Midnight Encounters Page 3

  “Did he like it?”

  Maggie thought about the erection she’d stroked and fought back a shiver. “Oh yeah.”

  “Then no harm done.” Summer shrugged. “He’ll probably wake up tomorrow and think it was all a dream. He doesn’t even know your name, unless you left your driver’s license on the nightstand or something.”

  Maggie tucked a stray hair behind her ears and felt a warm flush spread over her face. “As a matter of fact, I did leave something behind.”

  Summer furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”

  A wail slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it. “My underwear.”

  After a moment of silence, Summer burst out with a high-pitched giggle that had Maggie flinching.

  “Priceless!” Summer cried, wiping tears of laughter from her pale eyelashes. “That is absolutely priceless!”

  Her roommate’s uncontrollable giggles brought back the wave of humiliation she’d tried to suppress. All she’d wanted to do tonight was, well, Tony. Instead, she’d made an idiot of herself in front of a complete stranger, and now had to live with the knowledge that she’d stripped naked, hopped into bed with a guy she didn’t know and stuck her tongue down his throat.

  She’d be sure to tell her children about it someday.

  Not.

  Ben strode down East 45th Street with a cup of coffee in his hand, breathing in the early morning air then grimacing when he inhaled a gust of car exhaust. As he paused in front of a jewelry store to take a sip of his coffee, he couldn’t help but glance at his reflection in the large window.

  What he saw was an unshaved jaw, circles under his eyes and a bloodshot expression, all of which confirmed what he already knew—he looked like shit.

  It had been another sleepless night for him, only this time it had nothing to do with photographers lurking outside his house and everything to do with the redheaded tornado who had swirled into his room last night.

  The more he replayed her stuttering explanation in his head, the less he believed his midnight visitor was one of the vultures. He believed it even less when he’d grabbed the morning paper at the kiosk across the street from the Lester and didn’t see his picture on any of the tabloids on the rack.

  If Red—as he now liked to call her—was a reporter, the story of her seduction would’ve at least made the Tattler, a rag known for keeping page space open for last-minute scoops.

  Since it hadn’t, he suspected she’d been telling the truth, that she’d ended up in the wrong room, in bed with the wrong guy.

  And just like Cinderella, Red had left her prince a sweet little parting gift—a pair of pink lace panties.

  And an offer for a free drink.

  Under normal circumstances, Ben would have tossed the panties and passed on the booze, but last night had been anything but normal.

  Sure, the make out session had been hot, but what turned him on most about her was that she genuinely hadn’t known who he was.

  Everything he did was highly publicized, from his appearances at the Oscars and the Golden Globes to his trysts with his fair share of models and starlets. Whether he wanted them to or not, women knew who he was. They gawked at him when he passed them on the street. They sent him thousands of fan letters, half of which had a nude photo or two tucked between scented stationary. He’d been called a heartthrob and a hunk, a devil and an angel, and the last time he’d appeared on The Tonight Show he’d almost gotten mobbed outside the studio.

  So how in fiery hell didn’t she know about him?

  Ben had spent enough years tangled up in the film industry to know when somebody was bullshitting him, and he honestly didn’t think he’d been lied to last night. Red had been oblivious to his celebrity status, and considering she hadn’t salivated at the mere sight of him, he suspected she’d be unimpressed about it anyway.

  Damn but that was a huge turn-on.

  He quickened his pace, his gaze darting around in search of the lot where he’d left his car. He remembered it had been near that theater where he’d seen Hamlet last year, and there might have been a Starbucks around too, and a—

  Strip club.

  Ben stopped so abruptly he nearly fell over backwards. Oh man, oh man. All he’d wanted was to get the paparazzi off his back, but in retrospect, he really should’ve studied his surroundings before ditching his car. He’d parked in front of a damn strip joint.

  So much for avoiding scandals.

  Resisting the urge to hit himself over his own stupidity, Ben was startled when he noticed a crowd beginning to gather at the curb. He moved closer, growing more and more uneasy as he spotted an army of police officers and yards of yellow crime-scene tape.

