Because of You

Liz

In a matter of moments, I’ll be face to face with Aidan Court.

For the first time in seven years.

I swallow the tension tightening in my throat and try to dampen the nervousness building in my chest.

Aidan.

He hates me.

He detests me.

And I don’t blame him.

Not when I’ve spent years hating myself for what I did to him.

In front of me, slanting brass script on a white door spells out the number of actress Celeste Granger’s Park Avenue apartment. The lively sounds of a party—music, laughter, and gossip—filter through the doors and walls and into my ears, pulling at my fluttery nerves.

“You should show up at Celeste Granger’s soiree,” Natalia had suggested yesterday.

“Why on earth would I?” After abandoning my debut play on Broadway seven years ago to chase Hollywood stardom, hanging out with the theatre crowd wasn’t high on my list of preferred activities to occupy my time in New York city.

“Aidan will be there,” Natalia replied with a shrug. She’s my father’s longtime assistant, sometime lover, and now manager of McKay Theatre productions, and she always has a solid reason for everything. “The sooner you two get your…reunion out of the way, the better for the new play.”

The new play. My pretext for being in New York at all.

Now, with my inevitable confrontation with Aidan only moments away, I take a deep breath and push the door open.

The hushed whispering starts from the people standing closest to the entrance.

Liz McKay.

Liz McKay.

When you’re a box office sensation and multiple time sexiest woman of the year, you get used to stopping conversation when you walk into a room.

I ignore the murmurs of my name and look around, searching for the one face I’m here to see.

Aidan.

My eyes lock on his, drawn toward him, almost as if I’ve heard him call my name.

Seeing him knocks the breath out of my lungs.

He’s standing at the bar, glass in hand. Dressed in an inky black jacket, dark pants, and a dark gray shirt, he’s an improbable mixture of a bad-boy and a prep school prince. From across the room, his vivid blue eyes blaze daggers at me from a face that’s perfection personified—A face filled with emotions so intense, they almost knock me off my feet.

I take a step forward, drawn to him despite the animosity I can feel coming off him in waves. He turns away, tossing back his drink like he’s not aware the whole room is looking at us…waiting for us.

Someone vaguely familiar comes over to my side and starts to talk to me, and I smile in response, my eyes still on Aidan. He’s facing me again, glass now empty, the fierce burning in his eyes filling me with memories I’ve tried to ignore for seven years.

No more.

Cutting across the room, I make straight for him. I feel like he could devour me with his intensity alone, right here, in front of all these people, he would claim me and burn me to ashes, along with every single heartache of the years I’ve spent apart from him.

He doesn’t move until I’m right in front of him. I open my mouth to say his name, and right then, he strides past me, leaving me standing alone, open-mouthed, staring at his empty, abandoned glass.

Four days earlier.

It’s evening when we land in New York. The plane, a sleek jet with plush leather seats and thick carpeting is gliding through gold-hued clouds when the pretty stewardess appears and reminds me to fasten my seatbelt. After we land, she returns to ask for my autograph. I oblige, signing my name on the cover of a glossy fashion magazine adorned with a picture of me wearing bright lipstick and a careless smile.

Outside, a faint breeze stirs my hair and teases my cheeks. My sunglasses are already in place—black, oversized designer shades. With my high heels and straight-from-the-runway dress, I look every inch the glamorous movie star.

Two cars are waiting on the tarmac—one to transport my luggage to my rarely used apartment in the village, and a black SUV with tinted windows, to take me to my father’s home.

My gaze sweeps across the Manhattan skyscape visible across the river and longing fills my chest.

Home.

I’ve missed this place.

The sudden burst of music from my phone snaps me out of my nostalgia.

It’s Jenny, my assistant. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she replies, her voice bright and chirpy, as usual. “Just checking to see you’ve landed. Marvin’s been blowing up my phone all day. He’s trying to reach you.”

I groan at the thought of my manager. “He’s the last person I want to talk to. He’s determined to make me change my mind about the movie.”

“Well…” Jenny draws out the word. “A guaranteed box office hit with one of Hollywood’s biggest stars who also happens to be your ex? Think of the free publicity. He’d be a horrible manager if he didn’t try to change your mind.”

“Well, I’m not going to, Jenny, and you know why.”

