The Ex Factor

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Ex Factor

  Copyright © 2014 by Cate Masters

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-643-4

  Cover art by Tibbs Designs

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  www.decadentpublishing.com

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  Also by Cate Masters

  Dead to Rights

  Death is a Bitch

  Betting it All

  Tonight You Belong to Me

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  Homecoming

  Cinderella Dreams

  Sweet Revenge

  Cursed

  Charmed

  Claimed

  Blue Moon Over Bliss Lake

  A Wedding at the Blue Moon Cafe

  The Ex Factor

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  Cate Masters

  ~DEDICATION~

  For Gary, always

  Chapter One

  A scream rose in her throat, so constricted with rage the sound strangled to an indecipherable gurgle. “Idiot!” Susan Ainsley clutched the laptop so tightly, her arms shook. She fought the urge to hurl it against the wall, even if the resulting explosion of plastic and circuitry would act like a release valve on her frustration.

  No point. Destroying her computer wouldn’t kill the gossip sites splashing her ex’s digs at her all over the Web and all over the world. Wouldn’t heal the sting of his underhanded comments. Wouldn’t make her feel better. Not even time helped that. Especially not when Brett Pratt, the other half of their former it couple, kept dredging up the past. His embellishments and exaggerations dragged her through the mud, again and again.

  Her cell buzzed. After setting down the laptop, she checked the display. Ugh. Brett.

  She let it go to voice mail. Despite ranking as one of the highest paid actresses in the business, she could disguise only so much of her real emotion. A chime signaled he’d left a message. A touch retrieved it.

  I know you’re angry, but ignoring me won’t help. I’ll try again.

  Sure enough, the phone buzzed in her hand. Immature asshole. “Hey. I was in the bathroom.”

  “Dying your hair a new shade?”

  She blinked once, like an extra heartbeat, a method she’d developed of slowing her reaction. Which, at the moment, was to rip out his hair plugs. “No. What’s up?” Let him think she hadn’t seen the articles.

  “There’s a new round of dirt in the news. Ignore it. I can’t believe the stupid reporter twisted my words again. I’m sorry they hauled you into it, Susan.”

  “Twisted. Your. Words?” What other meaning could one attach to, my life was so boring, I tried any way I could to escape? Or, ending my marriage to Susan helped me move to the next stage? The next stage of…finding new avenues of publicity? Assholedom?

  With the effort to remain stoic, her lip trembled. While he droned out a lame explanation, she blocked his voice by envisioning a strong, sexy, intelligent man—the ideal she hoped would be her 1Night Stand date tonight.

  “You know I would never hurt you.” The old Brett slipped in, all sugary sweetness, with that slight slur she used to find adorable but now triggered nothing but annoyance.

  “Ditto.” To keep mum through these “media misunderstandings,” it took steely resolve—no, stronger than steel. Titanium? Adamantine? But she refused to react. She wouldn’t let him rob her of her dignity on top of everything else.

  Unfortunately, dating other actors spawned new streams of probing articles, recounting in painful detail what she wore, ate, said, how she walked, whether another actress looked better in the same outfit, and always, always wrapping with something about Brett.

  Worst of all, the reporter’s preposterous speculations about whether she’d marry again. Not likely, after the husband she’d idolized cheated on her with his goddess-wannabe co-star Anita Hellerton during a movie shoot and lied about it. Then, after returning home from the shoot, teary about his need to grow and move in new directions, stuffed as many possessions as he could fit into his Expedition. He moved, all right…straight in with Anita.

  New direction? Oh, I don’t know. Down wasn’t such a new direction for Brett. She wouldn’t even mock him when he found out first-hand why Anita’s nickname was ‘Hellkitten’.

  Was it any wonder she went out on the town with a different actor whenever possible? The more guys she dated, the more she moved forward with her life. Well, that was the plan, anyway. Speed dating merely proved what she’d long suspected—spending time with other performers made her yearn for solitude. And yearn for someone less concerned with his appearance, posing for paparazzi, and who else might steal the spotlight.

  Someone real.

  No matter how hard she tried to get away from the subject, Brett always factored into most conversations. Into too much of her life, really. Susan dubbed his unwanted influence on her existence The Ex Factor, and vowed to exterminate it once and for all.

  Tonight would be the beginning. Right this moment, in fact. Adios, asshole.

  “Give my best to Anita and the kids.” Her thumb pressed off without hesitation, and held it. The cell shut down with a whoosh, like a virtual toilet flushing away all the emotional baggage he’d attempted to dump on her. She wasn’t about to haul it around.

  Especially not tonight. How long had it been since she’d gotten excited about a date? A blind date—how perfect was that? With a real man, someone who had a regular job, who worked nine to five. Someone with logical expectations, not pumped up on melodrama and creative angst.

