Bordering on Obsession Read online

  “Hey, Quinn.” Max Weinberg shook his hand. A critic for Film Tomorrow Magazine, the reviewer had panned Quinn’s last film, Sugar Honey, calling it a beastly mix of arrogant art and nonstorytelling. Then Sugar Honey had won an Oscar. Sometimes this business could be sweet.

  “Max.”

  “I hope you didn’t take my review personally.”

  “I take everything about my films personally,” Quinn countered and moved on into the crowd. His comment had been calculated to draw attention and it had. As he walked on, he could hear a pleasant buzz of speculation behind him. Buzz was always good. Let them think he had the world by the tail—because in this business, impression was everything.

  “Quinn,” Carly Kenner reached up and straightened a collar that didn’t require smoothing. But as one of his mother’s oldest and dearest friends, she was entitled to a piece of him. “Is Stella going to direct your next film?”

  He shook his head. “Mom won’t finish the African film in time.”

  “Well then, dear, please keep Michael in mind. He’s very creative, you know.”

  Michael was Carly’s son. He had lots of talent, but he never brought a film in on budget.

  Quinn squeezed Carly’s hand. “It’s not always up to me. The stars these days have their favorite directors.”

  “I’ll count on you to do what you can.”

  “All right.”

  Two directors and an advertising executive tried to corner Quinn behind the potted gardenias. Again, he spoke briefly and continued to shoulder his way through the crowd. A half dozen people stopped him before he reached the entrance, but he’d anticipated and planned for these minor delays.

  Finally he donned his mask.

  As usual, his timing was impeccable. In the blue Versace gown that the studio had supplied, Laine Lamonde was a sight he wouldn’t have missed. Even with the mask that covered her face, he couldn’t take his eyes off her and neither could anyone else. Her breasts filled the bodice of the strapless dress, and the tight waist added more dimension to her curves. She wore a large sapphire-and-diamond necklace that nestled between her breasts, but it was neither the dress nor the sparkles that drew attention.

  Laine had star quality. That indefinable something that said Look at me. I’m bold. I’m confident. I’m beautiful. I’m a S-T-A-R.

  Quinn was impressed—if she was trying to create gossip for her American debut, she was succeeding with a capital S. He found himself holding his breath even as he took in her effect on the crowd. Almost everyone in the room was A-list, so to make any kind of impression was a challenge. But Laine was special, exuding charisma in spades.

  Photographer’s bulbs flashed. Microphones were crammed in her face, but she didn’t pause. The French actress didn’t walk, she floated across the floor in an elegant display that turned heads in a room where heads didn’t turn easily. She was magnificent, a sight to make the mouth water.

  With a saucy grin, Laine strode straight into Quinn’s arms and kissed his cheek. She hadn’t played games, pretending she didn’t recognize him, which upped his estimation of her a notch.

  “Quinn.” She spoke his name with only a slight French accent. “So good to meet you.”

  Her perfume was light, sensual. Her greeting warm, yet dazzling. Quinn couldn’t remember the last time a woman had intrigued him. Perhaps it was the lady’s mask. Or the reputation that preceded her. Either way, she possessed that star presence that couldn’t be defined, had that certain something that made people look at her and keep looking.

  It wasn’t the flawless skin or the dress or the million-dollar jewels. It was her personality that oozed through. Sexy. Saucy. Seductive.

  “I’ve been looking forward to our evening together,” he told her. Her eyes were more blue in person than on film, but perhaps that was due to the lighting or her mask. And although she was naturally stacked, her hips were slimmer than he recalled.

  No matter. Actresses changed their bodies with exercise and diet and surgery as often as they changed their hair color.

  “Is what they say about you true?” she asked as she tucked her arm through his.

  “What do they say?” he asked curiously.

  “That you’re un amoureux fantastique.”

  “Excuse me?” He didn’t speak French but had caught the word amoureaux, lover. Women often propositioned him during a first encounter, but they were mainly starlets, looking for a fast way to a part. Laine’s agent should have told her that Quinn was ready to offer her the lead.