She sighs. “Maybe if you told him why you had to leave, about your father… he’d understand…”

“No.” My voice is sharp. I trust Marvin Steeps with my career, but privacy in my personal issues is something I need to work harder than most people to attain and it’s something I guard closely. “Marvin might reveal something to the press,” I continue, my tone softer. “The Liz McKay brand is more important to him than discretion about my father’s condition.”

“You’re right,” Jenny sighs. “I’m sorry, Liz.”

“It’s fine.” At this point I just want to see my father. His illness is a shocking surprise. I didn’t know he was sick until his former assistant Natalia Barrow called me a week ago.

“You need to come down and spend some time with your father,” she’d said without mincing words. Instantly, I knew something was wrong, that my twice monthly phone calls with my father had not nearly been enough.

His housekeeper, Gertie, confessed the rest to me. My dad’s health has been failing for a while.

And I had been oblivious.

Guilt floods my body once again and I hurry toward Percy, my father’s long-time driver, who is waiting by the SUV. He opens the rear door as I approach.

I greet him with a smile. “How’s it going Percy?”

He shrugs powerful shoulders, his face creasing with a fond expression that amplifies my nostalgia. “So, so, Lizzie-bean. How are you?”

“Hanging on.”

“Aren’t we all?”

With a chuckle, I slide into the back seat. During the drive, I fiddle with my phone. I don’t tweet anymore, or do Facebook, but I have an Instagram account where I post things that interest and inspire me—books, art, images from the sets where I work and little snippets about my life.

My last post is a picture I took in an obscure art gallery I found close to my last movie set. “Don’t hesitate to reach for your dreams,” I’d typed under the colorful painting of a figure reaching for the sky. Now, I scroll through the comments, smiling at the sweetest ones.

If only I didn’t feel like such a hypocrite.

Once, I thought I knew what it meant to reach for my dreams, but now I know my dreams will remain incomplete until I reach into my past, toward the one person who has haunted me for seven years.

Aidan Court.

Just thinking about him fills me with an acute and painful longing. For so long, I’ve buried that longing under a pile of work and events, but something about my father’s illness has hollowed me out, and now, I’m swiftly succumbing to the tender ache that has never gone away.

Once again, I’m in the same city, breathing the same air as him. But this will not be like all the other times. This time, I will see him. I will talk to him.

“Aidan,” I whisper his name under my breath.

“Did you want something?” Percy asks.

“No.” I shake my head and turn my gaze outside the window. Soon, we’re in Manhattan, and I drink in the familiar sights and the memories that jump out at me like fireworks. No matter how long I stay away or how far I go, this city is where I feel like I am home. Not my much-too-large house in the Hollywood hills with the pool, the magnificent patio, and the private cinema. This place, with the noise, the people, and the traffic—it’s where my spirit lives.

The car stops at the entrance to a classic art deco building. It’s very old New York—home to at least two billionaires and other wealthy people. Outside, there’s no mob of paparazzi, no cameras, only a doorman dressed in uniform standing under the ancient awning at the entrance. He approaches the car and opens the door, inclining his head as I step out.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. McKay.”

“Thank you…” I try to remember his name. I met him a year ago, the last time I visited my father.

“Jeffrey,” he reminds me, still smiling.

“Thank you, Jeffrey.” There’s an apologetic note in my voice, and I hope he’s not offended enough to write an anonymous post trashing me on the internet. Sighing, I adjust my shades and hurry into the building.

On my way to the elevators, my heels click on polished marble. An elegant woman in a faux-fur coat glides past me, leading two beautiful terriers on gold threaded leashes. She neither looks in my direction or registers recognition of my face.

“God, I love this city,” I say under my breath.

The elevator deposits me in front of my father’s apartment. Inside the entrance foyer, my feet sink into the thick carpet, my eager gaze taking in the familiar room, the framed mirrors, paintings, and pieces of baroque furniture. The decor is from a time before it was fashionable to be minimalist, and it fills me with heart-tightening nostalgia.

The door to the living room opens, revealing a stern face that has softened with age.

“Darling!” Gertie’s voice is deep, firm, and familiar. “My beautiful darling Lizzie-bean.”

“Hi Gertie,” I murmur, walking into the comfort of her embrace. Gertie has been with my father since I was twelve. She’s family, and I love her dearly.

She peers at me with sharp gray eyes. “You look tired. Have you been working too hard? Those weeks and weeks on set…” she shudders. “You should slow down.”