  Surrounding his shiny silver Lexus.

  What the fuck?

  Taking a step back, Ben tried to blend into the crowd. The Lexus, he noticed when he peeked over a woman’s head, was stripped completely. The doors were gone, the engine too, from the looks of it, and it looked like a pack of hyenas had pounced on it sometime during the night and picked it clean. That didn’t surprise him. What did was the presence of New York City’s finest.

  Why did the cops care about his car?

  Ben found out soon enough as the woman in front of him leaned over and whispered something to her friend.

  “It’s Ben Barrett’s car,” she hissed.

  Her friend, a chubby blonde, let out a gasp. “The movie star?”

  “Yep. I heard one of the officers mention it.” The woman lowered her voice to a breathy whisper. “They think he’s been abducted.”

  What?

  It took every ounce of willpower to keep his jaw off the dirty sidewalk.

  Head spinning, Ben edged away from the murmuring crowd and walked as casually as his legs would allow. He reached into his back pocket for his cell phone but found nothing. Damn, his cell had been in the car. He glanced around, noticed the coffee shop at the corner, and made a beeline for it.

  He knew he had to call his agent and clear up this whole ridiculous mess, a plan that became vital the second he entered the café and heard his name blaring from the television screen over the counter.

  “Bad-boy action star Ben Barrett is believed to have been abducted,” a nasal-voiced reporter was saying into her microphone. “His car was found stripped and abandoned in front of a local New York City club, and police fear the worst.”

  Shoving the rim of his cap as low as it would go, Ben paused in front of the long chrome counter and glanced at the screen. He instantly swallowed a groan when he noticed that the female reporter was reciting her broadcast from the sidewalk directly in front of the Lester Hotel.

  He bit back a curse when the skinny desk clerk entered the frame.

  “I’m now talking to Derek Dorsey, an employee of the hotel where Ben Barrett was last seen. Derek, what can you tell us about your encounter with Barrett?”

  Ben curled his hands into fists.

  “Well, he looked very agitated,” the kid said, his eyes darting from the microphone to the camera trained on him. “He looked nervous too.”

  “And what do you mean by nervous?”

  “I think he was on drugs.”

  The reporter feigned shock. “How tragic!”

  “And he wasn’t alone,” the kid added, then waved at the camera and mouthed, “Hi, Mom.”

  “Are you saying Ben Barrett met someone here last night?”

  “Not someone. A woman. She came in an hour after he did and requested the key to his room.” Dorsey grinned, which caused his bony face to jut out awkwardly. “I think they were engaging in sexual relations, Bette.”

  The blood rushing to his head prevented Ben from hearing the end of the interview. Fists clenched, he stalked across the deserted café and headed for the payphone in the narrow corridor leading to the restrooms.

  He punched the number for the operator and made a collect call to his agent.

  “Ben, are you okay?” Stu Steinberg’s voice boomed after they’d been connected.

>   “I’m fine,” Ben said with a sigh. He rubbed the stubble dotting his chin. “What the hell is going on?”

  “You’re asking me?” Stu shot out a string of four-letter words. “Why was your car found gutted in front of a strip joint?”

  “I was trying to lose the press. Then I checked into a hotel to get some sleep.” Even to his own ears the answer sounded feeble at best and preposterous at worst.

  “And who’s this hooker you were with last night?”

  Ben’s features hardened. “I wasn’t with a hooker, Stu. You know that’s not my style.”

  His agent’s voice mocked him from the other end of the line. “You want to know what I do know about you, Ben? You’re a fucking idiot. You just inherited ten million bucks from a woman you had no business sleeping with—”

  “Gretchen and I never—”

  “So I told you to lay low, but did you listen? Oh no, you went out and caused a media storm. Do you realize how many calls I’ve gotten from the press this morning? Not to mention the police.”

