The girls scurry into the room, both glancing back at me when they are sure Bianca isn’t looking.
“Someone’s coming to speak with you, and once they arrive, we’ll leave.”
She’s twitchy, not readily looking me in the eye, and it’s giving me an uneasy vibe that I’m not used to from her.
“Who?” I slide a hand into the back pocket of my leather pants.
“That’s not important.” She falters as if contemplating whether to say more.
“Why are you being cryptic and shit? Does it have anything to do with what Derek said earlier?”
The douche exec had boring ideas for how to announce my solo career, and whenever he’s shot down, he lobbies Bianca to get me on board. I hate that guy.
“No. I’d better get to those calls.”
She starts to turn on her heel but pauses when I raise an eyebrow and clear my throat, not satisfied with her lame evasion techniques.
“Fine. Be that way, but if the wait is too long, I’m out.” My arms fold over my chest, reminding her who is in charge.
She flicks to the glass in my hand again. It’s fucking melted ice. Water. I march over to the bar, making sure she watches me dump its contents down the drain.
My pointed gaze challenges her to say anything else on the matter. Rolling her eyes, she continues to the room.
“Hey.” My voice booms and she peers over her shoulder. “Since when do you allow PAs to dress like those two?”
I tilt my chin in the direction of the scantily clad women on the phone only feet away in the bedroom. Again, with the eye roll, she walks away.
Something is up. This isn’t like her to tolerate their clothes or eye-fucking me as if today’s meeting was some after-party.
Shaking my head, I walk to stand by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at downtown Los Angeles. A small hand glides up my back and over my shoulder.
The redhead steps in beside me, batting her lashes and leaning into me like a cat rubbing up against its owner’s leg.
“Can I get you anything?” This woman is crafty to have snuck out of the bedroom without being caught or stopped.
Again, I’m surprised Bianca isn’t out here, scolding this chick. Nothing gets by her and yet, today it is like we’re in the Twilight Zone.
“No. Don’t you have someone to call or something?” My indifference isn’t hard to detect.
“No, and you looked lonely out here.”
Needing space, not the temptation, I saunter to the center of the room, and like my shadow, she matches me step for step.
I’m not interested, but old habits die hard. It’s easier to give in, lose myself, and get off than let her down easy. It’s easier to kill the pain briefly than give a fuck.
I guess I’m no better than anyone else.
“Look.” I spin to face her, and she grins up at me like she’s hungry and I’m dessert.
“I’m a huge fan,” she purrs. “And I’m open to anything.”
Two fingertips, like legs, scissor a path up my chest. I wrap my hand around her wrist to stop the seduction.
“Donna.”
“It’s Dana.”
“Whatever. Get back to work.”
“I’ll be quick and it’ll be incredible, I promise.” Her hand slips from my grasp, dropping to cup my junk.
Still nothing. Not even a dick twitch. Well, except annoyance at her predictable attempt to seduce me.
Just then, my bodyguard, six-foot-four, muscled Quint, pushes open the suite door and steps aside to reveal a petite woman.
The fucking world stops.
“Hey, J, there’s someone here to see you. Says you know her.”
Everything crashes to a halt.
My jaw slackens, and a jackhammer pulverizes my chest.
It can’t be.
Standing in the entrance, wide-eyed and as beautiful as ever, is my world.
Eva.
Long, glossy dark hair. Big chocolate eyes. Still petite but hips rounder, legs lean and shapely. Her face is more angular and those plush, full lips a ruby red.
Eva Ramirez? No fucking way. She’s dead.
Quint shuts the door behind him, and blinking, I shake my head. The redhead and her offending hand register and I wrench her palm from my crotch. I can’t get away from her fast enough.
Maybe I should have had that drink because sobriety is messing with me big time. I’m hallucinating, and even if this isn’t real, I just want to touch her. Talk to her.
I stalk toward the woman, my fantasy, as if approaching a fawn in the brush. I don’t want to scare her off. She can’t vanish—not yet, if ever.
She’s silent, unsure. Her chest heaves and her dark gaze intensifies.
“Eva?”
18
Starved for our flesh
EVA
“Eva, is it really you?” His husky rasp electrifies me.
I’m not ready for this despite all my mental preparation. After confronting Bianca, I went to my hotel and crashed, only to wake feeling ill and unsure of everything.
I was stunned. Jared never left me, even if he was gone. His voice, music, and scent are memories I’ve clung to. At times, it was hard to conjure the sound of his voice or his unique smell. It’s been a long time, but he’s always with me, never far from my thoughts. Never.
Last night, Bianca sent a text—she did try to call but I didn’t pick up—with a time and place to meet him the following day. Then I spent the better part of the evening fixated on the magazine photo, mesmerized by the man.
Now that I’m seeing Jared in the flesh, it’s apparent the magazine photographs, magnificent as they are, failed to capture so many glorious things about this man.
The iridescent flecks of green and gold in his powerful gaze. The raw, animalistic essence in every inch of his lean, tight body, decorated in colors and design.
He prowls toward me, shoulder-length hair wild and swept back in its just the way it is look, brushing against his dark, scruffy jaw.
Something feral emanates from his pores. Skintight leather pants and a simple white T-shirt hug his taut, rippled body.
I’m unable to move my tongue. No words come out. Again, I’m speechless.
Jared is alive.
Alive.
Jared is alive runs in the soundtrack blasting in my mind.
Now only a few feet in front of me, he reaches out with a hand, and both of mine fly to my chest, splaying across my breastbone as if erecting some kind of barrier.
He isn’t going to hurt me. My reaction isn’t fear based. It’s more out of self-preservation. What if I’ve dreamed all of this? What if he isn’t real and once I touch him, everything dissolves? Disappears and my life goes back to the bleak nothingness it has become?
None of this feels real. And if it isn’t, I’d give anything for it to never end.
For thirteen years, I’ve grappled with the reality of his death. Now, a little more than twenty-four hours since the plane, I’m here, in front of him.
He’s alive.
“Jared.” His name, my prayer, comes easily to my lips, and his long lashes flutter closed and open.
His lips peak at the corners. “Eva.”
Warm, strong knuckles glide across my cheekbone and I quiver. His touch…his touch is everything. We sway into the connection, and the feel of him brings a small yet complete peace.