  “I flew all the way over from France for you.”

  She must not understand the impression she was giving him. Her English couldn’t be translating well. Quinn chose his words with care. “I’d like us to work together.”

  “Non. Non. No.” She waved her arms in a grand gesture of impatience.

  She spoke a long sentence in French and he only picked up one word. L’amour. Maybe she was saying that she loved his work. But her tone was low and sexy. She sounded as if she was propositioning him. Maybe she did want to make love. But why?

  Her reactions confused him. She certainly wasn’t what he’d been expecting but maybe he was just reading her wrong. Since they’d just met, Laine couldn’t have feelings for him, could she?

  Yet she didn’t seem to understand that he was ready to offer her the starring role. Going to bed with him wasn’t necessary. Not that he ever did business that way. Quinn prided himself on his reputation for picking the best actress for the part on the basis of ability, not on whether or not he had a personal relationship with her.

  So Laine had no reason to try to begin a relationship with him. He couldn’t see what she hoped to gain and that not only confused him, but puzzled and intrigued him. What did she want? A rewrite of the script to make her part bigger? A role for a lover? A larger fee? Or was he simply suspicious when there was no reason to be?

  Apparently the language barrier was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure that I understand.”

  “I did not come here for work. I came to play. Oui?”

  “Play?”

  “Absolument. To play…in bed. With you.”

  3

  OH, THIS WAS FUN. Quinn wouldn’t be this casual if he suspected that she wasn’t Laine Lamonde. And since Maggie had fooled Quinn completely she wasn’t anywhere near as nervous as she’d expected. Which had allowed her to act more boldly than she’d planned, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek.

  Her blood poured through her veins like hot brandy. She might come from ordinary stock—her mother was an investment banker and her father a truck driver—but her parents had always encouraged her to go after what she wanted. Right now, she wanted Quinn.

  He gazed down at her with amusement in his eyes. “You think I’m a play toy?”

  She reached up and tugged his tie. “You’re even wrapped up with a pretty bow.”

  Teasing a man who looked so handsome, sexy and mysterious in a black mask and cape, black shirt and black tie was even easier than she’d foreseen. She couldn’t just blame his clothes, though they did emphasize the stunning looks he’d inherited from his movie-star father. With those piercing green eyes peering at her through the Zorro mask and those high-cut cheekbones framing his kiss-me mouth, she could barely stop herself from insisting he immediately accompany her up to her room.

  “I’m glad you approve of my attire—” Quinn’s eyes raked her gown “—as much as I approve of yours.”

  Maggie’s shimmering blue gown lent her courage. The silk hugged her figure into an hourglass shape. The expensive necklace plunged suggestively between her breasts, the cool metal reminding her that if she played her role correctly, very soon Quinn’s fingers would be skimming her sensitive flesh.

  She let her fingers dip between her breasts to touch the bauble. “Please thank the studio for the loan.”

  Just as she’d intended, his gaze followed her fingers, then lifted to meet her eyes
. He clearly knew exactly what she was doing, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed pleased.

  “The jewel couldn’t have a finer setting,” he spoke gallantly, with a touch of deviltry in his tone.

  The mask allowed her to keep her composure and leap the gap from a yearning, ordinary secretary to a glamorous movie star. With her face hidden, she could use a provocative French accent, concentrate on walking with fluid grace, slightly exaggerating the sway of her hips. Piece of cake.

  With her disguise a success, fears of losing her job and confronting Quinn faded. She could fit in with this crowd. She’d spoken to the big agents from CAA and William Morris often, and was on a first-name basis with many stars from her work in Quinn’s office. She knew these people, their work, their interests and all the gossip. Maggie’s practical side receded, allowing the glamour girl to come out. Full force.

  The intrepid conversation came naturally as well. Why shouldn’t it since she’d been practicing all day?

