Public Secrets

tragedy had made P.M. even more dependent on her. And the press was worth its weight in gold. A smart woman took whatever opportunities came her way and made the most of them.
She ran a hand over her breasts, pleased that they were firm enough to stand without a bra. She walked up behind him, pressed them against his back as she wound her arms around his neck.
“I missed you, honey.”
He lifted a hand to hers, embarrassed that his first thought had been of Bev. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“You know I love it when you wake me up.” She slipped around him, her arms like long, soft ropes. With a little catchy sigh, she closed her mouth over his. “I hate to see you looking so sad.”
“I was just thinking about Bri. I’m worried about him.”
“You’re a good friend, honey.” She played light, quick kisses over his face. “That’s one of the things I love most about you.”
He drew her closer, as always stunned and delighted to hear her say she loved him. She was so beautiful with her big brown eyes and kewpie-doll mouth. Her breathy voice was like music she played only for him.
She only pressed closer when he ran his hands up her legs to knead the firm flesh of her buttocks. Her body was like a dream, long and lush and tanned as golden as a peach. When she shuddered, he felt like a king.
“I need you, Angie.”
“Then take me.”
She let her head fall back, looking at him from under carefully darkened lashes. Slowly, keeping her eyes on him, she reached down, and taking the hem of her shirt, pulled it up and over her head. In the sunlight, she stood erotically naked, her breasts rosily tipped and as golden as the rest of her. He kept his senses long enough to pull her inside the doors before he lowered her to the floor.
She let him do whatever he liked, enjoying most of it, adding a few calculated groans and cries when she thought it appropriate. It wasn’t that he didn’t excite her. He did, in a mild sort of way. She would have preferred it if he’d been a bit more forceful, put a few bruises on her.
But P.M.’s chunky drummer’s hands were almost reverent as they skimmed over her. Even when his breath began to chug and the sweat began to roll, he treated her like fine glass, too considerate to put his full weight on her, too polite, even in passion, to ram himself into her and make her cries sincere.
He took her gently, with a steady rhythm that brought her just inches from full satisfaction. He lay on her only a moment, while he collected himself and she studied the glossy wood of the ceiling. Ever mindful of his weight, he rolled aside and cushioned her head with his arm.
“Oh, that was wonderful.” She stroked his damp, pale chest. Always practical, she knew she could finish herself off when she went upstairs. “You’re the best, honey. The very best.”

“I love you, Angie.” He let his hand linger in her hair. This was what he wanted, he realized. All that crazed, nameless sex had never been for him. He wanted to know, when he went on the road, that there was someone waiting for him, at home, or in those miserable hotel rooms. He wanted what Brian had.
Not Bev, P.M. assured himself on a painful twinge of disloyalty. But a wife, a family, a home. With Angie, he could have it all.
“Angie. Will you marry me?”
She went very still. It was everything she’d hoped for, and it was happening. She could already see the casting agents scrambling for her—and the huge white house in Beverly Hills. The smile lit her face. She nearly laughed with it. Then, taking a deep breath, she shifted. There were tears in her eyes when she looked down at him.
“Do you mean it? Do you really want me?”
“I’ll make you happy, Angie. Look, I know it can’t be easy being married to someone who’s part of what I’m part of. The tours and the fans and the press. But we can make something for ourselves, just the two of us, that’s ours, only ours.”
“I love what you are,” she told him with complete honesty.
“Then will you? Will you marry me, and start a family?”
“I’ll marry you.” She threw her arms around him. A family was a different matter altogether, she thought as he lowered her to the floor again. But as the wife of P. M. Ferguson, her career had no place to go but up.

B RIAN DIDN’T KNOW how much more he could take, kicking around the big house day after day, sleeping night after night beside a woman who cringed away from his slightest touch.
He was on the phone nearly