“I will.” I follow her into the living room. It’s decorated like the foyer, with ornate furniture and large windows that frame a spectacular view of the park.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Gertie is saying. “It feels like forever since we last saw you.”

“Just a little more than a year.”

“You had that premiere, and you came to visit us for a minute.”

“A day.”

“It felt like a minute.” She sighs, watching as I walk over to the grand piano in a corner of the room. “Nobody plays that now.”

I have a sudden memory of a famous actress playing the instrument at one of my father’s parties and my nostalgia intensifies. “How bad is he?” My voice is strained. My father was diagnosed with cancer. For a year, he underwent the treatments without telling me anything about it.

Days ago, after I’d spoken to Natalia and Gertie, he confessed everything to me, leaving me heartbroken for a whole number of reasons—the pain he’s going through and the knowledge that he waited so long to confide in me. I’m also afraid because I don’t want to lose him.

“He was very sick for a while, what with the chemo and all.” Gertie sniffs. “He’s been better these past few weeks. Stronger. He can’t wait to see you.”

“And I can’t wait to see him.” I imagine the physical toll this sickness would have taken on him, and a cold hand of fear grips my stomach, but I steel myself. No matter what, I’m determined to be strong. “Where is he?”

“The patio. He likes to sit out there these days.”

Outside, there’s a faint breeze stirring the leaves of a few potted plants that line the patio. My father is lying on a recliner, his body covered by a thick blanket. Beside him, there’s a recent bestselling novel with an old, tasseled bookmark sticking out of the pages. His eyes are closed, so he can’t see me, but I see him. I see his drawn face and his thin hair. I see the hollows that were once his cheeks and I choke back a sob.

His eyes flutter open and come alive when they land on me. His face brightens, and he starts to rise from the recliner.

“Dad!” I rush over to him, “You don’t have to get up.”

He ignores me and pushes his blanket away, rising to his feet with some effort. “Nonsense.” His voice is firm, and he pulls me into his arms for a hug. “As if I would lie here like an invalid instead of giving my princess a proper welcome.”

He’s thinner than I remember, and even his voice has changed. How did I never notice on the phone that his commanding baritone had given way to something weaker and more strained? My eyes water, and I relax into the warm comfort of his hug. There’s a faint odor of medications, but I don’t care. “I’ve missed you, Dad.”

“Missed you too, sweet-pea.” He cradles my face in his hands. “You look good.” There’s a note of approval and satisfaction in his voice. “How was your flight?”

I shrug. “Smooth.”

He nods, then glances at the recliner with distaste. “Let’s go inside. We can sit in my study and drink tea while you tell me everything that’s been going on. This old man has no idea what’s happening outside this apartment.”

“You’re not old,” I protest, taking his arm so he can lean on me as we walk. It hurts to see how fragile he is. He’s only sixty-five and has always looked young for his age. Now, he looks at least ten years older.

The study is warm, cozy, and still furnished with the thick carpet, dark mahogany bookshelves, solid desk, and the plush settee where, as a teenager, I’d often curled up to read. Battling another wave of longing for days gone by, I wait until my dad settles into his favorite stuffed-leather winged armchair, then I curl up on a corner of the settee. Gertie appears with tea, green for my father, and Earl Grey with a splash of lemon for me.

“I read somewhere that you were planning to film an action flick in Spain,” my father says, raising his cup to his lips. There’s no disapproval in his voice, but I’ve always known, somehow, that he’s not very impressed with the movies I’ve done in the last seven years. Movies that have done little to showcase my dramatic talent but have made my face and name recognizable everywhere in the world.

“I pulled out of that project.” I sip my tea and give him a smile. “I’ve been working too hard…I needed some time off.”

His face tells me he’s not buying the lie. “Liz, I don’t want you to put your work on hold because of me.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell me you were sick?” Dropping my mask, I let him see the hurt I’ve been hiding. “Because you think my work is more important to me than you are?”

He looks away.

“Dad…”

“I thought I could beat it.” He shrugs, and there’s a bitter note in his voice. “I wanted to tell you good news. That I’d been sick, and I wasn’t anymore.”

“But you aren’t.” My voice rises. “The treatment…”

He shakes his head. “I’m still sick, Liz. There’ll be a second course of treatment.”