  She had to give Quinn credit. At her announcement to make love with him, he’d subtly changed the subject. As if she’d made a faux pas. Except that his green eyes had dilated in interest. Although he hadn’t directly responded, she’d surprised him, intrigued him. He’d steered the conversation into flirtation, but Maggie didn’t have the time for a long roundabout flirtation. She only had tonight.

  “Monsieur, I want us to be together. To make love.”

  Quinn raised a dark eyebrow, his firm mouth quirked up in amusement and interest. “You flew across the Atlantic to…take me to bed?”

  “Oui.”

  Quinn played the gallant gentleman to the hilt. Although he spoke in a voice low and thrumming with husky intensity, he truly didn’t appear ready to take advantage of her. Perhaps he thought Laine’s French wasn’t translating correctly.

  He tried again. “You realize that sleeping with me is not necessary for starring in my next film?”

  Cute. And much too businesslike. She knew him well enough to know that he wanted her, but that he wouldn’t allow his own passion to ruin a deal. For him, the deal was the be-all and end-all of life. He seemingly believed she thought that she had to make love with him to win the part. Foolish man—yet it was so endearing that he wouldn’t take advantage. Frustrating, too, though, because she definitely wanted him to take advantage of her.

  “I said nothing about sleeping,” she teased. “I can sleep in France.”

  “Your agent has explained—”

  “I did not come here to talk business. That is a matter for you and my agent.” She took his hand and placed it on her waist as she tugged him into the ballroom. Music from a live band set her feet swaying and her heart knocking. The feel of his fingers through the thin silk made her want to skip across the dance floor and turn cartwheels in her high-heeled shoes. “Dance with me, Quinn. Show me American romance.”

  Quinn did as she asked, smoothly taking her into his arms and sweeping her into the crowd of celebrities, high-powered agents, writers and directors. She recognized almost everyone, but her mind wasn’t on anyone but Quinn. She even set aside the temptation to envision how she would cast the various stars once she opened her agency. As she’d just told Quinn, tonight was not about business.

  A full head taller than most of the men, he had the dark machismo of a Pierce Brosnan or Antonio Banderas, the high-voltage grin of a GQ model and the presence of a tycoon. Lost in the music, with Quinn’s body pressed to hers, she gazed into his dark green eyes to gauge his thoughts.

  Uh-oh. She glimpsed his rising tide of suspicion. Maybe her accent had slipped for a second. Maybe, she was an inch too tall or short. Or maybe she wasn’t acting the way he’d thought Laine would. Whatever the reason, she had to distract him quickly—before that perceptive mind of his caught on a snag.

  Maggie didn’t want him thinking. She wanted him feeling and reacting. To her. In one bold move, she reached behind his head, threaded her fingers into his thick, black hair and pulled his mouth down to hers.

  He didn’t hesitate—not even for an instant. For her, the crowd and music receded. There was only Quinn and her, standing chest to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. The kiss might have been Maggie’s idea, but that didn’t stop Quinn from taking control. His mouth came down on her lips, his tongue delving, entwining with hers. There was nothing tentative in his kiss. He was all man, exploring and taking and demanding whatever she wanted to give.

  And Maggie gave everything she had. She might not have kissed a man in over a year, but her lips made up for the lack of practice with enthusiasm. Since Quinn in the flesh was much better than Quinn in her nightly fantasy fest, she leaned into his hard masculinity, enjoying the scent of his suit, the aroma of his aftershave, the complete smell of him—all musky and male and yummy.

  The temperature of the room was cool, but Quinn heated her from the inside out. His kiss was commanding, demanding and sure, yet tender at the same time. For a moment she felt as though he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Because the air around them crackled with their electric chemistry.

  And when he finally broke the kiss and masterfully danced her deeper into the Hollywood crowd, he never glanced once from her eyes. It was as if he yearned to see behind her mask, behind her face, to discern what she really wanted. Almost as if he couldn’t believe that she yearned to make love to him for no other reason than she found him incredibly attractive.

  When the music stopped, her heart was beating a cadence against her ribs. Slightly breathless, she looked up at him, the heat in his eyes causing her toes to curl. “How long must we stay?”

