Hollywood Heir (Westerly Billionaire Book 4), Page 3

  He shook his head, turned on his heel, and strode away. She watched him go until he disappeared into a crowd of people. Only then did she release the breath she’d been holding. She was tempted to call Bella, but she wasn’t ready to hear what she knew her friend would say.

  He’s angry.

  His problems aren’t your business.

  You can only help people who want help.

  She scanned the area for the couple with the child again. They were gone. There were endless possibilities as to why the woman might have been upset. Giving their child a balloon hadn’t actually made anything better for them.

  But I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see their pain.

  Does that make this about me or them?

  Does Wayne Easton actually need my help, or is my present lack of male companionship messing with my radar?

  He really does have an amazing ass.

  Eric walked without a destination in mind. He needed to put distance between himself and the woman who was reopening old wounds. He’d gone to see her out of curiosity and after a sleepless night that had provided him with far too much time to fantasize about her.

  He didn’t want a relationship, just sex. The last thing he needed now, while he was figuring himself out, was for some woman to mess with his head. Been there. Done that.

  He’d expected Sage to be outrageously eccentric, fundamentally unlikable. She was a self-professed plant psychologist, for God’s sake. The question he’d pondered as he’d headed off to meet her that morning had been if he’d be able to tolerate listening to that crap long enough to screw her.

  She wasn’t supposed to have a smile that made his stomach do flips or eyes he couldn’t look away from. He’d been there for her sweet little body, not the way she pursed her lips when he said something obnoxious. She wasn’t the first woman to tolerate his bad behavior, but those women were normally using him to advance their careers. Many prettied up the exchange of sex for photo ops and introductions by pretending it was part of a relationship. Others didn’t even bother. They chased him, hunted him, offered him everything and anything he wanted, all in exchange for something else.

  He was no saint. In his early twenties, fresh from a broken engagement that had jaded his view of women, he’d accepted a fair share of what he was offered. As the years went on, though, he turned down more and more. The last date he’d gone on had been more than a year ago.

  Like a bout of food poisoning after a certain dish, his last date had left a bad taste in his mouth. He’d come home after leaving her at a club to find she’d beaten him there, sneaked past his people, and ambushed him, naked, when he’d gone to bed. She wanted a role in his next movie.

  The whole exchange sickened Eric. Everyone wanted something. Some were simply better at hiding it than others. He walked past the small theaters, trying to remember when he’d still enjoyed acting. A small stage, energy from an audience he could see, story lines that mattered.

  Was all that lost, along with his faith in humanity?

  He thought about the little girl from the fountain. His daughter, had she been allowed to live, would have been about her age. Passing years had numbed the pain, but sometimes when Eric saw a young girl, he still wondered about her. No matter how it had ended with Jasmine, he would have loved his child. He knew what it was like not to be wanted and would have made sure his little girl never felt that way.

  He hadn’t been given that chance.

  A phone call from Jasmine’s doctor to check on her after a procedure had unraveled an otherwise well-executed deception. Jasmine had never loved him. She and one of his college classmates, Sven, had duped him into funding their superhero movie, Water Bear Man. They’d needed his support, and it hadn’t been as if he didn’t have the money. A favor for a friend and the woman he loved . . .

  The contract had been designed to screw him and the scriptwriter out of millions. Sven and Jasmine would then split and enjoy the cash together. They might have gotten away with it, had Jasmine not gotten pregnant, then angry with the situation—angry enough to spill her role in the deception. In a fit of anger, she’d incriminated Sven, the man she claimed as her true love. She’d said it had been Sven’s idea for her to distract Eric enough to sign without reading the full contract. Their last conversation had been ugly. She’d mocked everything Eric had disclosed to her about his dysfunctional family just to hurt him; then she’d torn into their engagement. She claimed to have been disgusted by Eric’s touch and relieved when she’d learned about her pregnancy early enough to terminate it. She’d said the baby had been a little girl. Had it? Or had she thrown in the detail to hurt him more deeply? He’d never know.

  Only Reggie knew the full extent of what she’d said. He’d been doing electrical work in Eric’s then-modest London apartment and overheard Jasmine’s vile ranting. After she’d left, Eric had stood in the living room, devastated, asking himself how he could have thought what they had was love.

  Because life has taught me to have low, low, low expectations of people.

  Reggie had walked out of the kitchen and said, “That bitch played the wrong man. Aren’t you filthy rich?”

  At the time, revenge had been the last thing on Eric’s mind. He’d never been the vengeful type. “I am,” he’d said to the then-near stranger.

  “You must have an army of lawyers. Don’t let those fuckers get a dime from your movie.”

