beaded bridal cap and veil which hung in a plastic bag on a high hook above half a dozen hand-tooled leather suitcases. Next she looked at her camera equipment, stacked in a separate pile of black duffel bags in a distant corner since she was unsure about taking them.
All was in readiness for the long drive to the Texas hill country tomorrow.
Heather tipped the wine bottle and refilled her goblet for the fourth time. She barely felt the thin, cool crystal against her lips; barely tasted the warm red wine that slid too easily down her throat.
Tears pooled in her violet eyes as she touched the play button.
Dear God, why am I doing this to myself?
It’s 2:00 a.m. I’ve got a long drive tomorrow. And I’m not a morning person.
Heather’s head throbbed. She felt tense and achy. Four photograph albums from her high school days, loose pictures, mostly of Joey, spilling out of them, lay in a tumble at her feet. Looking through them had brought back the past, had made her weepily nostalgic. Joey had loved her. Truly loved her.
Go to bed.
She shook her bright head and gripped the remote control.
Play it again, Sam....
Heather was still trembling when Joey Fasano’s molten image blazed into focus.
Lord. He was magic on film. She was the first to be bowled over by him, to capture his special magic with a camera. If ever a rugged, male face was created to arouse and seductively provoke the female mating instinct, Joey’s was.
He’s trash. Like his father.
But as irresistible as dark, gooey chocolate.
Dusky skin stretched over ruthless, rawboned features. And, oh, why had God given him that sensual, kissable mouth that could tempt a girl to madness? Even on television Joey’s intense, black eyes burned too deeply and too hotly. His devastatingly bitter smile saw through her rich girl defenses and made her pulse skitter.
Get a life.
He’ll hurt you again; hurt your family; hurt Nicky even more.
You belong to Laurence.
Heather stared wordlessly at Joey whose long hair was tied at the nape in a ponytail. The tuxedo accentuated the breadth of his powerful shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. She was keenly aware of dangerous, sinewy muscles rippling beneath well-cut cloth.
The rough boy she’d loved was gone. This new, older, elegant version was somehow leaner, meaner, smoother, tougher. A darkness had entered this man’s soul and was etched into the hard planes of his arrogant face. He had played pirates, bikers, gypsies, warriors, mercenaries—irreverent, unrepentant scoundrels all of them. This battle-worn giant who lit big screens with his smoldering love scenes and know-it-all smiles was a stranger.
So, why after all these years could the mere sight of this embittered warrior and his saying she was unforgettable make her head pound and her womb ache? Her throat go dry? Her brain go comatose?
His raspy voice mocked her.
No more wine for you, babe.
If only he didn’t look so much like her darling Nicky.
Their uncanny resemblance turned her skin to gooseflesh.
Beneath dark, slashing brows, Joey’s hot black eyes seared and seduced her. His gaze lured her with promises even as he kept his own dangerous secrets.
Heather’s palms grew clammy.
No more dangerous than her own secrets.
His companion of the night, supermodel Daniella Wolfe, was slim and tall. With masses of gold ringlets and huge violet eyes, Daniella meant to dazzle.
She looks like me. Why do his girlfriends always look like me?
Again Joey’s roughened voice scoffed. Don’t flatter yourself, babe. What’s it to you if I dig leggy blondes?
Heather’s head buzzed when Joey leaned too far back in his seat just like he’d done in high school to taunt the teachers when he hadn’t known the answers. His gorgeous mouth was curled into that same cocky smile he’d worn when her rich crowd had snubbed him because of his bad clothes.
Even if you won’t tell your father about us, you aren’t ever going to forget me, Heather Wade... or what we did together... in bed... in the woods... in my hideout.
Her hands fisted against her chiffon-clad thigh. Yes, I will. I will, too, forget you, Joey. I have forgotten—
God created me just for you, babe.
“Maybe the devil put a hex on me,” she’d replied sassily.
The reverend once called me the devil’s spawn. You’re mine.
Joey had been the first boy to kiss Heather full on the mouth. The first boy to French kiss her. Indeed, he had claimed plenty of those long, wet kisses before seducing Heather when she’d been a naive seventeen. At eighteen, he’d been a virgin, too. There had been lots of firsts with Joey.
Lots of firsts. Lots of only’s.
From what she’d read in the tabloids, Joey no longer discriminated when it came to women. He had a revolving bedroom door. He was Hollywood’s sexiest, reigning superstud.
So—that’s his business!
The next camera shot zoomed in on the number one sex goddess who stood up on the stage holding an envelope. Strobe lights flashed behind her. The world-famous actress with the little girl voice looked like she’d poured her voluptuous body into a sequined, tubelike black gown that was slit to her navel. Beside her towered the biggest cowboy star in the business.
The long slim envelope was ripped open.
“—the nominees for Best Actor are—”
Heather gripped the remote control harder as the names of films and stars were read in the actress’s feather-soft tone.
“—the winner is—”
Applause exploded in the auditorium, drowning out the end of her sentence.
Joey’s name pulsed through Heather as she lifted her empty wineglass and then set it down, resisting the temptation to refill it again.
Now. Now he would go white with shock and then swagger up to the stage, stare into the camera with his bleak, level gaze and say it.
Heather’s breath stalled in her lungs.
No more. Turn it off. Don’t put yourself through it again.
The camera followed the tall, dark man striding down the aisle with pantherlike grace in his elegant tux. The audience rose and gave him a thundering ovation.
Heather’s blood heated in anticipation.
You got it bad, babe.
Still,
