Her Leading Hero Page 3

  She blinked up at him as the significance of that one word sank in.

  “Ms. Pierce,” he continued, apparently not thinking it odd that she was staring at him like a mute idiot. “I’m a friend of Ben’s.” He gestured over his shoulder toward Ben, who was leaning against a wall glaring at the poor man who was speaking to his girlfriend, Caitlyn.

  Was it possible Gregory didn’t recognize her? A flicker of hope had her breath quickening and her smile broadening. She looked to Ben—of course, he was a friend of Ben’s, hadn’t Caitlyn told her that? He could be here to support Ben. Or maybe Caitlyn invited him….

  Gregory started to speak again, and she turned her attention back to him. She instantly wished she hadn’t done that. His eyes were unnerving. His gaze was too direct. Too intense. Too…sexy.

  “He told me you were the expert here,” he said. A smile hovered on his lips as he shoved his hands into his pockets and ducked his head again, in a charmingly self-effacing gesture. As if he was just another guy looking to learn some history and not a freakin’ billionaire playboy.

  A billionaire playboy who didn’t recognize her.

  There was no doubt about it. His eyes were direct and intense, sure, but there wasn’t so much as a flicker of recognition there. She finally allowed herself to believe it. Gregory Blanchard had no idea who she was.

  The flood of relief was so overwhelming she nearly laughed. A giddy dizziness had her beaming up at him, her breath coming in short, choppy bursts as she stifled her excitement. Focus, Tamara.

  The theater. He wanted to know about the theater. “Yes,” she forced herself to say. “I’m the general manager, so I guess that makes me the resident expert.”

  “Excellent.” His smile, slow and charming, triggered a sweet warmth that spread through her limbs like molasses. She was drowning in those eyes, that look, the cocoon-like effect his closeness had on her. Like they were the only two people in the room.

  Until Marc came into view over Gregory’s shoulder and the bubble popped. With a look of horror, he mouthed the words, “Are you okay?” Clearly her attempt to flee hadn’t escaped his notice. She gave a short nod and turned her attention back to Gregory.

  History. Right, he wanted to learn about the theater. Grasping at the safe topic, she launched into her spiel by rote, starting with the theater’s construction in the ’20s and ending with its current fate, which remained an unknown since she hadn’t heard back from the landmark committee and the owner was still intent on selling.

  She waited for him to make a benign comment—maybe admire the architecture or, even better, offer a donation to the fundraiser. But he didn’t do either.

  “Have we met before? You look so familiar.”

  Her heart stopped. No, no, no. There was no way he was just now beginning to recognize her. She struggled to maintain her smile. What should she say? Before she could come up with the appropriate denial, he answered his own question.

  “What am I saying? Of course we haven’t met. There is no way I would have forgotten a face like yours.”

  Her heart resumed beating, in double-time now at the flirtatious tone.

  The threat was gone. He truly didn’t recognize her. The irony of it all nearly made her burst into hysterical laughter. Her former self would have been crushed if the great Gregory Blanchard didn’t recognize her, but now? Being forgettable was her saving grace.

  Another wave of relief had her relaxing a bit under his warm gaze. Even if he thought she looked somewhat familiar, he’d clearly convinced himself that he had never seen her before. She was well and truly in the clear.

  “I guess I just have one of those faces.” She lifted her glass to her lips to keep from laughing out loud. The gesture had her gazing up at him through her eyelashes. With a start she realized that the move was unintentionally flirtatious. A fact that he didn’t seem to miss.

  “No,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischievous laughter. “Trust me, there is nothing common or forgettable about your face.” He leaned a little closer. “Or anything else about you.”

  His appraising look, from her head to her stiletto-clad toes, was openly seductive. Her breath caught in her chest as tendrils of desire followed in the wake of his gaze, bringing her body to life. Or at least that’s how it felt. Like she was waking up from a long sleep. Her senses heightened to a new level thanks to one sexy look.

  Maybe it was his smile, the rush of adrenaline fear had brought on, or maybe it was the ridiculous costume—more than likely the alcohol had something to do with it—whatever it was, Tamara did something one hundred percent out of character. She flirted.

  Treating him to the same head-to-toe ogling, she tilted her head to one side and leaned in, placing her hand on his bicep. “Trust me, if we’d met before… You’d remember.”

  The fact that he had met her before—many, many times—made the lie that much more amusing. For her, at least. She bit her lip to hold back a laugh.

  The implication was clear, and at any other time in her life—any time when she wasn’t three sheets to the wind—she would have blushed furiously at the overt innuendo. But thanks to the champagne, she felt as though she was watching it all from a distance. Like she truly was Veronica Lake and he was Alan Ladd, and for one magical moment she truly was a femme fatale. A far cry from poor, weak Tammy Vanguard of the Boston Vanguards, hiding herself away in an East Village movie theater.

  His low laughter was headier than any champagne. He gestured toward her glass. “Can I get you another drink?”

  She looked down and noted with surprise that it was empty. Again. “Sure, why not?”