  “Stu—”

  “They think you were abducted by a crazed whore, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Stu—”

  “Here’s what we’re going to do, Ben. I’ll call Mary and have her fly to New York. She’ll sit down with you and figure out a way to spin this so that you don’t look like a complete jerk. But first we need to call off the cops and tell them Mr. Movie Star is alive and well. Capiche?”

  “You’re not Italian, Stu, but yes, that sounds good. As for Mary, tell her to stay in LA. There’s nothing to spin here.”

  “Are you insane?”

  Ben gripped the receiver so tightly he feared it might shatter into a million little pieces. “I’m not insane. I’m just tired. I’m tired of being hounded and harassed and I haven’t slept in a week, Stu. So go ahead and tell the police to call off their investigation, but don’t expect me to make a solitary public appearance to explain this ridiculous story the press has yet again concocted.”

  “So what, you’re just going to fuel the fire by disappearing off the face of the earth?” Stu demanded, sounding angrier than ever.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to disappear, Stu. You wanted me to lay low, well, I’ll lay low. I’m not answering any calls, I’m not meeting with Mary or anyone from the PR firm. In fact, I’m not doing a fucking thing.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means Ben Barrett is officially out of the limelight. For how long, I don’t know. But I’m done, Stu. If I don’t get some peace and quiet I’ll end up in a nuthouse, so placate the cops, say whatever you want to the reporters and leave me the hell alone. Capiche?”

  “Bye, Maggie!”

  Maggie smiled at the two little girls standing in the doorway before signing out at the community center where she volunteered. She waved at the counselor who doubled as a receptionist, gave each of the giggling girls by the door a big hug good-bye and stepped through the double doors leading outside.

  Finally alone, she let out the weary sigh that had been lodged in her chest all afternoon.

  Considering she’d gotten a grand total of three hours sleep last night, she probably should’ve skipped volunteering and stayed in bed, but as usual, her sometimes-irritating sense of responsibility prevented her from being lazy.

  Her work at the Joshua Broger Community Center was too important, and she knew the kids were always disappointed when she didn’t show up—which was rare. Most of the children who came to the center lived in foster homes, and having been a part of the foster system for thirteen years of her life, Maggie only wished she’d had a place like the Broger Center to visit. Somewhere to get help with her homework, or talk to a counselor, or just spend some time with other children her age.

  Volunteering, she felt like she was making a difference. And she was. She knew that.

  But she also wished she could make a difference and get paid for it at the same time.

  The bottom line—she was tired. Exhausted. No, so past exhausted she felt like an extra from a zombie movie.

  It certainly didn’t help that instead of getting her quick Tony fix, she’d just ended up more frustrated than she’d been to begin with.

  She’d considered taking that vibrator Summer had given her out of its unopened box, but somehow the idea of turning to a plastic male organ wasn’t too appealing. Not when she’d been so close to having the real thing.

  With a stranger.

  Right. Who could forget that?

  Who could forget him? a little voice teased.

  Definitely not her. Oh no, instead of banishing the embarrassing memories from her mind, Maggie had stayed up half the night thinking about her mysterious bad boy. If she were a braver woman, she might have stuck around and coyly suggested they enjoy a few rounds of anonymous sex. At least then she wouldn’t have spent the night lying in bed, frustrated and aching for release.

  Sighing again, Maggie approached the curb and focused on flagging down a taxi and leaving Harlem.

  She found a cab fairly quickly, though the drive across town wasn’t as quick. She was two minutes late when the taxi driver maneuvered out of lane-to-lane Saturday evening traffic and finally crept to a stop in front of the Olive. She handed the man a couple of bills, then hurried inside and made her way across the bar toward the doors leading to the employees’ lounge.

  “Hey, Trish,” she called to the brunette behind the counter.

  The second she saw her, Trisha dropped the receipts in her hands and dashed over. “Maggie, walk faster,” she hissed.

  As Trisha grabbed her arm and practically dragged her through the back corridor, Maggie looked at her with wide eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  “Just move.”

