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Whatever was happening between her and Mac, she liked the idea she’d made an impression on him. That he wouldn’t forget her too easily.
It seemed only fair—after all, he’d certainly made an impression on her.
Chapter Fifteen
THE tiny little butterflies that had flitted about in Juno’s belly as she’d stood before Mac in her glamorous new outfit and watched his eyes darken with desire had become eagles with ten-foot wingspans by the time their stretch limo slid to a halt in front of the art deco theatre in Westwood.
Mac had briefed her during the long winding drive down Wilshire Boulevard on what would be expected of them once they arrived. But with his hand absently rubbing her thigh through the figure-hugging taffeta, her anticipation levels at fever pitch and his long, lean frame so heart-meltingly gorgeous in the formal tuxedo, Juno had been finding it a little hard to concentrate.
In fact, as he offered her his arm and she stepped out onto the pavement she realised she hadn’t heard a single word.
‘We’ll get this over as quick as we can,’ he murmured against her ear as his hand gripped her waist and the camera flashes exploded around them.
He guided her to a wall of people waving autograph books and screaming his name, barricaded behind the main walkway.
‘Stay put. This won’t take a minute,’ he said as he let her go.
It didn’t take a minute, it took twenty before he managed to extricate himself from his fans and come back to her. And during it all Juno could see how stiff and uncomfortable he was, exactly as he had been outside the church in France.
‘Sorry about that.’ He grasped her hand and gave a curt nod to the security guards who’d been keeping her company. ‘Right, let’s go see this damn movie,’ he said, striding off down the red carpet.
But as they reached the pillared entrance to the theatre, a reporter stepped into their path and shoved a huge microphone under Mac’s nose.
‘Mac, great to see you here. Charlie Stater for Good Evening, America. So Death Game’s a new departure for you. What’s it like to play the bad guy for a change?’
Mac grasped her fingers and sent the reporter a strained smile. ‘Anson’s not the bad guy, Charlie. He’s misunderstood.’
As the impromptu interview continued and Mac talked about a movie she knew nothing about Juno became aware of the photographers flocking around them. The rapid shutter clicks and endless flashes gradually getting louder and more intrusive.
How did Mac stand it?
‘So who’s this beautiful vision you’ve brought with you tonight, Mac?’
She barely had a chance to register the reporter’s fawning question before Mac tucked their joined hands behind her back, drawing her against his side.
‘This beautiful vision is Juno,’ he said before his lips tou
ched hers in a brief but deliberately intimate kiss.
As Mac stepped back, his eyes hot on her flushed face, the reporter’s questions, the camera noise, the distant shouts from the crowd faded away, until all she could hear was the rapid pulse of her own heartbeat, thumping in her ear.
Why did she suddenly feel as if this were the perfect time to panic?
The rest of the reception went by in a blur with Mac introducing her to a host of famous faces whom she was sure she ought to know.
The film turned out to be superb. A fast, furiously actionpacked thriller anchored by Mac’s central performance.
Juno sat in the darkened theatre and saw yet another side of Mac emerge that she hadn’t known existed. He’d immersed himself so completely in the part, the raw emotion etched on his face in the final scene so real and so vivid, he’d become a different person. This was more than talent, she thought. Much more.
After the screening Mac did a series of press interviews with her hand clasped in his. He insisted on introducing her to every reporter. And each time he did, the flicker of panic increased.
By the time they arrived at the after-show party in a Michelin-starred restaurant in Beverly Hills, it occurred to her he’d hardly let go of her all evening. Even during the screening, he’d threaded his fingers through hers and held on.
‘So what did you think?’ he asked as he whisked a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and handed it to her.
The question sounded casual, but his eyes fixed on her face and she knew it wasn’t.
She remembered how he’d shifted and fidgeted in his seat through most of the movie. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said seeing himself on screen made him nervous. The thought was strangely endearing.
