Taming Hollywood's Ultimate Playboy
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Amalie Berlin
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Chapter One
“NOW FOR THE hard part...” Liam Carter muttered, hauling himself out of the deeply comfortable chair in James Rothsberg’s office at The Hollywood Hills Clinic.
“The hard part?” James asked, politely rising in tandem with him.
Why had he said that? James didn’t need to know how shaky his plan was.
“Walking,” Liam said, offering an explanation he knew James would believe.
“I can get you a wheelchair and have you wheeled down to the treatment rooms...”
“No.” He raised a hand, laughing a little. Limping and still upright, even with pain, trumped being wheeled around. “No, I can make it.”
Liam hadn’t seen Grace in six years, and he’d damned well make her re-acquaintance on his feet. No matter how much it hurt.
He tested his balance and found it before he found the appropriate expression to conceal the pain.
James rounded his desk, hand outstretched to shake. “Don’t be surprised if Grace insists on crutches.”
Even without his desire to save face with Grace, if anyone saw him in a wheelchair or on crutches, word would travel, and the people he spent ninety-five percent of his life making happy would begin to question his suitability for the project.
Liam mustered a smile and shook the offered hand, then turned toward the door. “I’m sure we’ll work something out. Grace always was good at creative problem solving.” In their amicable past, the one that had ended for them that one night. The one he’d never have James know about, the land where nothing ever suddenly exploded. One terrible...and amazing night.
There had been plenty of great years before hormones had become involved, but the punctuation on that sentence assured their first meeting in years would be anything but normal.
For someone who lied for a living, doing so off script always left a bad taste in his mouth, so he left it at that. It had to be Grace...
Minimizing his limp as much as possible, Liam exited the office and made his way to the elevator he’d been directed to. The Hollywood Hills Clinic lived up to its reputation of clean, modern elegance, not that he could really appreciate it right now.
Two days and the best splint money could buy hadn’t even put a dent in the pain that radiated up his leg with every step. Liam would swear his ankle hurt more now than the day he’d sprained it. But despite the pain and the all-looming discomfort, the prospect of seeing Grace Watson again still had him moving a little faster.
How would the years have changed her? Would he find her still the slender, athletic girl she’d been, light on curves but with quiet, supple strength? Maybe he was nervous for no good reason, and time apart could’ve extinguished that youthful spark between them. It might not even come up.
Through Nick, he knew that Grace had worked in professional sports, helping athletes keep fighting fit. She could help him. He just had to convince her. Pretend their last meeting had never happened. They were both fully adults now, and adults ignored unpleasant things all the time in order to keep things cordial.
A short ride down and he stepped off the elevator. The more he walked, the more the spark of anticipation grew in his gut, and the faster he hobbled.
He just had to pretend. Pretend the image of her in that flimsy black lingerie wasn’t still etched crisply into his mind...six years later.
Hard to believe it had been that long.
By the time he’d reached the treatment rooms, the buzz on the back of his neck was enough to drown out the constant pain grinding through his ankle, or at least enough to distract him from it.
He stepped through the door of the treatment room, and before he’d even looked over the various equipment and exercise areas, he knew she wasn’t there. It felt empty.
Back in the hallway, he could see double doors at the end marked for the therapy pool. If she was anywhere, she’d be there.
Pools were as common as palms in Southern California and, while growing up, anytime she’d had a few minutes to spare, she’d spent them in the Watson family’s pool.
He approached the edge of the pool just in time to see her turn underwater and push off the side. He knew from the way she moved that it was Grace even through the shimmer of water. Sleek and fast, she powered through the water toward the far end.
Mermaid. He shook his head and felt himself smiling despite the nerves in the pit of his stomach. At least that hadn’t changed.
Maybe their reunion would be exactly like those old times. Maybe she’d reach the edge of the water and pretend to want a hand out, only to jerk him in with her.
Another underwater turn and she swam far enough before surfacing to speak of impressive lung power, then cut a path through the water toward him, straight as an arrow despite an unmarked lane.
Taking advantage of the seconds it would take her to reach his end of the pool, Liam ambled back toward the doorway to give her some space to exit the water, and avoid the urge to play with her. This wasn’t the old days, and he wasn’t seventeen anymore.