  “As long as you like.” In the dim lights of the dance floor, she couldn’t read his face. But his tone was guarded, as if he was thinking again. She needed to keep him off balance with passion but the dance floor was not the right place to make her move.

  “Let’s go somewhere more private, mon cher.”

  His eyes narrowed at her suggestion, as if he suspected a trick but was too polite to say so. “We just got here.”

  “Don’t you want us to be alone?” She skimmed her hand over his silk shirt, pleased to feel the strength of his heart beat. She dipped a finger between two buttons and let the pad of her fingertip graze his bare flesh. She’d dreamed of this moment so many times, but her dreams fell short of the reality of being so close to Quinn. Of finally doing exactly what she wanted. His skin was smooth, muscular and dusted with a light covering of hair. The clothes that she’d admired earlier now seemed a barrier.

  “We could retreat to the bar,” he suggested. “To talk.”

  She cocked her head. “Talk is not what I have in mind.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I do not want to delay my pleasure. Or yours.” She laced her fingers through his, enjoying how his large hand warmed hers.

  He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckle. “And how do you know there will be pleasure?”

  “A woman knows.”

  “What else do you know?” he asked, his tone polite, but deep with desire. As they left the ballroom together, many heads turned to watch them go.

  She didn’t care about the gossip and gently squeezed Quinn’s hand. “I was right to come here. We will be very good together.”

  Quinn tilted his head to one side, as if thinking hard again. “Odd how we barely know one another, yet I feel as if we’ve known one another for—”

  “After tonight, we will know one another much better, oui?” She couldn’t let him go where he’d been going. She didn’t want him thinking that he knew her better than the stranger she was supposed to be.

  She used her free hand in a wide sweeping gesture and steered him toward the elevator. “Tonight doesn’t have to be complicated. As you Americans say, I want you. You want me. What could be more simple?”

  As they rode the elevator up to the hotel’s penthouse suite that the studio had reserved for Laine, Maggie leaned into Quinn, her arms wrapped around his neck, her mouth less than an inch from his.
So far, her plan was working and the thrill of anticipation exaggerated her accent. “I am so happy you invited me here tonight.”

  They stood face-to-face, and he touched her mouth with his fingertip. “Such a beautiful mouth. And you speak English so well. If I’d known, I would have invited you over to do a film much sooner.”

  She yanked back from his arms and allowed irritation to enter her voice. “If you speak of business again, Monsieur Scott, I shall fly back to Paris.”

  His head jerked back at her outburst as if she’d startled him, but he recovered quickly. “I’m sorry. It’s habit.”

  His apology seemed sincere and, since she believed him, she stepped close again, ran her hand along his close-shaven jaw and demanded, “A habit you will break for me?”

  “Yes.”

  His voice, strong and sure, should have convinced her that he had no doubts at all about her, except Maggie knew Quinn so well that she caught a flicker of reservation in his eyes. The elevator dinged as they reached her floor.

  She took his hand and led him through the double-leaded etched-glass panels, across the slick marble floor, past the elegant living room and into the luxurious bedroom suite that Kimberly had prepared earlier according to Maggie’s directions. Silver tapered candles lit their path to the gold-and-emerald bedroom where she’d surrounded the king-size canopy bed with more candles. On the dresser, a bottle of champagne rested in a silver ice bucket beside two crystal flutes. The bed had already been turned down, the crisp clean sheets and fluffy down pillows waited in invitation.

  She’d left open the sweeping floor-to-ceiling doors that overlooked the ocean to let in the clean scent of tangy sea air. Light jazz played over the stereo system and merged with the soft music of a waterfall in the gardens below.

  Quinn paid no attention to the decor, his focus remained on her. He removed his mask, set down his sword and took her by the arm. “I don’t know whether to be flattered that you went to so much trouble, or insulted that you think I’m so predictable.”

  She didn’t like the questioning lilt of his tone, and decided subtlety had no place here. If she spoke, he could argue, and she didn’t want to waste a moment.