Panic races through my chest. “But then you’ll get better.”

“Maybe.” His voice is soft, his eyes earnest as they hold mine. “Maybe not.”

Tears sting at my eyes and I will them not to fall. I’m not here because he needs my strength or support. I’m here so he can prepare me for an eventuality he thinks he can no longer avoid.

You need to come down and spend some time with your father. Natalia had said.

Before it’s too late.

“I’m sorry, Liz.”

“No, I’m sorry, dad.” My eyes are stinging. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should have been here from the beginning.”

“No. No. Sweet-pea. I don’t want that. I never have. I don’t want you locked up in this old apartment with me just because I’m sick. I’ve lived, Liz. I’ve had a great life, and I want you to live yours. That’s what I’ve always wanted.” He sighs. “And let’s face it, you’re not just my daughter anymore. You’re Liz McKay. What will you tell your public? How will you explain an extended absence from your work?”

He’s right. I don’t want people—the tabloids, forums, and fans—to speculate about his health and tie it to when I would be free to work again. He deserves more than that. “I hate when people say that,” I reply in a small voice. “You’re Liz McKay. Like I’m a product.”

He chuckles. “A very valuable product.”

I can’t argue with that. “I spoke to Natalia before I came to town.” Natalia has been managing the McKay theater company since Dad’s retirement two years ago. “There is a play…”

“The Break of Day.” He nods. “Natalia’s been working hard to get it off the ground. Difficult sponsors…” He shudders, though a sad softness enters his voice when he says Natalia’s name. “You’re considering playing Lillie? Are you sure? It’s a big part, and you haven’t worked in theatre for years.”

I try not to be offended. “I’ve not forgotten how to act just because I’ve been doing action movies and romantic comedies. With the play, I’d have a perfect reason for being in the city, and it could advance my career too, so you don’t have to worry about my life being on hold.”

“It’s not a bad plan.” His eyes close and I realize he’s tired.

“Why don’t you rest?” I suggest. “We’ll continue talking later.”

He releases a soft breath, already asleep. I leave the study, and once I’m outside the door, I allow myself to cry. Out in the patio, my vision blurs as I ball my father’s blanket in my arms and bury my face in the soft wool, feeling more helpless than I’ve ever felt in my life.

I take a few moments to compose myself. Back in the study, my father is still asleep, so I cover him with the blanket and go around the desk to the window.

The drapes are drawn, but I peer out through a gap in the hanging fabrics at the people on the sidewalks, the trees, the cars that never stop… There’s so much life everywhere, and yet its very essence is out of anyone’s control. We can’t even prevent our loved ones from falling sick.

The wall to one side of the desk is lined with bookshelves. Walking over, I trace my fingers over thick volumes—memoirs, business guides, insider stories about famous plays and the legends that starred in them. I spent my childhood poring over the pictures in these books, long before I read any of the words.

One shelf holds the awards my father has collected over the years. Two awards for best producer occupy pride of place, next to a picture of my mother who died when I was seven. She’s bowing on the stage of her last musical. There’s also a framed letter in my childish teenage scrawl. “To the most loving father in the world,” it begins. I smile at the familiar words before moving on to the pictures of my father with playwrights, theater owners, and politicians. There’s a picture of me on-stage, and another, with me, my father and Aidan.

My heart catches and I close my eyes, stunned by the clarity of my memories. It was the opening night of my first play, and after the standing ovation at the end, I’d felt almost drunk with triumph. That night was magical, and Aidan…

Aidan…

The familiar ache of loss blooms in my belly. I haven’t seen him in years. Seven years to be exact. I’ve read about him and followed his career, the award-winning plays, the two acclaimed movies… I’ve seen all his plays, in what Jenny calls my stealth mode, but in the flesh—though I have hungered, thirsted for him, it has been seven years.

There’s a familiar ache in the tips of my fingers—longing, the desire to feel someone else’s warmth, someone else’s love. Reaching out, I touch his face and my fingers find glass. I release a slow breath. He’s smiling in the picture, a lighthearted, carefree smile, his sensuous lips perpetually upturned in one corner, his thick dark hair reaching almost to his shoulders with the stubborn forelock spilling forward onto his face. I remember my fingers in that hair, those lips kissing me, his mesmerizing blue eyes boring deep into mine as we pledged our bodies to each other, found pleasure and made promises…

Promises you broke.