He saw her hand reach for the edge of the pool and heard her rapid breathing. She’d seen him when her head had cleared the water while breathing, or she’d seen someone there with her.
Grace’s head now popped over the edge and before he knew it she was emerging from the water, toned, tanned, and with the kind of curves that made the black bikini she wore look exactly like that lingerie...
No, not exactly. She hadn’t really had much in the way of hips last time. Now even her curves had curves.
His breath caught as their eyes met, but as she swung a leg up onto the edge of the pool one arm buckled and she toppled back into the water with a splash.
“Grace?” Had she hit something when she’d fallen back in? The concrete edge could do some damage...
He hobbled forward again.
* * *
Through training and sheer effort, Grace managed not to suck down a lungful of chlorinated water as she went under.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair.
Eyes crystal and blue, like the inside curl of a summer wave.
Liam Carter.
What the devil was Liam doing there?
She grasped the edge of the pool and kicked hard as she pulled herself up again, turning immediately to plop sideways on the tiles, as graceless as a walrus, and breathing about as hard as one in full flounder.
Through sheer luck, she managed not to smash her face into the floor.
A walrus in a bikini was bad enough, one with an injury would just make it so much worse. And the last time she’d seen him, she’d— Oh, God.
Suddenly, she was eighteen again, and full to bursting with humiliation. Not the years-old variety—the kind you felt and then discarded—it felt as fresh as newly picked daisies, and her inner walrus wanted nothing but to escape back to the water.
Before the blazing heat roasting her cheeks could spread to the rest of her visible flesh, Grace snatched up her towel and climbed to her feet, whisking it around her before she’d even truly found her balance.
This wasn’t happening.
This was...chlorine poisoning. Had to be.
Or maybe oxygen deprivation.
She needed a mask.
Or just to get out of there. Before he figured out her transparent panic. Or saw the scars. Proof of yet more foolishness. And she’d really like him to think she’d come through that unmarked, or that they were basically invisible...since he’d never even deigned to visit her hospital room after it had happened. Not that she’d have wanted him to.
Liam had his hands up, a gesture of surrender, but his eyes reeked of concern—she’d assume it was fake except she’d seen that look before. Same frown. Same posture. Different setting...
But she was practically in the same freaking outfit. It was too much to hope this wasn’t real. She never got that lucky.
“You’re all right.” He said the words more than asked. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just here... Thought I’d say hello.”
As he spoke, he backpedaled from the room about as smoothly as her first attempt to get out of the pool, strongly favoring one leg.
She tucked the corner of the towel to form a tight band above her breasts and, once covered, looked down at his feet—not only to indulge her curiosity but to have something as far from his head as possible to examine kept accidental eye contact from recurring.
Which was when she noticed one ill-fitting shoe, the sides bulging out from a splint supporting his ankle.
She coughed to force words through her tight throat. “You’re usually a better actor than that, aren’t you?”
Thankfully she hadn’t also honked when she’d spoken.
Grace shifted, arms crossing over her waist as if that would cover her better, or make sure he didn’t start drawing the same parallels between this and the last time she’d set eyes on him.
Pretend this was normal. Pretend the thought of running away didn’t make her feet tingle and her knees itch with anticipation. Say normal person words.
“Are you here to see me, Liam... Mr....Liam?” She usually tried to be professional when addressing prospective patients, but “Mr. Carter” felt even weirder than “Liam.” But all of this felt wrong. Bad-dream wrong. Naked-without-your-homework-on-the-day-of-the-big-exam wrong.
What did a woman call someone from her past she no longer had a relationship with but whom she’d once forced to see her in her underwear? What was the proper, professional comportment for that situation?
“Or someone else, maybe?” Please, God, a lightning bolt would be good right about now. She could use a little smiting. Maybe not enough to die. There were lessons to teach actors to cry on command, where could she get lessons to learn to faint on command? Shouldn’t there be some holistic expert in pressure points who could teach her something for this kind of situation? Just in case it should come in handy again in the future.
