Taming Hollywood’s Ultimate Playboy Page 3

  Playful banter could make her forget.

  Playful banter could make her stupid.

  No playing with Liam Carter.

  “When do we go?” Grace asked instead, bringing the conversation back on track.

  “How fast can you pack?”

  Grace strapped him into the splint, which at least was of excellent quality and slender enough that it could probably be hidden beneath his dress pants. “Driving home will take—”

  “No. I mean whatever medical supplies you need. We’ll pick up whatever personal items you need for tonight and the morning. When we get to New York, we’ll get any restocking of supplies we need too.”

  “Your people will get whatever else we need, you mean?” She reached up to grasp the cuff of his pants leg and eased it back down over the splint.

  “Yes.” He smiled again, that lopsided, little-boy grin that always made her heart speed up.

  She wouldn’t smile. No smiling. Business didn’t need so much smiling. Taking care of him didn’t mean she had to have a sweet bedside manner, just a professional one.

  “I’d rather deal with my own clothes, but for now I’m going to get some ice for your ankle, talk to James about whether a diuretic would be acceptable in this situation, and pack a quick bag of supplies. You sit here until I’m ready. The ice might do some good before you get back on your feet.” Grace stood, heading to the freezer to get things started.

  This day had certainly taken a turn for the bizarre and uncomfortable. And as stupid as it sounded to her to try and push through this, it wasn’t her job to make celebrities behave rationally. It was her job to try and keep the damage to a minimum, and also the whole rehabilitation thing. She could keep him going for a couple of days if he could ride it out.

  That was her job.

  And swimming together, in or out of therapy, was right out. At least for the immediate future. The only way she was going to retain some semblance of her sanity around Liam was to keep The Trench Coat Incident as far from her thoughts as possible.

  * * *

  Grace settled into the forward-facing black leather backseat of the limo, dropping her bag onto the floor at her feet as she settled.

  In the quiet interior of the car, the speed of her heart registered. She’d felt it before, hovering in the fringes of her awareness, but here she could hear the speed and analyze the force of the beast tangoing in her chest. It hadn’t really ever come back down since the second she’d seen him standing beside the pool. He probably could hear it now, even sitting three feet away.

  She fixed her gaze out the window.

  It was still hard to look at Liam too long, even if she knew she was going to have to get used to it. The door shut behind him, and the darkened interior of the limo kept him from reflecting in the glass.

  Finally, something going her way. Any brighter in there and the only place to keep from seeing him would’ve been the insides of her eyelids. And that never worked out, she was too good at seeing him there.

  “So, about your clothes. You need to let me handle that.”

  If she had to look at him, it would be in bright, open places. And if she had to talk to him, it would be about strictly professional subjects, which clothing was not.

  “I know I didn’t have time to pack anything but medical supplies, but what I am wearing right now will serve for this afternoon. While you’re at the premiere, I’ll go home, grab some clothes and come back to the hotel.”

  “I have a personal shopper.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him fish his phone from his pocket and flip it on. Two clicks later, he had it to his ear. Not listening to her at all.

  “I don’t need a personal shopper. I can get my own clothes.” She tried again.

  “They will be your own clothes afterward.”

  “Liam.” She said his name, forcing herself to become reacquainted with the way it felt on her lips again.

  Ten years ago, simply saying his name had made her happy. She would’ve sworn it even had a taste—a slick, plump fullness, luxurious and sensual, like her tongue sliding across her lips to suddenly find cinnamon chocolate fudge...

  Now, instead of sweets, his name felt like rocks and sand in her mouth. Sharp. Awkward. Gritty.

  “It’s really not a big deal.”

  He listened well enough to carry on the conversation, but he clearly wasn’t hearing her.

  Ugh.

  This kind of thing never happened to her. It probably never happened to anyone outside of Cinderella and Pretty Woman.

  And that would make her the prostitute in this situation. Great.

  Grace licked her sandpaper lips and took another purposeful breath through her mouth, because although the car might provide her with the ability to stop looking at him, it only amplified the heady cloud of good smells clinging to the man. His scent had been indelibly imprinted on her memories, earthy and rich, like salty air, old forests, and even older heartache. She found herself breathing slowly and deeply.

  This was such a bad idea.

  She was supposed to be acting professionally. Yelling at a client wasn’t professional. And rolling in his scent was an extremely creepy reaction to being in his presence again.

  Everything would be okay, she just needed to get ahold of herself. And maybe explain better, if she could come up with the words.

  “I’m sure your personal shopper is lovely.” Diplomatic. Good opening. “But that’s not really the point. I already have clothes. I can take care of my own clothes. We’re not going to be in another state until tomorrow so I have time.”

  He stopped participating in the conversation as someone had answered and now he was in full Hollywood mode, greeting and no doubt smiling.

  Would he be doing this if she were anyone else?

  “My other clients don’t buy me clothing.” She’d had some bring gifts, the kind that had made her feel awkward and—

  “What sizes do you wear?”