I suppress the accusing voice, keeping my gaze on Aidan’s face. He no longer looks like he did the night the picture was taken. He was twenty-four then. Now, he’s thirty-one. The hair is shorter, the eyes less carefree, the smile is now a wry smirk, and sometimes I wonder how much of that is my fault.

“That was a wonderful night.” My father’s voice startles me, and I turn around. He’s still in his chair, but his eyes are on the picture.

“It was perfect,” I agree, my voice soft. “You, me and Aidan.” Saying his name out loud has a strange effect on me. My voice catches, and my stomach suddenly feels light. I close my eyes and repeat it silently to myself. Aidan. Aidan. Aidan.

My father is studying my face. “He’s one of the best. He’d coax an award-winning performance from anyone. I always hoped you two would resolve all the…” He stops and sighs. “Natalia wants him to direct the play. She’s been trying to lock him down for ages. She hoped he would be a draw for investors.”

I frown. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “Although, with you both on the project…”

My laugh is bitter. “With our history together, it will become a carnival. An investor’s dream come true, for sure. The tabloids would speculate to death about us. It won’t happen, though. Aidan will never agree to work with me. Once he discovers there’s a chance I’ll be in the play, he will never sign on to do it.”

“And if he does…” My father gives me a piercing look. “Would you work with him?”

The possibility causes something to tighten low in my belly. I close my eyes. Reach for your dreams. I’d come for my father, but I also came for Aidan. “Yes.” My voice is soft but firm. “Yes, of course.”

“Maybe he feels the same.”

My lips curve in a sad smile and I shake my head. “I broke his heart, dad. He hates me. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to work with me either.”

My father shrugs. “You might be surprised.”

I know he’s wrong, but still, the words give me hope.

Aidan

“Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath before scrawling my signature on the dotted line.

“This is a great project,” Debra reminds me with an elaborate eye-roll. “I know you’re excited.”

I ignore the eye-roll and watch her gather up the contracts. She has a quiet efficiency that’s invaluable in an assistant, and she is right. I am excited, but I know the feeling will only last until I enter the theater and face the stage, and it would feel as though Liz was standing right there, eyes dancing, watching me with that trademark Liz McKay expression that is both challenge and capitulation.

Then for the next few months, I would drive myself and my actors, demanding their best performances, trying to forget the one woman I don’t want to think about, the one woman I can’t stop thinking about.

Liz.

It doesn’t help that when I walk out of the theater there’d be a twenty-foot billboard in Times Square with her face smiling slyly down at me. It doesn’t help that the critics can’t stop comparing any new play I direct with that first play. She’s like the poet’s voiceless ghost, facing round about me everywhere.

“So, I’ll get these back to Natalia ASAP,” Debra announces, interrupting my thoughts. “Don’t forget, you’re attending Celeste Granger’s party later this evening.”

I grimace. “That’s today?”

She gives me an exasperated frown. “Yes.”

I respect Celeste Granger. She’s a talented performer, and her soirees are legendary—a way for industry heavyweights to socialize and make deals over cocktails and aperitifs. She always invites me, and I’d agreed to attend this one, though I’m already regretting that decision.

“Everybody who’s anybody will be there,” Debra tells me, “and it wouldn’t hurt you to socialize a little.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” I drum my fingers on the surface of my desk, pensive, and unsure why. It feels like there’s a storm cloud in the air, about to burst.

My eyes go to the documents now tucked under Debra’s arm. I never sign contracts without a thorough vetting by my lawyers and myself. I’ve also met with Natalia Barrow, the producer, over the last few weeks, to discuss the play, logistics, auditions, everything…and yet now that I’ve signed the contract I feel like there’s something I’ve missed, something significant that I won’t like.

“Do you need anything else?” Debra asks, no doubt eager to run off to her boyfriend in Brooklyn and indulge in a few hours of eye-rolling about her privileged yet bad-tempered boss. Not that I blame her.

Just then, the door to my bedroom opens. I don’t turn to look, but Debra’s eyes follow Claire as she emerges fully dressed and walks over to my chair.

“Hi, Claire,” Debra’s voice is dry. She doesn’t like Claire. Hell, it’s not even settled that she likes me.

“Hey.” Claire acknowledges her, then kisses me on the lips. After our lunch date, which occurred mostly in my bed, she’s ready to get back to work at the reputable art gallery where she’s a curator. “See you tonight?” Her eyes are questioning.