“I was thinking...” He stopped the denial and shrugged his affirmation. “Yes. I’m here to see you.” He stopped his limping backward cadence and his arms fell lifelessly at his sides. “I sprained it. And with my schedule right now...”
Treatment. This wasn’t a coincidence. At least treatment meant she had something to do other than stand around and wonder if he could see her nipples through her bikini top as he’d been able to do through that ridiculous bra. Or the other stupid thoughts shouting in her mental echo chamber, none of which would make him go away any faster. But treatment might.
Examine him. Offer advice. Refer him to someone else. Call it a day!
Good plan.
But get dressed first.
Act normal. Like nothing is wrong.
“Can you make it back to the treatment room?” She glanced into his eyes long enough to see the furrow of irritation marring his too-handsome features and was almost proud she finally sounded normal and professional.
“Of course.”
“Okay. I’ll just dry off, change, and then come check on you. Have a seat in one of the reclining chairs and get your foot up. It’ll help with the throbbing.” More sane words.
He paused a moment and then nodded. Without another word, he pivoted on his good leg and hobbled back out into the hallway, leaving Grace to make a beeline for the locker room to change.
Had Nick sent him here? Her brother was still friends with Liam. They had a bond that never weakened, even through the months when Liam was too busy to hang out or whatever it was they did together. Grace didn’t know. She always tried her best not to know what Liam was up to, as much as was humanly possible in LA when she couldn’t even go to the store to buy toothpaste without seeing his pearly whites gracing the cover of some magazine.
WORLD’S SEXIEST MAN!
How Does Sexy Megastar Liam Carter Keep Those Rock-Hard Abs?
Hollywood’s Most Wanted talks life, love, and his favorite blah-blah-blah...
Or the ones she’d seen that morning when buying fruit: racks of tabloid headlines about Liam destroying his ex-girlfriend, who could only find comfort in the pills she got hooked on.
With minimal toweling efforts, she dried just enough to get her clothes back on without sticking, roughly combed her hair back into a ponytail, and stuffed her feet into sandals.
She’d go and examine him. Figure out what he was doing and what he should be doing to get back on his feet as quickly as possible. Fetch some crutches, maybe a different splint, and find someone to go to his house and give physical therapy. Someone who wasn’t her. Someone who’d never thrown her pride to the wind and herself at a man who had clearly never wanted her.
Or at least not thrown herself at this particular man. Someone who’d always known you can’t rehabilitate the bad boy.
But if you were lucky, maybe you could rehabilitate his ankle.
There had to be at least one such physical therapist in LA.
* * *
Liam half fell into the first chair he saw inside the treatment room. Not a recliner. Foot still down. All the better should he need to make an escape, an idea that stubbornly refused to go away. And the idea of reclining made his stomach roll, much like the first summer together when they’d all gone to Six Flags. Fifteen, stupid, with something to prove...jumping on his first ever roller coaster right after gorging himself with junk food and a milk shake...
The world felt tilted enough, without a chair adding to it.
Grace clearly didn’t want to see him. First time that had ever happened. After that night he’d stayed away, but before that night she’d always been happy to see him, full of smiles.
Maybe it was shock. He just had to give her a few minutes to compose herself.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Reaching as high as he had meant every new relationship came with a certain amount of danger—personal or professional, it didn’t matter. Not necessarily physical danger—though that was an unfortunate reality too—but it seemed like everyone was looking to make a quick buck selling any celebrity gossip they could get their hands on. More than just trashy network shows looked out for celebrity gossip. Now private websites and every form of social media got in on the scoops. It astounded him how fast a celebrity could fall from grace.
Grace.
She might not want to see him, but he could trust her not to be one of those people. Even if they hadn’t had a history, she worked for a facility that guaranteed patient privacy.
But with their history... Damn.
He shifted the messenger bag back onto his shoulder and himself out of the chair to make for the nearest recliner. Convincing her to help him would be tricky enough without disobeying her instructions right out the gate.
He barely got settled with the foot of the recliner kicked up before she came bustling in, once again avoiding eye contact. It didn’t take an expert to read that body language. Avoiding eye contact was a sign of vulnerability or of trying to hide something—given the situation, what she wanted to hide was likely that vulnerability.
