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“We have things to talk about,” he said, trying to see behind her dark jade gaze. He didn’t want to share her, he realized. Tonight or ever. He wanted to hide them both away from the world and fall into her, just as he’d been doing since she came to Los Angeles. He wanted that with a sudden surge of fierceness that surprised him. “Tonight.”
“Worry about your benefit,” she replied, which was completely unsatisfactory.
“Tonight,” he repeated more firmly.
“Go,” she whispered, and let go of his hand.
He shouldn’t have felt it like a loss.
But he had work to do, so he left her side, pasted on his Hollywood smile and got to it.
* * *
This is it, Miranda told herself as she fixed her lipstick in the mirror of the small powder room hidden away in the house’s impressive library. This is the end.
There was no use pretending otherwise.
Because Ivan had talked a lot. He’d talked about his childhood, about his fighting years, about the foolish things he’d done when he was newly a movie star and could no longer step foot in public without being propositioned and paparazzied. Or both. He’d talked and talked, as if some wall had broken down inside of him.
But he hadn’t said anything about this agreement of theirs. He hadn’t said that he wanted anything more than what they’d laid out in the documents they’d both signed. He hadn’t mentioned it at all—he’d only taken her with an ever-intensifying ferocity, leaving her mindless and spent.
Which said all he meant to say, she supposed. She imagined that was what he wanted to talk about later tonight. The simple mechanics of how this would end.
She would be elegant about it, she decided, pressing her lips together and ignoring the dark shadows in her own eyes. She would pretend she was as sophisticated as he undoubtedly was. She would act the way she imagined that Parisian mistress might have acted centuries ago, upon finding herself summarily dismissed in the same matter-of-fact fashion. She would handle herself with grace and maturity, and save the sobbing for when she was back in New York. Alone.
She could do this.
The clutch handbag she held vibrated, and she sighed, digging into it for her cell phone. It was her literary agent—again. He’d called almost every day for the duration of her time with Ivan, and, she reasoned, she might as well answer him now. She might as well start this terrible ball rolling.
“It’s over,” she said instead of saying hello. “I assume that’s why you’ve been calling.”
He paused for only the tiniest moment. “When you say ‘over,’” he said carefully, every inch the placating agent, “exactly what do you mean by that?”
“I mean Ivan and me. We’re finished.” She stood with the phone to her ear and played with the impossibly decadent fabric of the dress with her free hand. It was sumptuous. It felt decadent and sensual against her skin, the way Ivan did. How was she going to let go of that? “I’m coming home tomorrow without him.” She took a breath, squeezed her eyes shut. “And you should know that there isn’t going to be any book.”
“What happened? You broke up? Maybe you’ll get back together—”
“We won’t.” It was important to sound firm. Unemotional. Maybe her voice would rub off on her heart. And if she faked it long enough, maybe it would come true.
“—and maybe in a few weeks when you’re looking at things in a new way, you’ll remember that you need a new book idea. Your publisher needs a new book idea. And this one is a guaranteed bestseller. How often does that happen? I’ll tell you how often. Never.”
“No book,” she repeated, emphasizing each word, as if maybe he hadn’t heard her the first time.
“Miranda.” She could almost see that patented expression he trotted out at moments like this, frowning and concerned. “This is your career.”
“Is my career solely dependent on gossiping about Ivan Korovin?” she asked him, and maybe her tone was sharper then than strictly necessary, not that she blamed him for the choices she’d made. That was on her. “Then it isn’t much of a career, is it? It’s time for something new. Long past time.”
