Page 44 of Breaking the Rules
“I’ve got the perfect forum,” Al grinned. “You’re going to love it,” she told Gwendolyn.
“Good. The sooner we clean this up, the sooner we can start pushing the new release.”
“Agreed,” Al nodded.
The next film in Waverly’s release line up had been written by one of Al’s other clients, a hot screenwriter named Jackson Pierce who had strutted onto the scene a few years ago with talent and guts, taking Hollywood by storm. She was particularly fond of this film as she’d made it with Dante.
“There’s one more thing. I need to be prepared to handle questions about Dante.” She could tell by their expressions that all it had taken was Xavier Saint in indecent swimwear to wipe any memory of Dante Wrede’s existence from their minds.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Waverly skimmed through the interview notes again from Gwendolyn. Happy, healthy, and coy about her love life. She was to flirt and laugh and speak earnestly about the importance of priorities. She knew Gwendolyn was painting a picture of a breakup with Dante and a reconciliation with Xavier but without actually saying anything.
She fidgeted with the hem of her dress in the backseat of the Invictus SUV. She’d gone with classic and virginal white to show off the healthy tan she’d gotten in Belize. The dress was fitted from the chest to the hips before flaring out into a subtle tulip skirt. It could have been demure with the three-quarter length sleeves, but the plunging V neckline and red patent pumps kept it from being boring. She’d worked her hair into a messy, curly ponytail, keeping her makeup bright and fresh.
She was the picture of glowing health. The picture of glowing health that was about to go on national television to lie.
“Nervous?” Xavier asked.
He knew how she’d felt about crowds. But that was a previous life. Long gone were the panic attacks and debilitating fears. She still didn’t love crowds, but she certainly found more enjoyment in them than she had. After her attack, something had changed. She’d found power in vulnerability and confidence in being herself. Once Waverly had become authentically herself in public, the boundaries she set stuck and appearances were something to enjoy rather than dread.
She shook her head. “I’m good. I’ve been on Max’s show before.”
“The last time you were, you wore black, if I recall.”
Burke, her favorite of all of Invictus’ drivers, pretended to be deaf to their conversation.
Waverly raised her eyebrows. “So you saw that episode, did you?”
“I saw that you found a short version of that dress I begged you not to wear to the awards show and wore it on national television,” he told her. “Tell me the truth. That was a message to me, wasn’t it?”
A few years ago, when she’d first been invited on Max Heim’s late night show, she’d taken that dress that Xavier had once so vehemently vetoed and had it altered from an evening gown to a mini dress. She’d strutted out on stage knowing he’d be watching from wherever he was. Knowing there was no way he’d miss her. Knowing that he’d get the metaphorical middle finger loud and clear.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said innocently. “I can’t possibly remember all the outfits I’ve worn in public.”
He leaned into her until his arm was pressing against her body. “Angel, you remember the dress, and I’ve never forgotten it either. I didn’t want to walk around a cocktail party with a hard-on all afternoon,” he whispered darkly.
“You seem to handle the blood flow just fine these days,” she said, looking pointedly at his lap.
He adjusted himself. “I just hope to God you still have that dress because I have this fantasy of ripping it off of you.”
Her breath caught in her throat. The image he brought forth seared into her brain.
“I’d start you standing up,” he continued, lips moving against her ear. “I’d spread your legs until the skirt rode up high enough for me to see what sexy little lace thing you had on, and then I’d slowly pull them down to your knees. Then I’d take these fingers—”
The SUV pulled to a stop in front of the production building, and Waverly clapped a hand over his mouth. Her thighs trembled when she pressed them together while her nipples stood at attention. “Jesus, Saint,” she gasped.
Burke got out of the car, and Xavier used the opportunity to bite her earlobe. “Someday you’re going to let me show you all the things I’ve fantasized about,” he promised.
“You’re…” Words failed her.
“Ready whenever you are, Angel.” He buttoned his suit jacket over the vest he was wearing and adjusted his hard-on again, pinning it under his belt.
Burke opened the door for her and she stepped out onto the sidewalk with a healthy flush on her cheeks.
By the time she marched out on stage in front of two-hundred strangers an hour later, she’d finally gotten herself back under control. A reluctant Xavier was locked away in the green room giving Waverly her first easy breath in days. Max Heim, the middle-aged host, looked dapper in his pinstripe suit and kissed her enthusiastically on the cheek.
The crowd applauded at a slightly above appropriate level, and Waverly took her time waving and smiling before taking a seat on the buttery soft sofa next to Max’s desk. She blew a kiss to the bandleader, who patted a hand over his heart.