  Lauren’s a genius and a sweetie for helping me set this up. A true friend, worth her weight in gold in the entertainment business. Not naïve enough to think tonight would change her life, Susan still looked forward to the break from the manufactured madness the press generated, and a glimpse into the world she’d long ago left behind. Madame Eve promised to protect her true identity and afford her a night off the media radar.

  If she liked it, she might consider going back to life in the slow lane and leave all the glitter-caked crap behind.

  “Hope this dream doesn’t end up a nightmare, like my career.” She rose, the view of the valley beyond the wall of w
indows drawing her to it. So beautiful, but she’d grown tired of having abnormally massive amounts of stuff. Part of the package deal of superstardom and, sure, she’d dreamt of having a sprawling home on a secluded hilltop with stunning vistas. Great as it was, it lost meaning without someone to share it with.

  One way or the other, that would change.

  ***

  The driver’s door of the 1994 Jeep Cherokee opened with a creak. Jared Thornwell climbed in and gripped the steering wheel of the sole constant in his life for the past two decades. With the odometer creeping up on three hundred thousand miles, his colleagues razzed him about driving a junker when he could afford any vehicle on the planet. He good-naturedly shot them the single-digit salute.

  Until tonight, when he pictured Susan Ainsley in the passenger seat. Would she think him eccentric, or outright crazy? Maybe a tightwad.

  I’d give her anything she asked for. Christ, the danger of a woman like that, whose beauty haunted him like a specter in the night. An amazing, gorgeous specter who inflamed his senses with blind lust. The idea had nearly become his next movie project—a man driven to the heights of insanity for wanting such an unattainable star. Such an apt label for her: star. She was stellar in all respects—talented, intelligent, off-the-charts sexy with a sultry smile whose intense heat left him as parched and needy as a poor soul stranded in the desert.

  Why it had taken her so long to divorce Pasty Face Pratt, Jared chalked up to the business they both had the misfortune to love. Illogical, fed by masses of hysterical fans who ate up the hype like candy, the movie industry gave outlet to his own insatiable need to create unforgettable stories. On the downside, it also had a tendency to kill marriages, including his own. His sporadic dating had ceased two years ago when Susan and Brett divorced. At last, the opening he’d prayed for. His chance to make a play for her.

  Turned out to be a flop worse than The Adventures of Pluto Nash. Each time he tried to approach her, or call her, reality struck. You’re ten years older than she is. She likes young hunks whose charm’s as smooth as if it were scripted, not someone who holds a reputation for sarcasm, impatience, and disdain for unprofessionalism. She’d laugh away his offer, and he’d slink away in disgrace.

  “So why did I convince Madame Eve to set me up with her tonight?” With an incredulous laugh, he raked his fingers through his hair. I might as well be a twelve-year-old out with Marilyn Monroe. A thirty-seven-year-old tween, but every bit as tongue-tied and dreamy-eyed.

  Oh yeah, he could imagine how the meet cute would play out. She’d pause in the doorway, stunning in a deep V-cut dress—not unlike Marilyn’s—light glinting off her honey-blonde hair, her eyes. Her pouty lips would part as she scanned the room, revealing perfect teeth and the tip of a tongue, soft and sweet as cotton candy.

  Pan out across the room. He’d sit at a corner table, lit by a single candle. Staring at her, like all the other guys in the place. She’d spy the slender vase holding a lone white rose and spray of baby’s breath, the signal he was her date.

  It would extinguish the glow of hope in her face, the reverse of Bacall’s close-up in Casablanca, alive with light, and love, and transparent and utter need for Bogey. A momentary blank expression, then she’d plaster on a smile and drag herself over. After a polite hello, she’d sweep into the seat opposite, joke about the coincidence, then, in a tone of mourning, she’d apologize. Reveal someone had talked her into the date. She wasn’t ready. It’s not you, it’s me. So cliché.

  Pan out again as she rose, graceful and delicate as the white rose—hmm, literally the rose, or simply exuding the same fragile innocence?—and flowed out of the room like a scarf in a breeze. Zoom in tight on him draining his martini, flagging the waitress for another. Keep ’em coming. Despite protestations from the waitress, the bartender, and patrons he passed while exiting the bar, he’d stagger to his Jeep. Would the waitress follow and he’d bang her all night, calling out Susan’s name? No, not exactly tortured hero material. Tires squealing, he’d swerve and weave down the street, picking up enough speed to careen over a steep embankment and plummet to his death, alone and unloved forevermore.

  Or—the more likely scenario—he’d wake up with a nasty hangover and haul himself off to work, sarcasm more biting than usual, manners rougher than a seaside boardwalk on bare feet.

  The boardwalk. Now that would be a fun date. It unfolded like movie highlights: on the roller coaster, laughing together, her fingers tight around his arm; winning a cheesy stuffed animal for her at a game-of-chance booth, which she hugged, then hugged him; car by car, swinging toward the top of the Ferris wheel and getting stuck at the top, neon flashing lights below, a single silhouette against the canopy of stars when he kissed her; strolling along the beach afterward, finding a deserted dune….

