He leaned forward all the way, so that his face was nearly touching mine. Startled, I drew back.
“I get recognized everywhere I go,” he said. “That’s the only reason I lose the accent when I go out. I didn’t mean to lie to you, or whatever you think that was.”
My lips dropped open in surprise. He actually sounded sincere, and his features were drawn in hard lines.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Do you know how hard it is, to not be able to do anything without a thousand cameras descending on you?”
“Right,” I said, blustering into sarcasm. “It must be terrible to be a famous celebrity.”
“Yes,” he said, in complete seriousness. “Sometimes it is.”
“Alright,” I said, giving up the fight and moving onto the next question. “What kind of contestant are you looking for on your new show, The Billionaire Dating Game?”
“Thanks for getting that plug in,” Piers said. “What kind of girls are we looking for? Girls who are enthusiastic, beautiful, and entertaining. If you’re going to get with a billionaire, you can’t just lay back and relax. After all, he already has everything he wants.” He smirked and leaned back.
I realized that I had been holding my breath, and I let it out. He was just a guy. Just a normal guy. My eyes flickered to the next question.
“And the billionaire bachelor on your show? What’s he like?”
“Oh, he’s a real catch,” Piers said. “He’s got at least two Ferraris.”
Now he was really pressing me back. This wasn’t going to go in the interview article. I moved to the next question on Jessica’s list.
“What do you have to say about your recent breakup with celebrity singer Sasha Tiernan?”
The question was out of my mouth before I had even parsed it. As I looked up at Piers, his face froze. It was like looking at a marble statue.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t—”
“You’re just like the rest of them,” Piers said. “This is supposed to be an interview to promote the new show—”
“—I’m not—”
“And you come in here and drag my personal life into it—”
“Forget it,” I said quickly, but he was already standing up from the couch.
“Piers—”
“Mr. Letocci?” It was the woman from before. “Is everything alright?”
“We’re done here,” Piers said, brushing his suit pants with both hands. His eyes were dark, his lips pressed together. “Escort Miss Forrester out.”
“Wait—”
But he was already halfway across the stage, his stride long and fast. He didn’t look back.
And after the question I’d just asked, I didn’t expect him to.
Chapter Six
“One more day.”
“Why? Why can’t you write up what you have right now?” Even over the phone, I could hear Clarence scowling with his whole face.
I shivered. The sun had gone down over an hour ago, and I was starting to get cold with only Piers’ jacket on. The coffee-stained blouse was still sticky and wet. My cell battery was quickly running out, and I had nothing to do but stare at the door where I hoped Piers would exit.
“Mr. Letocci didn’t have time right then,” I told him, crossing my fingers he wouldn’t check in with the studio. “He said he’d answer my questions later.”
“Lisa, we need this column for press tonight—”
“I sent you another article,” I said.
“Ten Ways to Tone Your Tummy? That one?”
I cringed. It was one of the dumbest articles I’d ever written, and I’d shelved it in my backup folder for emergencies. Glancing up at the skyscraper where Piers Letocci was still holed up, I bit my lip. This was definitely an emergency.
“I know it’s not the best replacement—”
“We had an interview with Piers Letocci, and you give me a list of ab exercises?!”
“We still have the interview,” I lied. “Just give me until tomorrow. I promise you’ll get a great article.”
“Lisa—”
“I know, I know,” I said. “I’m on your shit list until I come through with this. I—”
Just then, the door of the building swung open. A tall man in a business suit came out. He was wearing dark glasses, although it was night, and he had on a huge scarf. It had to be Piers. He walked with the same determined stride as before.
“Gotta go,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
“Make it good!” That was the last thing I heard before I stuffed my phone back into my purse.
I darted across the street toward Piers. He already had his back to me, and when a dark gray Mercedes Benz pulled up to the curb, the valet hopped out quickly. This was my only chance.
“Wait! Piers!” I cried out, running as fast as I could to intercept him. He was handing a tip to the valet when he heard me, and instinctively ducked his head.
“No photos—oh. It’s you,” he said, doing a double take as I came up to him, breathless. I’d hoped for a smile, or at least a look of recognition. But he only glanced away, annoyance hardening his mouth.
“Shall I call security, Mr. Letocci?” the valet asked.
I held my breath, but Piers glanced back at me and seemed to decide that I wasn’t as much of a threat as he’d thought.
“That won’t be necessary. What do you want, Miss Forrester?”
He turned to me, standing up to his full height. I inhaled, a lump forming in my throat. I’d forgotten how tall he was.
“To—to apologize,” I said, trying to catch my breath.
“Apology accepted. Anything else?” He had his hand on the car door handle.
“Please—” I said, desperation coming into my voice. “I’m sorry.”
“You already apologized. I don’t need to hear it twice.”
“I wanted to explain.”
“No explanation is necessary.” He opened the door and got into the driver’s seat.
Frantic at the thought of losing him, I opened the passenger’s side door and jumped in. He turned to me, shock and irritation written on his features. He whipped off his dark glasses, and his aquamarine eyes tore the air out of my lungs once more. Even angry, he was so beautiful it hurt.
“What are you doing in my car, Miss Forrester?” The words hissed across his taut lips.
“I— I need to give you back your jacket!”
“Fine. Give it back.” He extended his hand. I stared at it, speechless.
“I—uh—I—”
“No? Then kindly get out, before I reconsider calling security.”
“No!” I said, finally finding my breath. I grabbed his hand with both of mine. “Piers, please just listen to me!”
When I touched his skin, it was like a shock went through both of us. His eyes widened slightly, but he made no move to pull away. I could feel his pulse beating through my fingertips.
“I’m so sorry about before,” I sputtered, rushing through the words I’d practiced in my head. “It wasn’t my question sheet for the interview; my boss wrote them up. I didn’t know that one was on there, and I would never have asked it if I hadn’t been so late, and flustered from running into you in the hallway, and losing my shirt, and—and—”