  The close confines of the darkened interior of the back of the limo felt entirely too intimate without him asking personal questions about her clothing.

  She shifted to another seat to make room and redirected the conversation. “Turn sideways on the seat so you can stretch your leg out there. Any elevation will help with the swelling.” Ice would have been more helpful, but she hadn’t brought any.

  A few seconds ticked by and she heard, “You’re ignoring me?” Incredulity rang in his voice, making her want to turn and look at him.

  Then again, everything made her want to look at him. He was singularly the most attractive person she’d ever seen in person—even years later and working at The Hollywood Hills Clinic, which was peopled daily with the beautiful and glamorous.

  And her reaction to him was precisely the reason she needed to avoid looking at him excessively or, as it would probably be called, staring in a starstruck and creepy fashion. Though, admittedly, the more he banged this shopping drum, the less she felt like gazing at him like a lovesick cow, and more like smacking him in the back of the head.

  Precisely why she needed to keep all talking strictly professional.

  “I’m pretending you didn’t just ask a c—” The word creepy nearly sprang out of her mouth, but she managed to stomp the sound down before she used unprofessional language. “It’s really not workplace etiquette to ask those kinds of questions. So, just let me handle any clothing needs I may have on my own.”

  “We don’t have time for this, Grace. I’d really rather you blend in, and the clinic logo and your name on your shirt do not help you blend in.” A pause and he repeated into the phone, “I’d like her to blend in with the group.”

  His group—she was going to assume that meant his people, in the ol’ I’ll Have My People Call You scenario. So Liam called them his gro
up.

  “Right. Slacks. Blouses. Shoes. Accessories...”

  Accessories. Of course, how could she forget accessories? She had accessories. She just hadn’t thought to mention them.

  “No. She’s tall, but not six feet. Probably about a head shorter than me. Compact and slim, but not so much skinny as athletic. She’s...”

  He wasn’t going to stop. Next thing he would be trying to describe her curves or ask her cup size, which would just bring that stupid trench-coat situation back to his mind. This was worse than just giving the fool her sizes. “Please, Liam.” She tried his name again.

  “I’ll snap a photo of her and send it to you when we get to the hotel.”

  “For goodness’ sake, stop!” Exasperated, she turned to look at him, holding out her hand for the phone. “Stop and I will text her my sizes.”

  “Him.”

  “Him! Whatever!” She held out her hand for his phone, her voice rising with her blood pressure. “I will text him my sizes if it will get you off this and get your foot up on that seat. Every minute it is down on the floor like that, it’s swelling more. You know that, right, Superman?”

  “Text coming,” he said into the phone. “And the picture in a little bit. If you can have them at the hotel in the morning, we’re leaving for New York at seven.” He hung up before handing her the phone and turning to prop his foot up, as she’d all but shrieked at him.

  Good thing she wasn’t interested in seducing him. There was probably a reason that the low, velvety voice analogous with seduction was the opposite of a shriek.

  A minute later, she double-checked the details she’d sent to Shopper Tom, as he was known to Liam’s phone. If he picked clothing she hated, she’d wear it the one time and then find someone at work who wanted the clothes. They were temporary, just like this assignment.

  The thought failed to comfort her, and she returned her attention to the window, thrusting the phone at him and settling back into her not-speaking routine. She couldn’t display her freak-out voice if she wasn’t talking.

  * * *

  In order to maintain security, and probably so Liam wouldn’t be seen traveling with a woman whose shirt announced her position as physical therapist, the limo had gone around to the rear, private entrance of the hotel, where his group had met them.

  Now, with him limping down the marble hallway in front of her—which no doubt led to the supremely classy yet neutral color-schemed heaven on the top floor—there was no room to doubt how bad an idea it was for him to be on the carpet tonight.

  His three assistants bustled along with him, informing him how they’d set up the interviews. More walking, him making rounds to meet with reporters in different areas of the suite...

  “That’s not going to work,” Grace cut in, and three sets of eyes turned to her. Liam’s didn’t, but his people had no idea she’d been complaining about him walking on it for at least ninety-seven percent of the time since she’d seen him. Mostly because it was a bad idea, and partly because she couldn’t complain about what she really wanted to complain about...

  “What would you like us to do?” Liam asked, stopping at a nondescript elevator and pressing the call button. Maybe he came this way all the time?

  “One, you need to be off your feet as much as possible if you’re going to have any hope of getting through the red carpet tonight. Two, you said you don’t want this advertised. Which? You’re limping like you’ve just suffered a back-alley amputation and are walking on a bloody stump.”

  He smiled at her description and then nodded to his people. “She’s right. I don’t want to walk any more than I absolutely have to.”

  Despite the smile he’d put on, there was a white ring around his mouth and his forehead glistened, though it was far from hot outside. Concealed pain. Ridiculous that he was so driven to conceal it.

  But at least he wasn’t arguing.

  Their elevator stopped again at the very top of the hotel. “A suite, I’m guessing?”