  Trisha pushed open the door to the lounge, staying on Maggie’s heels as she headed for the small bank of lockers at the far end of the room. Spinning the combination lock, Maggie pulled open the locker and shot her co-worker a sideways glance.

  “Well?”

  Trisha shifted from one foot to the other, her dark eyes dancing. “I think Ben Barrett is here.”

  Maggie slipped out of her jeans and changed into the denim skirt the waitresses were forced to wear. “Who?”

  “Who? Who? I can’t believe you just asked me that.” Trisha began to speak in a patient voice reserved for small children and rabid dogs. “Heart of a Hero? McLeod’s Revenge? The Warrior?”

  She blinked. “What, he writes romance novels or something?”

  Trisha let out a shriek. “No, you idiot. Those are movies he’s starred in. You’re honestly telling me you don’t know who Ben Barrett is?”

  Maggie shrugged, then pulled her T-shirt over her head and exchanged it for a V-neck black tank. Kicking off her sneakers, she strapped a pair of black heels on her feet and turned back to the enraged brunette.

  “Trish, the last time I went to the movies, I was ten. My foster parents took all the kids to see a Disney movie.” She poked her tongue in her cheek. “Come to think of it, that’s the only time I’ve gone to the movies.”

  “What about television?” Trisha asked with a frustrated tilt of her chin. “You’ve got to watch television.”

  “Not really.” Maggie paused. “If I’m not too tired, I watch cooking shows with Summer. She’s been trying to learn about Jamaican cuisine so she can cook for Tygue. The first time she tried we all got food poisoning, so—”

  “Forget it,” Trisha cut in, not looking amused. “All I’m going to say is I think a movie star is sitting in the booth near the pool table.”

  Maggie didn’t really care, but she felt she owed it to her friend to ask, “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, he came in about an hour ago, walked up to the bar and ordered a glass of sparkling water. He gave Matt a hundred-dollar bill and said he wanted to be left alone.”

  “Gee, then it must be him.”

  Trisha ignored her. “He’s wearing a baseball cap and
hiding behind a newspaper, but he looks sooo familiar. I walked past him a few times and I swear it’s him. And there’s more.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “I saw on the news earlier that the police found Ben Barrett’s car abandoned a few blocks from here.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe he couldn’t find parking out front.”

  “Then,” Trisha continued, still ignoring her, “the cops gave a statement saying that Ben Barrett is alive and well, just a victim of some NYC car vandalism. I think the whole thing was a scam, and that he ditched his car because he’s on the run.”

  Maggie’s head began to spin. “Why do you think I’m interested in any of this, Trish?”

  “Because I need you to find out if it’s him or not!” Trisha wailed.

  “How would I know? I have no clue what the guy looks like, remember?”

  “Well, I can’t do it. I’ve already walked by his booth too many times. If I do it again it’ll raise his suspicions and he’ll take off.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. She knew Trisha was bored shitless with her boyfriend, and that sometimes her predicament caused her to poke her nose into other people’s business.

  But this was just ridiculous.

  As the two women left the lounge, Trisha continued to push. “So will you find out if it’s him?”

  “Nope. Ask Matt.”

  “I did, he told me to leave the poor man alone.”

  “I second that notion.” She stopped by the counter and reached over it to retrieve an apron. Then she grinned at the bartender. “So, Booth Five slipped you a hundred, huh?”

  “Yep. And I suppose Trish told you she thinks he’s a big star in disguise?” Matthew shot the other waitress an annoyed look before growing serious. “Look, he said he doesn’t want to be bothered, which is why I’ve been keeping this one—” Matt hooked a thumb at Trisha, “—away from the poor guy.”

  Trisha glowered at him. “If you’d just let me go over there, I promise not to bug him.”

  “Yeah right,” he hooted.

  Linda White, the evening manager, walked up with a frown on her face, and the good-natured bantering came to a halt. Linda wasn’t strict by any means, but her conservative nature and lack of humor turned off most of the staff.