  He held out his arm and she slipped her hand through, allowing him to escort her through the crowd and back to the bar. Dimly aware of the eyes that followed them, she had to fight through the fuzzy haze to think of something to say. “So, Mr. Blanchard, why the interest in The Ellen theater? Or did Ben drag you along for moral support?”

  She glanced up to see Gregory grinning at her. “Oh, he didn’t need my help for that performance. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’ll give me hell later when he realizes I witnessed his public humiliation.”

  “It wasn’t humiliating,” she said. “It was romantic.” The words came out, but she hardly recognized them. Since when did she stick up for grand romantic gestures? Since they made her friend so supremely happy, she supposed. As long as she wasn’t in the midst of it, romance wasn’t such a terrible thing. It just wasn’t for her.

  Clearly it wasn’t for Gregory either, because he openly scoffed at that. “Romantic,” he repeated with clear disdain. When he looked down at her, there was only a hint of bitterness in his eyes, but it was there, tempered with self-deprecation. “Don’t mind me, Ms. Pierce, I suppose I’m not one to weigh in on romance at the moment.”

  She blinked at him, trying to figure out what that meant. He had a knowing tone, like he’d made a joke she was supposed to get, but it flew right past her. His self-mocking smile faltered in the face of her blank stare, and he quickly added, “Never mind. Tell me, how did you come to be an expert on old movies?”

  It was funny—no one had ever asked her that before. For such a huge part of her life, she had no prepared lie. The truth would have to do—minus some key details. “One summer when I was twelve or so, I was at the beach with my family.” And yours. “I got severe sunstroke and was ordered to stay inside all day while all of the other kids played in the sun.”

  For a moment, a nervous flutter made her stomach clench. What if she triggered a memory? Their fathers had been friends since college and the two families had been close for as long as Tamara could remember, even though her family was based in Boston and Gregory’s spent most of the year in New York. They’d spent countless holidays and vacations with the Blanchards, including their son. He’d been there on that summer trip to the Hamptons. She remembered it all so clearly. But then, she’d
been younger than Gregory and all but invisible to the then-teenaged heir. He wouldn’t have paid attention to the fact that she’d been forced to stay inside. He probably hadn’t even been aware that she had joined her parents in the Hamptons that summer. He’d had a girlfriend—a blond bombshell who’d filled out a swimsuit in a way Tamara would never have been able to do, not even when puberty struck and she developed curves of her own.

  Gregory leaned in, his eyes filled with amusement. “And?” he prompted.

  She nearly stumbled in her ridiculously high heels, and his arm tightened around her, holding her steady.

  How much had she had to drink? Alarm bells started going off in the part of her brain that could still function properly. Too much. She’d had far too much to drink.

  She looked up to find him grinning. Oh crap, he knew she was drunk. “You stayed inside all day….”

  Swallowing down a wave of nausea, she plodded on. “With nothing better to do but lie on a couch and feel sorry for myself, I discovered this old movie channel. It was love at first sight.”

  That much was true. She still remembered her first black-and-white movie and the way it had made her feel.

  A tantalizing smile hovered over his lips, and his fixed gaze was flatteringly attentive. “What was it that you loved so much?”

  For a moment she forgot she was supposed to be monitoring her words, carefully hiding any clues that might let him draw a line between Tamara Pierce and Tammy Vanguard, the so-called loony debutante who’d come unhinged. No, for one moment, she was just a woman and he was a man who showed an interest in something she loved. That, it turned out, was even more intoxicating than champagne.

  “It was like I’d discovered a way to escape to another world.” She remembered that day like it was yesterday. For a shy young girl with few friends, the black-and-white world had been an enchanting new world that no one else seemed to know about, least of all her peers. Which meant it was her place—hers and hers alone. Now that she was older, she knew she wasn’t the only one who liked old movies, but they still gave her that comfortable feeling of slipping away to another world. When bad memories came back to haunt her, or the guilt of how she’d run from her former life grew too great, there was always an escape at this theater.

  He leaned down closer, and once again she forgot about the crowd. It was just the two of them.

  “Film is an incredible means of escape,” he said.

  She nodded. “All films are, I guess. But the classics… They come from another world. They have a different way of speaking, of acting.”

  She was babbling and she knew it, but she couldn’t seem to stop because he was leaning in so close and her head was one hundred percent clouded by his warm male scent, a musky cologne that left her addled.

  “And black-and-white movies,” she continued. “It’s like you’re entering a world where everything is clear. It’s another reality, one with right and wrong and good and bad. The heroes are…well, heroes. Real heroes, you know? And the romance…” She sighed as her brain conjured up her favorite scenes, ones she knew by heart. “The romances are pure. Untarnished. Nothing at all like real romance.”

  Oh crap. That came out sounding far more bitter than she’d intended. But it was the truth. There was a silence, and she looked up to find him staring at her with an unreadable expression. The only thing she knew for sure was that he was studying her. Analyzing her. Warning bells went off again. That could not be good. She was supposed to be avoiding attention, especially from someone like him—someone from her past.

  “So that’s why this theater is so important to you?” he asked.

  Yes! Yes, this was about the theater. He was a potential patron. She latched on to that idea. “It’s important that these films be remembered, don’t you think? They deserve to be shown in full and to be preserved for future generations.”