  They hadn’t. Eric had made sure of that, but it hadn’t made him feel better. Jasmine’s view of him as someone who was unloved because he was unlovable had rung true to him. Wanting nothing more to do with Water Bear Man or the money that came from it, he’d donated his earnings from it to charities. Rather than close that chapter of his life, it had only brought a surge of interest for a sequel. Eric had had no intention of producing or starring in another film that involved him prancing around in a gray spandex superhero costume, but his publicist had begged him to meet with the writer and cast from the original movie before deciding.

  One of the cast, a man Eric had forgotten had even been in the movie, said he’d been living in his car before Water Bear Man. Eric had offered him money, but the man had refused, claiming he didn’t want a handout, he wanted a career. One day, the man professed, he would become like Eric, rich and powerful and dedicated to giving back to the community.

  A real hero.

  Eric had tried to explain to the man that there was nothing heroic about his life. He was a disappointment as a son, a distant sibling to those who claimed to love him, and even what appeared to have been done out of kindness hadn’t been.

  Eric offered the man the role as Water Bear Man in the sequel, but the public wanted Eric. They loved Eric Westerly, not onstage performing classic theater or for who he was in person, but as his on-screen, over-the-top character. More spandex. More swagger.

  “You’re a role model, Water Bear Man.”

  I shouldn’t be. I’ve never done a damn thing for anyone but myself.

  Eric sometimes told himself the Water Bear Man franchise was his good deed, but in his heart he knew the truth. He employed more people than he could keep track of. Many successful actors had used his movies as starting points for their careers. In the industry, Eric had a reputation for generous support of his fellow actors. They didn’t know how little of it had been by design.

  He didn’t tell anyone the reality of how he felt about them or the industry. It wasn’t their fault that no matter what he did, how insane he shaped the plot to be, or even that he moved his base to the UK—nothing slowed the brand down. No matter where he went or what he did, he was Water Bear Man. Every time he thought he might break free, the brand grew and sucked him in deeper until he couldn’t even look himself in the mirror without seeing the character he’d come to hate.

  He touched the fake scar on his cheek and temple. Yes, it was a lie, but a necessary one. It was a passport to a second chance to be himself—just a man.

  His thoughts drifted back to Sage. Part o
f him wanted to track her down and apologize for his behavior. None of what he hated about his life was her fault. She couldn’t have known that watching that little girl had been tearing him apart on the inside or that going to a play would only remind him of a world that was closed to him.

  Her concern in response to ingratitude reminded him of his sister Rachelle. As he walked on, he thought about what a mess he’d been when Rachelle had come to London—determined to connect with him. She and her royal husband were the reason he’d agreed to the rehab clinic. They were good people—better people than he deserved.

  Like Reggie.

  Eric didn’t remember asking him to come to London, but he was grateful he had. Reggie and Alice made sure his household ran smoothly. Eric had a feeling that if he gave his fortune away, they would still show up to give him shit on a regular basis.

  Eric smiled as he imagined Reggie taking his kids out for the weekend on the yacht Eric had told him not to use. He didn’t expect anyone to understand their bond. Eric had two biological brothers, one older and one younger. His older brother, Brett, was a brainwashed, condescending heir to the weight of the Westerly dynasty. In other words, he’d taken over the family company and stepped into their father’s shoes. His wedding had been the first of his siblings’. Oh yeah, and there was the little wrinkle of his wife having first been engaged to their youngest brother, Spencer. Not to be outdone, Spencer was a self-made tech tycoon and just as much of a workaholic as Brett. Or he had been until a few months back, when he’d married some woman who was raising her niece. Both of them adopted the little girl and claimed they’d never been happier. Although Eric had attended all the weddings, he’d felt like an outsider. He had more in common with any of the strangers walking past him than with any of them.

  In addition to Rachelle, Eric had another sister—Nicolette. He knew next to nothing about her other than that she was traveling for her photography and spending as little time with the family as possible. She sounded like she had a good head on her shoulders. Survival was best achieved via distance.

  That fundamental belief clashed with Eric’s gratitude toward Rachelle. She advocated for family and for everyone being stronger together. Even if Eric wanted one, though, he couldn’t imagine a healthy version of his family—nothing as uncomplicated as he had with Reggie, Alice, and the kids.

  Thank God Reggie was keeping his grandmother occupied. Delinda would never understand what Eric was doing in the theater district any more than she understood him lately. To her, he was a success. Money and power were how she measured a person’s worth.

  I’ve earned more on my own than I would have inherited from her—how could I possibly not be happy?

  Fuck.

  As Eric walked by a group of young women, one of them looked up at him, then stepped away from the others. She was tall, blonde, and looked college age. Eric looked away, hoping she’d get the message.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  He didn’t respond.

