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My pulse flutters wildly. “N-no. Absolutely not.”
He doesn’t appear convinced.
“I read it in a forum,” I say too confidently for someone who regrets opening their mouth to begin with.
Marcus’s lips twitch. “A forum, huh?”
Cocky bastard.
“Yeah. Tough crowd in the ‘Murder Marcus Matthews’ chat room,” I reply drily.
“Where a latte is an accomplice in their plans for my untimely demise?”
Ears burning, I grab his leg and yank it toward me with more force than necessary, but damn him, it’s impossible to disguise my irritation. I don’t know how to respond to his relentless teasing.
Where’s the smug, selfish Marcus who acted like a complete ass during our interview? He may be deflecting for unknown reasons now, but I didn’t learn his coffee preference from a stupid quiz or from a made-up forum. I learned it by paying attention to detail.
“Be a doll and grab that cinnamon latte for me, will you?”
He nodded at the high table beside him and gave me one of those cool, devilish smiles.
Naïve to his true nature, I smiled back while a makeup artist dusted translucent powder on his cheeks. “Sure thing.”
Marcus agreeing to meet with me was huge forLuster. He and his agent hadn’t accepted an in-person interview request since Leah’s passing just one year prior.
He lazily inspected my body, even modest as I was in black slacks and a tightly buttoned blouse.
“No. This isn’t right.” He gagged and pointed at the cup with a sneer. “I wanted adouble whip. It’s the same order every time. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Confused, I glanced around the set, unsure why he was asking me about his drink preferences. “I’m sorry, Mr. Matthews, but I wasn’t the one who ordered that for you.”
Agitated, he thrust it toward my hand and waved me on. “Well, then. If you’re not going to be useful, let’s just get this over with.”
My jaw ached from biting back a snarky remark, but I was a professional. I’d dealt with plenty of diva celebrities in my short time as the lead writer, and I would deal with Marcus, too.
I pulled out my notepad and signaled my cameraman before starting with the string of questions I stayed up late preparing and perfecting the night before.
They were easy things, like how it felt to be namedPeople’s‘Sexiest Man Alive,’ and what direction he was hoping the next season ofFang For Hirewould take.
He entertained me with half-assed answers, but by the fifth question, his demeanor changed significantly. Marcus sat forward and placed his hands on his knees. The stench of stale alcohol wafted from his breath, and my heart sped at the lifelessness in his eyes staring back at me.
“Time for you to run along now, little roach.”
I froze and stammered a pathetic, “W-what? But we’re not finished.”
“You’re lucky my agent convinced me to do this interview in the first place.” He dropped his voice, low and controlled. “I hate all of you media roaches, and my sister hated you, too.”
Renewed anger and hurt mix with a heavy dose of confusion as I reinsert my thoughts into the present. Should I chalk the subtle changes in him up to the fact that he’s a Gemini—charming psychopaths, every last one of them—or has something else mellowed the vamp out?
I note that even staring at me as keenly as he is now, an emotional disconnect remains. Only, it’s lost its previous intensity, somehow softer than when we were face to face before.
“I want to know why you hate me,” he says, abruptly popping my thought bubble.
My lips snap shut. I don’t appreciate that glittering interest gracing a face too handsome for his own good.
“You won’t like the answer.”
“Try me,” he dares.