  “The whole floor.” Liam nodded.

  Naturally.

  “Okay.” The door opened to a tiny room with an ornate fancy door. One of the assistants handled the lock.

  “Here.” She thrust the rather large bag of medical supplies to the closest assistant, a pretty, petite thing who made Grace feel the antithesis of her name, and didn’t pause to see if she could bear the weight.

  “I’m helping you, Liam,” Grace said, in what she hoped was a tone that brooked no argument. Even if she had to come back for the bag, she wouldn’t have the thing smacking into him and upsetting his already precarious balance. A second later and she had his arm over her shoulders and her own around his waist, “If you have the whole floor, no one is going to see me helping.”

  A nod and he leaned, letting her take some of his weight, confirming how much his leg was hurting. As they made it into the suite, she began issuing instructions.

  “We’re going to need crushed ice, and find one of the rooms to set up and have the press people come here instead. We need a table, a chair, long tablecloth...and a footstool that can be hidden behind the fabric.”

  “Two chairs,” the man at her left said, probably taking notes the way he rattled off her requests.

  She turned Liam toward the closest comfortable-looking chair and kept arguing. “One chair. The reporter is going to stand. Or sit across the room. Or away from the table. Or levitate. I don’t care. If they’re at the table, they might bump his ankle or crash their feet into the stool. We don’t want them getting curious for any reason and looking, right?”

  “Right,” Liam confirmed, nodding to a different chair to indicate his seat of choice.

  A moment later, she had freed herself from the heat and natural cologne of his body to deposit him in the chair, his foot propped up on a table with a cushion padding the heel. “This will have to do until we get the other set up.”

  “Grace?”

  She stopped and turned to look at him.

  “Thank you. I suddenly feel like my brain isn’t functioning at full power.”

  “When did you last take medication for pain?”

  “I took something this morning.”

  “Any reason you can’t take anti-inflammatories? Any kidney problems?”

  He shook his head.

  “Good. They’ll help more, reduce swelling. I am also going to...” She paused and directed her attention back to the one remaining assistant. “Get some food up here. Also, the room you set up in should be close to a bathroom.”

  “Why?” Liam’s question came from behind her.

  “Because you’re going to take a diuretic, remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  “And you don’t want to have to walk a bunch to get to and from it.” Having tasks to occupy herself with helped. Top of the list now: water. She detoured to the bar and came back with a fresh, cool bottle of water and, after she’d rifled through the work bag the woman had lugged in, fished out a few blister packs with the medicine Dr. Rothsberg had agreed to. “Take this. And this.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Potassium. If you take this diuretic, it will flush the potassium from your body. So you take it with potassium.” At least he was still with it enough to ask the right questions and not just blindly take any medicine handed to him.

  “The other? The pain medicine, it’s not narcotic, right? Not the anti-inflammatory mixed with something you get with a prescription?”

  There was a sound in his voice that made her stop and look at him, like a pinch or something else causing pain. It took her a second before she worked out why. His parents. How could she have forgotten about their addiction?

  “No narcotic in it,” she said softly. “It’s a prescription-sized dose of ibuprofen, but we’re faking it by taking extra over-
the-counter versions of the same drug. Nothing addictive...” She regretted the word before it had even fully passed her lips. Some words had a chameleonlike ability to become hurtful depending on who heard them. With his history, and his recent addict ex-girlfriend... If she was going to be working with him, she’d have to be more mindful.

  Before the statement could settle, or turn the room acid, she changed to what they needed to do. Work could always save them. “How long do we have to get you settled before the interviews have to start? And what time do you have to get ready for the premiere?”

  One of the assistants, Tall, Blond, and Slight—or Miles, as the others called him—answered, “As soon as possible on the interviews. Most of the reporters are here already, and from there about four hours before he has to get dressed.”

  She stood a little straighter, knowing that her words were going to irritate them. “Okay, then make sure it’s no more than two hours for the reporters. He needs a couple hours with his leg up higher than his head, and iced.”

  “Liam?” Miles looked around her to their boss.

  “She’s in charge this afternoon,” Liam said, all but pulling the words from her mind. “And if we have to sacrifice a few angry reporters in order to put in a satisfying show on the carpet, then that’s what we have to do. If you’re worried, double them up. Bring in two at a time. Limit the number of questions they can ask. We can keep them moving. You gave them all the script, right?”

  “Script?” Grace asked, zeroing in back on him.

  “Miles puts together all the information that we want them to have, they hand out copies and that keeps me from having to repeat myself. Sometimes they want a direct quote in my own words and the copy we’ve handed out is wasted, but usually they are a good way of shortening interviews.”

  Miles added, “I’ll limit them to three questions. Or maybe a time limit would be better. Three questions or...seven minutes.”

  “How many crews are there?” The math started sounding more than ridiculous.

  “You don’t want to know,” Liam said. “They were planning to have four hours to do this, but I threw a wrench into things by going to The Hollywood Hills Clinic for you first.”