“I’ve had a lot of practice.” His smile didn’t disappear, but there was a sudden, disturbing falseness about it.
Molly knew she’d be fooling herself if she believed she knew anything of Zachary Fox, the man behind the rock god, but she couldn’t stay silent when every instinct she had screamed at her to speak. Fighting her discomfort at discussing such an intimate thing, she said, “I’m not going to turn on you because you are who you are.” She’d known exactly who it was she’d invited into her bed and that his sexual experience far outweighed hers.
“Especially,” she added, fingers curling into the sheet, “when I’m the beneficiary of all that practice.”
His smile became vividly real again, gorgeous and of a man who was enjoying being with her. It troubled her how quickly he could do that—withdraw from a situation while appearing involved… but that was only something she’d have to worry about if they were on the road to a relationship. That simply wasn’t in the cards, even had Fox not been seriously out of her league.
The media, tabloid and otherwise, was fascinated by him.
After having been savaged to shreds during her father’s ignominious fall from grace, any kind of media attention was Molly’s worst nightmare. It had been endless, article after article, whisper after whisper, innuendo after innuendo. She’d fought and fought, refusing to allow the agony of it to crush her, to give the bullies at school the satisfaction of seeing how badly she was bleeding inside, but then a policeman with a solemn face had come to tell her she was an orphan, and she’d broken.
The fractures had never quite healed right.
But it wasn’t Fox who’d caused the teenage girl she’d been such terrible hurt, and at that instant, she couldn’t forget the pain she’d sensed behind his earlier words. “Did a woman hurt you?” She knew she’d crossed another line as soon as the words were out, couldn’t find the will to fill the air with others in order to call them back.
An unreadable expression on Fox’s face. “No, it wasn’t a lover.” With that inscrutable answer, he leaned across to claim a tender, suckling kiss before getting his lower body under the sheet as she’d asked and reaching for the food. “Here.” He popped a bite of cheese into her mouth and she understood the topic was closed.
Chewing, she swallowed and told herself it was better this way. Because the more she saw of the real Zachary Fox, the more she liked him. “Those characters aren’t like any Asian language I’ve seen,” she said, focusing on his body instead of on emotions that had no place in a temporary relationship, “though they’re close.”
“Hmm.” He fed her another piece of cheese.
Molly scowled, though she wanted to trace the curve of his lips with a fingertip. “Are you going to tell me?”
“What? And ruin one of rock’s greatest mysteries?” He ate a cracker with cheese on it, a wicked smile in his eyes. “What the f**k is that on Fox’s body? Was he stoned when he got the tat? Did he just get a drunk tattoo artist?” A raised eyebrow. “Or is the bastard pissing with everyone for the fun of it?”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Molly cajoled, feeling young and playful in a way she’d never expected, in a way she’d never been. “Cross my heart.”
“Do I look like a sucker?” Tapping her nose with a single finger, he reached over for the fancy wine Molly had bought in case Thea had time to come over, her sister being a wine buff.
Leaning down over the side of the bed to snag a Swiss Army knife from his jeans, Fox used the corkscrew to pop the cork, then drank straight from the bottle. She must’ve made a sound, because bringing down the bottle, he winked. “I’ll replace it with something better.” Holding out the wine, he said, “Bet you’ve never done that before.”
Molly shook her head. “I don’t drink.”
“So this is all mine?” Fox grinned. “Excellent.”
Having braced herself for questions, she blurted out, “Most people ask about the not-drinking,” then wanted to slap herself for making it an issue. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut around Fox?
“It’s bad musician manners to bring it up,” he answered, “’cause you never know who might be in AA or detox.” Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he hugged her close. “But since you already did, and also since you don’t show any signs of an alcoholic jonesing for a drink, I’m guessing you’ve been around someone who drank?”
“Yes.” With that, she took a cracker, loaded it with a big hunk of cheese, and bit down. She might’ve made a mistake in her surprise, but the idea of discussing her mother with Fox had her chest going tight, her lungs strained—it was one thing to let go, another to trust him with the vicious pain that had shaped her. “Why didn’t you bring the grapes?”
Fox set aside the wine. “So you’d have to walk nude to the kitchen and get them.”
Relieved he’d taken the hint and dropped the subject of her aversion to alcohol, she shook her head. “Not happening.”
“Why not? You have an amazing body.” A bite on her shoulder, his hand sliding along the inside of her thigh. “Like that old painting of the redhead rising from the clamshell.”
The Birth of Venus.
Utterly undone at being compared to the sensually beautiful artwork, she thrust a cracker between his lips. “Shh.” His body might be so hot it should be illegal, but she was beginning to learn it was Fox’s mind that was his most dangerous weapon. Add that to his voice and it was no surprise women fell into his lap at the crook of a finger.