I shake my head. “I have a thing.”

“Oh.” Her smile stays on and she looks from me to Debra. “Call me, then.”

As soon as the door closes behind her, Debra makes a sound in her throat. “She lives here now?”

“You know she doesn’t.”

She smirks. “You should give her a key. She looks like she wants a key.”

“Maybe, I will,” I reply, glaring at my assistant. In the seven years since Liz, there have been a few women. Like me, they soon realized there would be no one else for me, and that to me, love, commitment, and all that forever stuff would always be little more than bullshit. Claire is the most recent, and she knows that anything more than sex is off the table.

“That will be the day.”

“It’s none of your business, Deb, but we’re just casual and it’s fine.”

“Does she know?” Debra sings under her breath, then grins and taps the folder she’s holding. “I’ll take care of this…and don’t forget…Celeste Granger.”

I wave her away. “I’ll be there.”

After she’s gone, I leave my desk, walking barefoot across the large space that is both living room, kitchen, and office. There’s coffee brewing on the counter, and I pour a large amount into a plain white mug.

Why am I on edge?

Maybe because she is in town. It’s impossible to be unaware when one of the biggest Hollywood stars is in your city. Social media, magazine headlines, even news websites all conspire to feed people information they don’t need, like the fact that Liz McKay has set her dainty little feet in Manhattan.

Her dainty little lying and betraying feet.

I hate that I care. I hate that I pored over the articles speculating about her reasons for being in the city. I hate the longing that gripped me when I saw the pictures of her emerging from the building on Fifth Avenue where her dad, Dennis McKay has lived for years.

What is she doing here?

There are unconfirmed rumors that she pulled out of her latest project, an action blockbuster starring her ex-fiancé. I’ve tried not to care, but I can’t stop wondering why she’s been in town for almost a week now.

“I don’t care.” I say the words out loud, as if that will make them true.

I don’t care.

Except, I do.

“I’m so excited to meet you,” a girl in a tight red dress squeaks at me, thrusting her breasts in my face.

The living room of Celeste Granger’s spacious apartment is buzzing with people and conversation. Soft music flows out from hidden speakers, and servers weave through the guests with trays of champagne. I smile drily at the girl in front of me. “Of course, you are.”

Undeterred by my lack of interest, she tries again. “I love your work!”

“Oh, you do?” I lean close. She smells like anti-perspirant and heavy perfume. “Tell me, which of my plays do you just love the most?”

“All of them,” she breathes. “I’m an actress.” She thrusts out the breasts again, more vehemently this time. “I’ve always wanted to work with you. You’re an icon.”

I am bored. “You’re trying too hard, and yet not hard enough.” I walk away, taking only a few steps before I feel a hand on my arm.

“Aidan!” It’s Celeste, resplendent in a glittery black dress. She looks gorgeous, and she knows it.

With a delighted laugh, she kisses both my cheeks. “I think someone is unhappy with you,” she declares, her eyes on the girl I’ve just abandoned. “You’re not nice to anyone, Aidan. Not the starlets, not the producers, not even the investors. Why?”

“I am nice to you.”

“Not as nice as I’d like.” She winks and raises a finger to stroke my face. “Why don’t you stay after the party? Let’s have a party of our own.”

It’s not the first time she’s propositioned me, and even though she is older by a couple of decades, she’s still one of the sexiest actresses on the stage. I’m not tempted to take her up on her offer though. After Liz, there have been no more actresses.

“Celeste,” I give her a gentle smile. “I’m working tonight.”

She sighs and motions for a waiter to bring refills for both our drinks. Someone shouts her name from across the room and she waves at him, then turns back to me and leans close. “So…” she whispers. “A little bird told me you’ve agreed to direct Break of Day.”

I raise my brows, impressed. “Why am I surprised at how fast word gets around in this town?”

“Not around.” She shrugs. “You know me, Aidan. I have my sources.”

“Your sources are right.”

“You haven’t cast Lillie, have you?” She gives me a mischievous look. “I’m almost too old, but I could pull it off.”

My expression is incredulous. “Old? You?”

She laughs. “Flatterer. I wouldn’t play Lillie for the world. While my peers are trying to get parts meant for ingénues, I’ve cornered the market on the mature roles. Better to be the sexy older woman than the stiff arthritic ingénue, don’t you think?”

