Grace pursed her lips. “One of those journalists downstairs, if you can call them that, had the audacity to claim Ruben and I were having an affair.”

  Dorian dropped his fork. And gaped.

  She rolled her eyes. “Claimed we were so chummy at the fundraiser, it’s the only explanation.”

  “You hugged him.”

  “I know. They have a way of taking a few photos out of context—”

  “Good God, these people have nothing better to do with their lives than make up shit.”

  “Julie knows it’s all crap, but it still hurts. I don’t want her to start guessing herself, or internalizing all the bull.”

  He glanced out the window. Just to make sure another one of those pricks hadn’t climbed their way to his window. If that crap of a rumor made its way to the donors of her charity, they might assume a portion of it was true.

  Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

  They’d think her a home-wrecker. Or the media would blatantly label her as one. Then probably stop contributing. Which would impact Grace’s ability to help the kids receiving transplants.

  With the deep creases in her forehead, it was probably the last thing she needed to think about.

  “I have an idea,” Dorian announced, then pushed his half-eaten dinner to the sink.

  She took a deep breath. “What’s that?”

  “It’s going to require a little…” He smirked. “Bad behavior.”

 
CHAPTER NINE

  Grace

  Grace wasn’t certain what Dorian had meant by bad behavior, but his definition probably didn’t match hers. Even more likely, it wasn’t a good idea with a bunch of paparazzi still casing out the complex.

  Yet, cabin fever had started to set in. She’d been imprisoned in her apartment all day—then his—harassed by photographers, and not to mention her privacy obliterated on the news and social media.

  When he disguised her in a long, blond wig and beat up cowboy hat, she had more than a few questions.

  “What in the world are you doing with a blond wig?”

  Dorian chuckled. “Costume contest last Halloween. A group of us went as Motley Crue. Obviously, I was Vince Neil.” He fixed the hair under the hat.

  Grace snorted. “Did you have the leather jacket to go with it?”

  He nodded. “Do you want to wear the black, fishnet tank top?”

  “Pass.” She couldn’t hide a smile.

  He stepped back and grinned. “Gorgeous.”

  “Since when does a cowboy hat fit into the eighties rock band image?”

  Dorian chuckled again. “It doesn’t. But we’re in Texas. It was only a matter of time before a client asked to go horse riding or line dancing.”

  Her mind stalled at that comment, remembering his purpose behind these getups. Still not a lifestyle she understood, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. She pulled the rim of the hat down over her eyes. Everything was still too visible. “How about some sunglasses, to complete the charade?”

  He shook his head. “With a cowboy hat, that’ll be too suspicious. But don’t worry, Grace. No one will recognize you.” He took her hand. “Ready for some fun?”

  A sigh made her whole body tremble. “Why am I even more nervous when you say that?”

  Dorian sneaked her down the staircase, all nine floors, which led them out a side door to the private parking garage.

  Only then did he let go of her hand, to drape his arm over her shoulders to keep up the ruse of a couple. Just in case a few overzealous paparazzi sneaked in to the gated garage for residents only.

  He opened the door to his Charger, letting her climb into the passenger seat. When he started the car and pulled out to the front gate, he took a deep breath that filled her own lungs. “Keep your head turned, act like your pulling up a map on your phone.”

  Grace obeyed. The notifications blared from the screen; forty-one missed calls. Twelve voicemails. She scowled. “Parasites.”

  The gate opened slowly. Several people were crowded around the exit, clearly anticipating her to run. She didn’t lift her eyes as Dorian eased forward. Her heart skipped, and her neck chilled.

  Nothing flashed, no bright lights, or people pounding on the window.

  So far so good.

  Dorian pulled onto the street, and turned the wheel.

  Grace dared to lift her eyes.

  Her gaze connected with a young, Hispanic photographer three feet from the window.

  He stared into her face, and then frowned. He glanced at a paper in his hand.

  She let a hint of a smile pull at her lips. Only to have it wiped off when the photographer dropped the paper, and picked up the camera dangling around his neck. By the time it registered in her head that she was made, the flash went off.

  “It’s her!” he yelled.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “Go, Dorian! Go!”

  He slammed on the accelerator. The tires screamed through the rest of the turn. He sped down the street and turned the corner at the light. “Determined little suckers, aren’t they?”

  Grace buried her face in her hands. If the media was hounding her this badly, she could only imagine the harassment Ruben and Julia were getting. She’d tried calling them a dozen times today, only they hadn’t answered.

  Much like I’m doing with the rest of the world.

  Occasional glances at the side mirror didn’t quell her anxiety. Although it didn’t appear as though anyone could catch up, at some point, she’d have to return home. The current disguise was blown.

  Dorian steered the car onto the highway, and her angst escalated to a whole new level.

  Her knuckles turned white gripping the side handle, and her head was glued to the seat. The false hair stuck to the back of her neck, itchy as hell.

  “It’s all right, Grace. We’ve lost them.”

