Love Me True

Funny, how every time she kissed Larry, that obnoxious raspy voice of Joey’s started heckling her.

He doesn’t quite have my knack, now does he, babe?

But that would stop.

She was going to do what was expected of her for once and be happy about it. The well-ordered structure of Laurence’s life would smooth any rough edges in her being. Nicky, who had been asking why he didn’t have a father, would have one. Julia could relax and give her entire soul to her chosen vocation. Heather’s parents would be thrilled to have her respectably married.

A shadow passed over her face as she thought of how much her mother and father had suffered. It was up to Heather to make it up to them.

But her tears wouldn’t quit as she stared at the torture in Joey’s frozen face.

Joey had been able to read her heart and her forbidden fantasies with unerring accuracy. Once his wild, quirky soul had been a perfect match for hers. He had been her best friend. He had shared every thought that was in his heart as Laurence, who worked long hours at his law practice, never did.

That was then.

This was now.

Her love for Joey had come at a terrible price.

Joey was image; Laurence was substance. Hadn’t her career taught her the terrible danger of confusing the two?

Joey’s bedroom exploits in Hollywood were legendary.

Laurence was decent and reliable. He respected her. A happy marriage took time, work, commitment, and compromise. Sex appeal was the least important ingredient. She wanted to be safe. Larry was safe.

What about love? rasped that forbidden voice.

What about Nicky?

What would happen when Joey found out about Nicky?

Two

Joey. Daniella. Mac.

Superstar. Supermodel. Superagent.

The fallout from what Joey had said and done on stage surrounded the three passengers in the stretch limo like a poisonous gas as they sped through the night dark. Mac’s handsome black face smoldered with enigmatic misery as he stared out the window at the whizzing headlights.

If Joey was red-faced and guilty with self-loathing, Daniella’s dark silence was equally oppressive as the sleek, black car pulled up in front of L.A.’s trendiest restaurant where Mac was throwing Joey a party.

Her dark brows knitting, Daniella turned on Joey. Then the screaming crowd rushed the car, their hoarse cries drowning out her outburst.

Thank God. Joey was in no mood for another tongue-lashing.

Joey had slouched against the door while Mac had tried to cajole Danny out of her mood by praising her latest Vogue cover, but she’d stiffened and notched her exquisite nose even higher.

Finally, even Mac lost patience. “Honey, give him a break. He’s gonna have a hard enough time living that sappy speech down.”

Daniella’s glossily painted mouth had tightened. “His fans’ll love it! Poor, poor Joey, pining for some long-lost love—How does that make me look?”

Joey had had it with Daniella. She hadn’t even waited for the ceremony to end before she’d attacked.

As if he didn’t despise himself enough. He didn’t know why he’d thanked Heather. She was the last person he should have mentioned. She was marrying Larry Roth. He didn’t give a damn about her anymore.

This was supposed to be the happiest night of his life. Instead, he’d stood on that stage, drinking in the applause, feeling the heat of the lights only to wonder why he felt no rush of exhilaration. He’d come so far, in such a short time. No way would he ever forget growing up as the town drunk’s son, or his jobs as dishwasher, waiter, and bouncer. Or the cockroach-infested apartments in dangerous neighborhoods, or that awful opening night when he’d sunk so low he’d stripped naked in that back-alley play and then lost his nerve and leapt offstage. A producer had chased him with a video camera and caught a full frontal view. Joey had grabbed a lady’s sweater and jammed it against his crotch while she shrieked. From time to time that clip was still played.

But Mac had been in the audience that night and had thought Joey was magic. Mac had tracked him down, gone to his apartment and rammed a fist on the front door.

“Who the hell are you?” Joey had demanded, putting the chain on at the sight of the huge, muscular black man looming in his doorway.

“Your agent.”

“I’m through acting.”

“Can we discuss that?” Mac’s bright grin had been infectious. “You impressed me m Hanging Out.”

“You’re impressing the hell out of my downstairs neighbor—”

Mac’s dark face paled when he saw the plump little girl in black pigtails squatting on the top step, her big black eyes popping out on stems.

Mac glowered. “Quit eyeballing me, girl. Go beat a drum or play with a doll—”

“Selena,” her mother yelled. “Get in here now.”

Defiantly Selena marched down the stairs. When Mac stuck out his tongue and waggled fingers over his ears, she ran to her mother. “Mama! There’s a man out here scaring me!”

“You gonna let me in before that woman calls the cops and they haul me to jail?”

Gut instinct made Joey lift the chain.

“How’d you know Selena’s a drummer?”

“I’ve got three rug rats of my own.”

“You’re married?”

“To my high school sweetheart.”

“True love...in this city?”

“Titania keeps me sane in this insane business.”

Joey cracked the door wider. “I won’t ever take my clothes off for a part again.”

“How about a beer?”

They’d talked for hours. Mac had sworn he could make a big difference in Joey’s career, and he had. Mac had seen that he met the right people, had taught him to quit overacting