She ducked into an office off to the side, saying in passing, “Let me just stash my stuff and I’ll have a look at your ankle.”
Half her words came after she’d left the room, projected to carry through the open door, and she hadn’t so much as glanced at him on the way through. That never happened these days. Since he’d become someone to be seen, everyone wanted to see him.
Everyone but Grace.
The problem with having an elephant in the room...he couldn’t decide if it was generally a bad idea to mention it, or if he just didn’t know how to mention it right. All he knew for sure was that neither of them really wanted to mention it—the idea of even trying summoned another wave of nausea. If she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him without the subject coming up, it really wasn’t the time to talk it out.
“I appreciate you taking the time,” he offered lamely. What would he say to any other medical professional in this situation? Just talk about the job. Pretend. He was an actor, for goodness’ sake. Just talk. “I’ve got a movie opening, three premieres to attend, and all the promotion that goes along with that. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”
She stepped back out of the office, finally letting him actually look at her in something other than her bathing suit. The clothes she wore didn’t flatter, but she still wore them well. Her black scrub bottoms sat low on those hips, occasionally giving him another glimpse of golden skin when she moved.
“What exactly happened?” She dragged a stool to the reclining foot end of his chair and sat down. Only then did she look at him.
Ignore the elephant. Focus on the ankle.
“I twisted it while running.” He answered her question and then fished for the bag he’d stashed beside him. “There are X-rays in here.”
She didn’t take the bag, but she did take the hint. “Did the doctors say it wasn’t broken?”
Her hands gently lifted his leg and she worked his shoe off, then began unstrapping the splint—the only thing that had been keeping him upright today. He tried not to wince but any jostle pinged like someone poking at a bruise. Annoying, but more capable of creating tension in his shoulders with the promise of bigger pain around the corner.
“They said it didn’t appear broken.”
“Okay, it could still be a minor fracture, but until it starts to heal it might not show up on film.”
He’d heard the same thing yesterday. And though she was gentle, his hands locked into the arms of the recliner, braced and ready to pull his leg free, even if he had no intention of doing so. Being ready helped somehow, self-comforting actions he’d been reading on her since she’d focused on him in the pool room. She’d wrapped her arms around her waist like she could hug herself right out of the whole thing.
Liam had studied body language enough to read almost anyone if he spent enough time with them, but someone he had such history with...well, he’d been able to read Grace from the instant she’d recognized him.
The shock may have dulled now, but she was still a little afraid...of him or the situation. Either way, it couldn’t be more wrong.
All the movement finally brought enough pain to rob him of anything else to say.
As she peeled away the layers of light brown elastic wrap, the extent of the swelling and bruising finally became apparent. She gave a low whistle and lowered his leg once more to the foot of the recliner so she could slide up the hem of his slacks. Her hands moved quickly and surely, but somehow she managed not to touch his skin the whole time she labored to fully unveil his foot and leg.
“You did a number on it. I’m not going to make you move your foot right now, but you really shouldn’t be walking on this. It should be elevated with ice to help with the swelling.” She reached for his calf, the first brush of her hand on his skin causing his gut to join in on the stiff tension knotting his arms and the rest of his torso.
Gently, she lifted his leg, craning her neck to look at the underside of his calf. There was soreness there, but there was something else in the feel of her cool, soft hands on his skin. It was nice, if you discounted the pain.
She felt it too. Her complexion had been leaning toward pale since the pool, but the first brush of her hands on his flesh brought color zinging back to her cheeks. She either felt it or suddenly just remembered her embarrassment—which was too probable for him to count on any silly theory about connections and strange touches.
His leg just hurt, and he was more aware of anything to do with it now. Even the fan in his bedroom ruffling his leg hair this morning had made him do a double take. The hair had felt like it had been six inches long.
“Does it hurt up here?” She lightly squeezed the top of his calf, up beneath his knee, looking him in the eye finally.
Liam shook his head, holding her gaze.
The pink blooming on her cheeks set off the rest of her coloring, and everything about her was golden—from the light tan testifying to her active outdoor life, to the flecks of gold in her warm brown eyes. Her hair was darker than he remembered—she’d always spent so much time outside that her light brown hair had always looked sun-kissed, but now, wet and pulled back into a ponytail, it was hard to tell whether she remained the quintessential California girl or not.