“What can I say, Celeste? You’re always miles ahead of the rest of us.”

“And you’re always so charming.” She chuckles. “Anyhow, what’s this I hear about the investor’s choice for the role.”

I frown and sip my scotch. “What do you mean?”

“I hear they are pushing for someone big. Liz McKay kind of big. Although why they would trust her with such a part with her limited experience on the stage…and after what happened the last time...”

Celeste keeps talking, but I can’t hear a word. My blood is pounding through my veins in a deafening rush. It’s not possible. It can’t be.

But deep down, I know it’s true.

My vision fills with her face, my mind with her name. Regret, fury, longing, and loss race uninhibited through my system. Fuck her! My fingers tighten around my glass, and I take a deep breath, loosening my grip and downing the contents in one gulp.

Celeste is still waiting for me to confirm the rumor. I shrug, injecting my action with a nonchalance I don’t feel. “I suppose it’s possible.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Given your history, I would have thought…” She doesn’t finish. A noted theater critic joins us and I half-listen as he goes on about a piece of gossip in which I have zero interest.

I am fuming. My mind is churning. Fuck Natalia for trying to blindside me and fuck Liz. I’d swallow an anaconda on live television before I ever work with her again. In fact, I’d let the anaconda swallow me, if it meant never ever seeing her face again.

Screw her and the jet she arrived in.

Someone else joins us, then another. An actor says something to me about one of my plays. I give him a mechanical reply and move away from the crowd, going to the temporary bar set up in one corner of the room. The barman pours me another scotch and I cradle the glass, wondering how many I’ll need to wipe the thought of Liz from my mind.

The sounds of the party continue around me—the chink of glasses, laughter, someone tinkering out a tune on the piano—they’ve suddenly become unbearable. I feel like I can hear her name above it all, over and over, echoing across the room. Liz McKay. Liz McKay.

Liz McKay.

I start, almost dropping the glass as I realize that someone has said the words out loud, as if reading them aloud from my thoughts. My body stiffens, and a tingling warmth floods up the back of my neck.

Don’t turn around.

Don’t turn around.

I turn, drink still in my hand and there she is across the room.

My breath stops.

Dressed in a silky top and white pants, she is stunning, and not for the first time, looking at her makes me feel lightheaded. Lustrous auburn hair falls around her creamy, smooth shoulders in thick waves, accentuating the clean, perfect lines of her face. Her luminous green eyes are full of the kind of promises her full sensuous lips were made to keep. After all this time, she’s still the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.

“Liz.” Her name escapes my lips in a whisper. My entire body strains toward her with an uncontrollable pull of desire combined with the painful ache of longing.

She’s scanning the room, and almost as if she heard me whisper her name, she looks in my direction.

Her eyes widen as our gazes meet and hold.

Damn!

Years pass as I drown in those eyes. I remember pain, intense pain. I remember trying and failing to forget. I remember watching from afar as she became the star she was always meant to be. I remember the high-profile relationships that broke my heart all over again, the celebrity engagement I avoided thinking about by drowning myself in alcohol…and my life, filled with work, women, and more work, yet empty, because it lacked her.

I pull my gaze from hers, and the party—everybody that disappeared in that one moment when our eyes met—reappears. I feel sick with desire and infuriated because she can still twist my insides around with just one look.

The air crackles with excitement. I feel the pricks of eyes on me, waiting for my reaction. They know, of course, they know they are witnessing the confrontation of a Hollywood star and the man she tossed away for bigger, brighter things.

I want to curse. I wish I was anywhere else. I down my scotch and place my glass on the bar. When I look in her direction again, there’s an actor I vaguely recognize talking to her. She smiles at whatever he’s saying, but her eyes find me again and then she’s walking, cutting across the room, through the stares, coming straight toward me.

Our eyes hold, and there’s something hopeful in her gaze that inflames and enrages me. It makes me want to put my arms around her, to get on my knees and beg her for forgiveness even though she’s the one who ruined everything we had. It makes me want to rage and confront her, the way I never had a chance to do. It makes me want to crush her lips with mine, regardless of who is watching.

I wait until she’s a few steps from me, then just as she opens her mouth to speak, I move, striding right past her, through the crowd of titillated guests and out of the apartment.

Past