Gwenyth’s betrayer of a heart actually had the nerve to feel crestfallen. Sam hadn’t come to LA to be with her after all. He’d come to fulfill a contract. A contract neither one of them could get out of without serious financial consequences.
Her belly coiling with need, Gwenyth luxuriated in the familiar pleasure only Sam could give to her as his hand continued its ministrations. The next thing she knew, her top was on the floor and Sam’s mouth was latched onto one erect nipple. Whimpering, she turned in his lap to give him better access and splayed her fingers through his midnight black hair. “I still need time to think, Sam.”
Gwenyth cried out from deprivation as Sam’s mouth left her puckered flesh. She sighed in relief when his lips clamped down on the other one and suckled. “I mean it, Sam,” she breathed out. “One last time and then we’re not having sex until I figure out what’s best for us.”
Sam was paying Gwenyth’s words no attention whatsoever. “Whatever you say, Cupcake,” he mumbled as he lifted his head briefly to latch back onto her other nipple.
A minute later, Gwenyth sat naked in Sam’s arms. Five minutes later, she lay sprawled out beneath him, taking each of his thrusts as they were awarded to her. “Quit fightin’ me Gwenyth Marie,” he whispered thickly as he stroked in and out of her wet flesh, “you belong to me.”
As Gwenyth climaxed for what felt like the hundredth time in three days, Sam’s words flowed over and through her. She wanted to belong to him. God help her she did. But she also wanted him to love her.
* * * * *
Gwenyth nodded her thanks to the receptionist at the front desk of Vantry Sportswear as he handed her a plain white envelope with her name neatly typed on it. She glanced absently for a return address, and then, unable to locate one, stuffed it into her duffel bag as she glided toward the elevators.
The photo shoot was going amazingly well, all things considered. The models were delighted with how smoothly things were progressing and the Vantrys were certainly pleased with her efforts. In fact, the only person who seemed to be less than thrilled with Gwenyth’s work—or, more to the point, with Gwenyth in particular—was her Prima Don of a lead model. The man was driving her crazy with his demands.
Sam wouldn’t pose unless the lighting was just so, nor would he model a swimsuit unless it “called to him.” There was even an incident two days ago when Sam had refused to remove his shirt, claiming he’d had a psychic premonition warning him against it. Gwenyth was this close to strangling him, thereby giving credence to his claims of bad karma.
What in the hell was wrong with Sam? Gwenyth wondered, not for the first time in the past three days. It was as if he was doing everything in his power to deliberately sabotage the shoot. And her career in the process.
The ironic part of this whole sordid business was that, while Sam had been doing his damnedest to be a total nuisance to her, Gwenyth had used the sexless past three days to sort out her feelings. Her conclusion: she was definitely in love with the big Bozo. Bad karma, bitching, and all.
Gwenyth had done a lot of thinking since that last night of shared passion when she’d first arrived in Los Angeles. Since then, she’d taken several long walks, swam lots of laps in the hotel pool, and drank even more pots of coffee. And although she had given up the ship so to speak and admitted her feelings for Sam to herself, she had also realized that Sam probably wasn’t at the same place she was mentally. It was quite possible that the man wouldn’t know he was in love with her until she hit him over the head with it.
So be it.
Gwenyth had arrived at the conclusion that if she wanted something badly enough, and she did indeed want Sam’s love, then she wasn’t above waiting for it. She’d notch up her chin and weather his uncertainties until he realized he loved her back. She could only hope he realized it very soon.
Gwenyth slipped inside of the opening elevator doors and pressed the button that would take her to the fourth floor. Thankfully, she wouldn’t be working with the Prima Don today. This morning’s shoot was to be done with Etienne, an extremely fine looking French model who was a hell of a lot more cooperative than Sam Tremont. Etienne did what he was told to do—no more, no less. Gwenyth was beginning to think that deference wasn’t necessarily a bad quality in a man.
After arriving at the fourth floor and saying a brief hello to Julie Gantz, makeup artiste extraordinaire, Gwenyth made her way outside where the once paved terrace had been transformed into a garden of paradise for today’s shoot with Etienne.
Etienne looked, as always, impeccably handsome. His dark hair and eyes went sinfully well with his tanned, muscular physique. The six foot three, one hundred ninety pound model was reading a book of Chaucer and sipping from a glass of white wine, while three assistants oiled down his perfectly honed biceps and torso.
“Bon jour, Etienne.”
Etienne glanced up from his reading of medieval poetry and gifted Gwenyth with a dazzling, pearly white smile. “Salut, Gwen! Ça va, ma chere?”
“I’m great. How about you?”
“Bon.”
Gwenyth inclined her head with a smile. It would be nice to work with someone cooperative today, someone who wasn’t out for her blood. Funny that the man she loved fell into the latter category. “Are you ready to get started?”
Etienne closed his book with a small thud and tossed it onto the nearest chair. “Absolutely.”
Gwenyth knelt to the floor and opened up her duffel bag, pulling out two new rolls of film in the process. She remembered the letter the receptionist had handed to her after spying a corner of the envelope shoved into the back of her bag. It was probably nothing. Probably another of Sam’s notes demanding some new change in the schedule for tomorrow’s shoot. Perhaps he’d had another of his stupid so-called visions.
Sighing, Gwenyth reached for the envelope and tore it open. Although she was certain it was a royal summons of some sort from Prima Don Tremont, she had to read it on the off chance that it was something important. It only took a second to scan the letter’s message:
NAM
Gwenyth’s fingers trembled with anger for the briefest of moments as she clutched the paper tighter, wadding it up into a ball. She knew she should have felt scared. Or at least slightly apprehensive. The only emotion she could manage to conjure up, however, was pure, unadulterated rage. The bastard.
Was Senator Green behind this? Was he so naïve as to believe that these stupid little messages were going to send her cowering into oblivion-ville? Oh sure, the first message had managed to shake her up a bit, but that was more so because of the method that had been used rather than the message itself. It wasn’t like she’d been expecting a baseball to come crashing through her closed window while sitting quietly in her apartment contemplating Sam Tremont.
Sam. Oh damn. She could never let Sam see this coward’s note! He’d fly into a rage over it. She could easily envision him barging his Prima Don ass into Senator Green’s office and rearranging the politician’s fake smile and capped teeth. A scene such as that one would only hinder Harry’s chances at the polls next week.
