The woman grinned as she observed the hot color that turned Lara’s neck pink. “I mean, when did you first discover Graeme Hamilton? When did you first realize you were smitten?”
Just over five years ago, when I was almost eighteen years old and nobody in the entertainment industry even knew Graeme Hamilton existed.
She looked at the expectant faces of the women. How would they react if she told them the truth? If she told them that she had known Graeme before he became Hollywood’s hottest heartthrob? That she knew him intimately? That she’d fallen in love with him the first time she’d met him and had lied to him about her age, telling him that she was actually twenty-one and not seventeen? He’d been twenty-three and she’d known instinctively that he wouldn’t want anything to do with her if he realized just how young she was. Then, when their relationship had turned serious, she hadn’t dared tell him the truth for fear of losing him. She’d continued the pretense of being a college student from California right up until after they’d eloped, when her father had tracked them down at the small Scottish inn where’d they’d spent their wedding night and dragged her from Graeme’s bed, telling him in explicit terms just what he’d done with a minor.
What would these women think if she told them that particular story? That she’d spent two days and nights locked in a bedroom with Graeme? That she’d kissed, licked and nibbled every delicious part of his body?
They’d never believe her. They’d think she was making it up, and she wouldn’t blame them. There were times when it didn’t seem real to her. Sometimes, that long-ago summer seemed no more than a dream.
“I’ve been a fan of Graeme Hamilton’s since before he made Galaxy’s End,” she finally said. That, at least, was the truth.
“Well, welcome to the club,” the first woman said. “My name is Sandra.”
“And I’m Claire,” the second woman added, indicating the registration badge she wore on a lanyard around her neck. “We’re both from Wisconsin.”
“I’m Lara. From Chicago.”
At that moment the band stopped playing, and a spotlight was turned onto the stage next to where Lara and her companions were sitting. As they watched, a round woman dressed in a figure-hugging prison-guard costume stepped forward and took the microphone.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, in a Southern accent. “Welcome to the second annual Galaxy’s End convention, where we joyfully celebrate everything related to that fabulous series, now in its third season.” She waggled her eyebrows meaningfully. “And we especially want to celebrate the gorgeous actor who made us women long to be marooned on that uncharted planet.”
There was scattered applause, and somebody from the back of the ballroom shouted, “We want Graeme!” followed by a ripple of laughter and more applause.
“I want to draw your attention to a slight change in our scheduled events,” the woman continued. “In your brochure, you’ll notice we have Finn McDougall, the director, scheduled to make a few remarks tonight. Unfortunately—”
She was interrupted by a collective groan of disappointment from the crowd, and she held her hands up, smiling.
“Now, let me finish, people. Unfortunately, Mr. McDougall’s flight has been delayed and we’ve rescheduled his chat for tomorrow morning instead. However …” She smiled secretively at the crowd. “We didn’t want you to be too disappointed, so we’ve brought in another guest. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome …Mr. Graeme Hamilton!”
There was an instant of stunned silence before the ballroom erupted in thunderous applause and ear-splitting shrieks of approval. Then, from the wings of the stage, a lean figure emerged, wearing Kip Corrigan’s signature black pants and shirt. The band struck up a resounding rendition of the theme song from Galaxy’s End, and amidst the swell of music, the man did a quick two-step dance move for the crowd, unleashing another, louder round of applause and screaming, before he strode across the stage toward the microphone.
Graeme saluted the band, kissed the emcee on both cheeks and then turned to the crowd with a wave. The spotlight turned his cropped hair into a gleaming halo of brown and bronze highlights, and from where Lara sat, a mere twenty feet from the stage, she could see his easy grin and the way his blue-green eyes scanned the crowd.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
For an instant, her heart stopped beating, and then it exploded back into frenzied action. Lara had known that when she finally saw Graeme again she’d have a strong physical reaction, but never in her wildest imaginings had she thought she might actually expire on the spot.
Graeme was speaking into the microphone, but Lara couldn’t hear anything beyond the roaring of her own blood in her ears. From where she sat, she could see the changes that five years had wrought, sculpting his face, tracing it with experience, and turning it from attractive to unforgettable. Lara felt something in her chest tear free with a painful wrench. She was only dimly aware of women rising from the nearby tables and moving forward, jostling each other in their urgency to get closer to the stage.
Closer to him.
Her mask was suffocating her.
She couldn’t breathe, and fluttering wings of blackness appeared at the outer edges of her vision. She felt overheated and flushed. Suddenly, the small bottle of wine and two martinis she’d consumed threatened to make a reappearance.
She surged to her feet with a muttered apology, intent only on escaping the ballroom, unaware that the trailing edge of the tablecloth had become snagged on her metal bikini bottom. Lara turned to leave, dragging the tablecloth with her. As if in slow motion, plates of food and glassware crashed to the floor and the six costumed women who had been sitting with her scrambled to get out of the way, knocking over chairs and crying out in surprise.
For a moment, the band stopped playing and it seemed every face in the ballroom turned in her direction. Horrified, Lara looked toward the stage.
Graeme stared back at her.
For one, brief instant, their gazes collided. A renewed surge of heat swept through Lara, fierce and swift, and then receded, leaving her bathed in a cold, clammy sweat.
With a small sound of despair, she jerked the tablecloth free of her costume and fled toward the nearest exit, which opened into a service corridor. She was only dimly aware of the hotel staff passing on either side of her as she dashed toward an elevator at the end of the hallway. A startled waiter scooted out of her way as she flung herself at the doors, frantically pressing the button for them to open.
“Whoa, Princess Leia, that’s a private service elevator,” the waiter gasped, staring at her in dismay. “Jesus, what the hell is going on?”
Following his gaze, Lara glanced back in the direction she’d come from, and nearly fainted with panic. Graeme Hamilton himself was sprinting toward her, and hot on his heels was a horde of lust-crazed women, arms outstretched as they screamed his name.
Behind her, the elevator doors swished open and Lara flung herself inside. With her breath coming in painful hitches, she desperately punched at the buttons and watched with growing dread as Graeme and the pursuing crowd of women rapidly closed the distance between them.
“Please, please, please,” she