“Slightly sore, but not actual pain,” he murmured. The undercurrents and tension made things weird, just not weird enough for him to change his plans. Grace had to be the one.
“I can see you had it elevated right after the fall and blood pooled up the back of your calf. You’re sore up there because you’re black-and-blue to the back of your knee.” She laid his leg down again, and then went on talking about the injury. Something about tearing or stretching tendons, and all he could think about was the contrast between black lace and golden skin...
She paused long enough that Liam looked back to her eyes. Was he supposed to say something?
“Did they say anything like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like surgery to repair it?”
“Surgery?” The word snapped his attention back to what she was doing rather than how she looked. “No. I really don’t have time for surgery. I have a premiere tonight in town. Two more tomorrow—a big one in New York and a small, local one where the movie was filmed in Virginia. And then another day of interviews when I get back here...”
She sat back and looked at him over the tortured ankle, one brow lifted screaming idiot at him, even if she held off actually giving the word voice—he recognized that Watson family expression.
Get it together. This is business. He still saw one of the Watsons on a regular basis, which made this mental trip down memory lane ridiculous. He’d lost her six years ago, not six minutes ago.
“I know you can wrap it with tape to give it support enough to power through this,” he said, lifting his foot away from her hands and putting the recliner arm back down. Getting upright would help. “That’s why I came to you, Grace. You’ve worked with athletes injured mid-game, kept them playing and all that. Certainly you can work with me long enough to simply keep me walking for a couple of days. And then I will do whatever it is you tell me to do in order to recover. But right now...I need to play through this.”
“Those athletes who get taped are only mildly sprained. They can bear weight, just need some extra support to keep up with their range of motion. This is not that kind of sprain. You need crutches.”
God. Another person with the crutches. “No. No crutches. Athletes—”
“Don’t use them on the court,” she cut in, sounding irritated with him now. “I know, but I told you—this is different. And even if it weren’t different, there’s a big difference between taping an ankle before it starts to swell and after. And you’re already terribly swollen. Tape won’t do anything for you, it can’t give you any support when there’s an inch of gelatinous squish between the tape and the joint.”
“There are medications that reduce swelling.”
“Yes...” She sat back again and looked at him. The more they engaged about the injury, the more comfortable she looked. The blush had already faded to a hint of pink. Maybe the weirdness would abate if they just stayed focused on the work. “Diuretics are used for chronic conditions that cause water retention, and as preparation before a surgery that will cause massive swelling—mostly orthopedic surgeries. But not really for injuries like this.”
“Can’t we use them that way anyway? And ice? And elevation? Get the swelling down enough to tape it?”
“I don’t know,” she said, standing again, one hand rubbing her forehead. Another self-comforting technique—her embarrassment may have faded but she still felt the stress of the situation. “I don’t prescribe medication. Let me talk to Dr. Rothsberg and see who I can find in New York to—”
She started to turn and Liam lunged to grab her hand. Instantly that feeling returned. Connection. Warmth. “Grace.” He said her name. Maybe if he held her back with words he could let go of her hand. “Talk to Rothsberg about the medicine, please, but I came to you because I need you.”
Her hand turned slightly in his, not so much pulling away, just giving the smallest slide of flesh on flesh. Every nerve in his hand fired and tingling heat spread up his arm.
Her hands were small but he felt the strength in them. So soft in his, and warmth he could spend a year studying... He found himself stroking her skin in return, his thumb making lazy exploration of the back of her hand.
Something else, he’d been saying something...but whatever it was left him.
They’d always had chemistry, but he’d never let himself explore it. He’d always kept touching to a minimum or carefully relegated to non-sexy situations for so many reasons, not the least of which had been loyalty. The senior Watsons and Nick meant a lot to Liam, but no matter how kind they were to him even Liam knew that would all end if he gave in to that lust that colored his vision every time he looked at her. Grace was off-limits, all he could have of her was his imaginings.
And this added a new element to the fantasy of the untouchable Grace Watson.
What would her hands feel like on the rest of his body?