  There. She was back on track. It was one of few topics she could easily talk about, even with strangers. She’d gotten into classic film trivia as a kid—it was a natural side effect of her passion for the movies. Her parents bought her tons of books on the topic until her shelves were filled with biographies and texts on the history of the film industry. Honestly, it had never occurred to her back then that she might turn her hobby into a career—she’d been far too focused on ballet.

  But when she’d run away to New York City, she’d seen an ad in the Village Voice for the manager position. The owner had been impressed by her arcane knowledge and hired her on the spot. It had seemed like a good sign at the time. A sign that maybe her life was about to turn around. It was here that she’d met her close circle of friends, and it was at this theater that she’d found a new home for herself—one without an abusive ex-fiancé or a family that believed his lies.

  She launched back into her donor spiel, once again on even footing now that she was talking about the theater and its history. A safe topic, unlike her foray down memory lane. Stupid, Tammy. So stupid!

  They were next in line at the bar, and Gregory turned to her. “What can I get for you then, another champagne?”

  She forced a smile to match his. “Why not?”

  Why not? Because you’re drunk and two sips away from making a fool of yourself. The voice of reason reared its ugly head, dispelling some of the magical champagne haze.

  One night. Surely she could allow herself one night to flirt with a hot guy. One she’d had a crush on for so many years…

  When he handed her the glass, he gave her the smile she’d seen so many times from afar—first as a girl at their parents’ parties, then as an adult on televised interviews and in magazines.

  From afar it made her heart race—up close and directed at her? She was a goner. Done for. Stick a fork in her, because she was finished. At least that was how it felt for one split second as her brain melted into a bemused puddle and her heart threatened to jump out of her chest.

  “Shall we?” He nodded toward the double doors that led to the theater. Partygoers were encouraged to tour the theater itself but the food and drinks were kept to the lobby, and the vast majority of the crowd was grouped around small standing tables set up nearby.

  The theater, in comparison, was quiet—some of the music piping through the lobby filtered into the space but was muted by the seats, carpeting, and high ceiling. Some couples sat in the seats, their heads lowered toward one another, while others roamed the aisles on the sides, getting an up-close view of the old stage with its hidden wings and small, overlooking balconies.

  Gregory came to a stop in the back. Taking her hand, he tugged her toward the dark shadows near the sound and lighting booth. He moved with such ease, it was almost as though he, not her, were the one familiar with this place.

  They shouldn’t be back here on their own, the sober portion of her brain called out. She should steer him away, back toward the lights, the music…the people. But he smiled at her over his shoulder, and the flirtatious promise in his eyes spoke volumes. “Come on,” he said, tugging her closer. “I want a behind-the-scenes tour from the expert.”

  She was lost. The teenage girl in her was deliriously happy. This couldn’t be happening. Surely it was a dream brought on by binge-watching too many old romantic comedies. Because in real life men did not whisk Tamara Pierce back into the shadows. They didn’t gaze down at her with open longing.

  And they sure as hell didn’t kiss her.

  But that was exactly what Gregory did. She saw it coming as if in slow motion—the dip of his head, the dark intent in his eyes, the way his gaze sought hers, silently seeking permission.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Couldn’t think, let alone breathe.

  And then his lips were on hers, warm and insistent, but gentle. Sweet. There was no wild passion, just a tender touch that was perfection in and of itself yet left her aching for more.

  He pulled back and she blinked up at him. W
hy was he stopping? Don’t stop. The disappointment cut through her, and she stopped herself just before the protest slipped from her lips.

  With a wince of regret, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, and she belatedly realized that it had been ringing.

  Oh God, she really was out of her mind if she hadn’t even noticed that shrill sound. He held up a finger and mouthed, “Sorry,” before murmuring into the phone.

  She couldn’t so much as summon a smile or say “no problem” before he turned slightly so he could speak in semi-private. Her mind was too busy chanting one phrase over and over. Gregory Blanchard kissed me. The obsessive thought made it impossible to do anything but stand there like a statue—a statue that was just waiting for the kiss to resume.

  The great Gregory Blanchard would have awed anyone, but for Tamara, this was everything she’d dreamed of as a tween, and then fantasized about as a teenager, and then told herself not to think about once she grew up and realized that dream men were just that—a dream. A myth. A fantasy. Certainly not something she should waste her time thinking about as a grown woman with a career and a new life—one that did not include Gregory and everything he represented.

  A wave of horror managed to cut through the girlish response to Gregory’s kiss. It would have been bad enough if she’d let herself get so wrapped up in any man—but Gregory?

  She stared at his back as he spoke to the caller on the other end. This wasn’t just any man she’d kissed. It wasn’t some average Joe she’d been flirting with—it was Gregory Blanchard. A shadow from her past. Someone from her parents’ world. From Billy’s world.

  She wasn’t just flirting with a sexy man at a costume party. She was flirting with danger.

  His back was still toward her when she did what she should have done the moment she’d spotted him across the room. She turned on her heel and ran away.

  Chapter 3

  Gregory couldn’t stop thinking about her—the one who’d gotten away.