  Too bad you’re probably the wrong guy for the role. But hey, more unlikely men than himself were cast as heroes and made audiences fall in love with them.

  He wasn’t after an entire audience. One woman would suffice. Susan Ainsley.

  Now that would be a happy ending.

  Ah, such a sap. And a sucker. And you just drove past your exit.

  Another peril of the job. Daydreaming.

  Chapter Two

  Malibu. Great choice for the 1Night Stand date. Far enough from L.A. to ease her worries about fans or photographers spotting her, but familiar enough territory that if someone did recognize her, she’d blend in with the crowd.

  In this getup? Maybe she shouldn’t have gone so casual. Coupled with her sunglasses and Yankees cap, the worn jeans, T-shirt and hoodie almost screamed “I’m incognito, look at me!”

  The risk she’d have to take. Regular people dressed this way. Tonight, she wasn’t Susan Ainsley, superstar, but Susan Ainsley, displaced former cheerleader and business college dropout from Hunterdon, New Jersey, more affectionately called Cowville. A small-town girl driving a Wrangler Rubicon.

  Steering toward the parking spot farthest from the door, her palms slipped on the steering wheel. Nervous much? Not since her first date with…. Don’t think about him! Her ex had become a jinx, and even thinking about Brett tainted everything.

  Not tonight. She slid from the driver’s seat and marched inside. Stepping beyond the greeter’s podium, she stopped to scan the tables.

  The hostess hovered a moment, making hushed noises as if to speak, then finally asked, “May I help you?”

  “No thank you. I’m meeting someone.” How hard was it to locate a white rose? She scanned again. Oh God. Is that…? No, no. Not Jared Thornwell. What was he doing way out here? Scouting a location? Thank goodness he took more interest in his phone than his surroundings. Such a waste of handsomeness on such an unpleasant man. Even more handsome tonight—he’d replaced his usual boxy, multi-pocketed photographer’s vest with a black sweater and charcoal jacket. Mmm, it complemented his black hair and accentuated his wide shoulders.

  The hostess stepped in front of her. “I’m afraid not. Our dress code specifies no jeans.”

  She doesn’t recognize me. The realization came as a thrill. Susan gestured toward the director. “That man’s wearing jeans.”

  The hostess huffed. “That’s Jared Thornwell. And he’s a regular.”

  The temptation arose to slide her sunglasses away and peer down her nose at the woman. It died a sudden death when Thornwell glanced over, then did a double-take. It stuck, and he jettisoned from his seat and strode over.

  Shit, didn’t fool him. Like a wilted flower, she made herself as small as possible.

  “Susan.” Green eyes sharp as crystals, he reached out for her.

  Her heart whirly-gigged, whether from his warm tone or fear he’d announce her presence to the room, she couldn’t tell. “Hi.” It came out in a squeak. To hide the blush blooming on her face, she ducked her head.

  His hand grazed down her spine. Her blush seemed to follow his touch like a spark along a trail of TNT.

  He guided her away. “Our table’s over
here.”

  The hostess’s expression was priceless, Susan noted. Alarm, helplessness, fear.

  The same as mine, probably. If Susan refused her gallant savior, the hostess would delight in kicking her to the curb, and then she’d never meet her 1Night Stand date.

  She slid into the booth. “Thanks. I had no idea they were so snobby here.”

  “Neither did I. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

  “I should have remembered. I’d never have chosen this place.”

  “They didn’t mind your jeans.” Never have chosen this place for what? And she thought he was a regular.

  He looked almost apologetic. “I always dress badly. They’re used to seeing your red-carpet style.”

  Was that a wince? Or a smile? “I suppose, but that’s not the real me.”

  A glance at her outfit, and he smirked. “And this is?”

  So arrogant. She craned her neck to scan the other tables for any sign of a white rose. Or any white flower. Royal as Grace Kelly, she said, “I really appreciate you smoothing over the awkward situation, but as soon as the person I’m meeting arrives, I have to go.”

  “The person you’re….” With a look suggesting she’d gone daft, he tilted his head.

  “I’m supposed to meet someone. I don’t know what he looks like.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s difficult to explain. Well, not really. It’s our first meeting. A blind date.” There, I said it. Let him think I’m pathetic. Let him trumpet it to the tabloids.

  “Your first meeting,” he repeated, staring at her.

  “Our. First. Meeting.” Maybe he’d belted back a few martinis? He didn’t appear drunk, simply confused.

  “Then how will you know him?”

  “A single white rose in a vase.” So romantic, certainly not a scenario Jared Thornwell could have concocted. Oh, in movies, maybe, but not in real life. For fictional people, human puppets he could manipulate with a word or gesture—sometimes an obscene one. Man, he was a bear at work.