  She forced a deep breath in her nose, and a long exhale through her lips. The routine didn’t help her heart rate over the next few miles.

  “You look like you’re about to puke. Do you need me to pull over?”

  Grace cleared the chokehold on her throat. “Wherever we’re going, do you mind taking the side roads?”

  His silence was partly welcome.

  Probably judgmental as well, but she didn’t care.

  “Sure,” he finally replied. He guided the car towards the off-ramp.

  When they were finally off the freeway, she pulled the cowboy hat and wig off her head.

  Dorian switched on the A/C, and the cool air hit her face like a mid-summer blizzard.

  Several miles later—and probably three times longer than anticipated with all the traffic lights—her pulse had calmed and she opened her eyes.

  The dark amber sun peeked between the buildings on the skyline to the west, turning the horizon a brilliant azure and pink. Outside her window toward the east, a faint thumbnail moon rose above the high rises. It had been a long time since Grace had noticed the sunset. The last few years, she’d worked holed up in her office well past twilight every day.

  Just to keep her mind from remembering.

  “Where are we headed?” she asked.

  “You’ll see.” He grinned. “A great place to release a lot of angst.”

  She cringed. “If it’s a gun range, I’d rather face the paparazzi.”

  Dorian chuckled. “I don’t shoot on the first date. We have to work our way up to that very personal experience.”

  The urge to correct him this wasn’t a real date was hard to bite back.

  He turned into a massive complex with an easily visible golfing range, all lit up with spotlights.

  “Golf?”

  “Driving range. Ever been?”

  Grace shook her head.

  He grinned, and pulled into a spot. “It’s amazing how the stress melts away when you whack a bunch of balls into submission down the fairway. Even more effective with copious amounts of beer.”

  “The balls seem to fly farther that way, right?” She smirked. When she stepped out of the car, the tangy scent of barbeque made her mouth water.

  He peered at her over the roof of his car. “Mine certainly do.” Dorian winked.

  Only two steps inside, the noise amplified. A large arcade toward the side drowned out the bar on the other end, full of tables, cocktail chairs, and even several couches. Half of them occupied with people of all ages. A grand, iron staircase climbed either side of the registration desk in the center.

  Dorian purchased a two-hour slot for one bay. Although, there was a short wait for their turn.

  He guided her toward the bar with his hand on the small of her back.

  Casual and gentle, but still an awkward gesture for her. Strangely warm. Tingly.

  He ordered two beers and a pitcher to be delivered to their bay. “Unless you want to play a round of Skeeball first?”

  Her first instinct was to say no. Games like that were for kids. But when she glanced at the arcade behind them, the familiar tug of her childhood pulled at her. A few kids were there, playing a dance game. They looked to be about nine or ten.

  Same age as Meggie.

  Grace shook her head, and grabbed her beer from the counter.

  “Bay three is ready,” the attendant called.

  They climbed the stairs to the second tier. Bright lights blared across the course, a long stretch of green with target baskets and sand traps. Little red flags stuck up from the ground at several holes at various distances. On
all sides, large black nets climbed into the sky attached to tall poles. To keep the balls from flying onto the highway beyond.

  They each picked out a driver from the rack of clubs available to guests.

  Before long, she found herself holding the golf club in an awkward grip, staring at a little white, dimpled ball clearly mocking her as it rested peacefully on a tee.

  “Fix your grip.”

  She could feel Dorian smiling at her back as he said the words.

  “This is supposed to be fun?” she chastised.

  “You’ll see.” He moved forward. “Like this.” He adjusted her fingers around the club, lining her thumbs one in front of the other. “Good. Now relax your shoulders.” He gently rested his hands along her arms.

  His husky cologne strengthened, mixed with his breath that smelled of beer and honey. The hairs on her neck danced, and settled just as quickly.

  Dorian moved his hands to her waist, his grip sure and undemanding. “Bend your knees a bit.”

  “This feels ridiculous.”

  When he stepped back, she caught a funny grin on his face.

  “Trust me. Now just whack the shit out of it.”

  Grace blew out a breath, and blocked the negative words in her mind that doubted the entire escapade. She pulled the club back, and swung. The base hit the fake grass, the vibration radiating up her arms. The ball merely tipped off the tee and rolled onto the concrete at Dorian’s feet.

  She cocked her head at him.

  “Good first try.”

  Grace bit her tongue. “Care to get that for me?”

  Dorian smiled, and knelt to grab the ball. His thigh muscles bulged from his jeans, and his shirt rippled around his biceps. He looked far too comfortable in his own skin.

  Something she secretly envied right now.

  He set the ball on the tee. “This time, do one more thing for me.”

  She adjusted the sleeves on her shirt to give her more room. “Please don’t give me the cliché of keeping my eye—”

  “Picture that photographer’s face on the ball.”

  Grace paused.

  Dorian’s intent gaze locked on hers, serious brown sugar eyes that sparked a flame in her chest.