  She continued, “Are you—”

  No, don’t recognize me.

  “—from around here? We’re looking for Heathbright. Our GPS said it was right here, but I don’t see it.”

  Relief flooded him. He pointed to a side street, where the entrance to a small but highly acclaimed theater was located.

  “Thank you,” she called out as she sprinted back to her group.

  He nodded. He’d considered coloring his hair or donning a weight suit to change his physique, but sometimes simple was more effective. Superman could become Clark Kent with only a pair of glasses because people believed what they saw, regardless of how glaringly obvious the truth was.

  I can do this. I can be Wayne Easton.

  A short time later, Eric approached his building. A single mother from the first-floor apartment began yelling out her window in a foreign language to her teenage son, who was standing with his friends on the corner. Eric doubted it would do much to deter the young men from whatever mischief they were plotting. As he watched, the group turned their attention to the elderly woman from the third floor who was walking down the sidewalk pulling a metal cart of groceries. Eric tensed. Surely they wouldn’t—

  The boys walked toward her, and Eric began to as well. He stopped, though, when he saw the elderly woman smile at the boys. The boys walked with her to the steps of the building, then one removed her grocery bags from her cart and handed them out to the other boys before folding the cart and offering to help the woman up the stairs. She spoke in a different language and tried to pay them each with coins, but they refused to take her money. The woman from the first-floor window said something to the boys that sounded like praise.

  Eric made his own way into the building, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d witnessed. He would gladly have pulled up a chair and watched that scene a hundred times over.

  He once considered people watching essential to advancing his craft. He studied the nuances of their expressions, savored the uniqueness of each. Somewhere along the way, his views had become jaded and he’d stopped looking, stopped caring. That moment revived something in him.

  He wondered what Sage would have noticed about his neighbors. Would she have formulated a theory on the circumstances that had brought his neighbors to that building? The whereabouts of their families? Their sons? Their husbands? Would she have marveled, as he had, that a difference in language had not stopped them from caring about each other?

  They didn’t have fancy houses.

  They walked where they needed to go.

  He’d wanted to believe there was good in people. So many people he knew cared more about what they owned than those who worked for them. They saw differences when they should see commonalities. He’d begun to believe everyone was like that—but his fellow tenants weren’t.

  The building had more wrong than right with it, but the people in it took care of each other. They were what he’d been looking for—proof that there was more to life than what he’d experienced. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel trapped. He didn’t dread the hours that stretched between him and sleep. He exercised in his apartment, went for another long walk, then did what he’d found impossible to do in his past life—he slept until morning.

  Chapter Three

  Even though she wanted to, Sage didn’t return to the coffee shop the next morning or the morning after that. She wanted to give herself time to sort through her obsession with a man who clearly did not feel the same way toward her. She investigated a potential new client to distract herself, but that prospect didn’t hold her attention for long. After stepping out of the Tube station near her apartment, she decided to update Bella. “Good news about Mrs. Hartman. She just likes dogs.”

  Bella laughed. “My neighbor? I didn’t have a chance to give her your card yet, and I never even told you her name. Maybe you are psychic.”

  “Or maybe I stood in your yard and listened for barking.”

  “You’re a nut, but I love you. So, you knocked on my neighbor’s door, gave her an informal evaluation, and deemed her sane?”

  “Oh, she’s batshit crazy, but not unhappy. She had chairs made specifically so each of the dogs could sit at the table. Clothing for every occasion. They’re adorable. She said she was lonely after her husband died and needed something to smile about. Her grandchildren come around more now. There are photos of her family all laughing and playing with the dogs. If she’s broken, I don’t want to fix her.”

  “Have you seen coffee man again?”

  “Not since our walk.”

  “That’s probably for the best.”

  “I wish I agreed. He’s so unhappy. It’s heartbreaking.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Sage hesitated. “If I tell you—you’ll do a background check, won’t you?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

  “He’s not a criminal.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “How about we wait until he gives m
e a reason to believe he’s dangerous before we violate his privacy?”

  “How about we find out everything we can so we don’t have to worry about him violating yours?”

  “I don’t see everyone as a potential threat, you know.”

  “And I don’t believe tossing fairy dust makes the world a safer place. Come into my office tomorrow and I’ll introduce you to an older couple who wish they’d had a background check done on the painter they hired . . . the one who came back with his friends to beat and rob them. I’m not paranoid. I’m aware.”

  I hate it when she corners me with a good point. “Wayne Easton. That’s his name. That’s all I know.”

  “Don’t be upset, Sage. I worry about you. You’re a pleaser—that’s not always a good thing. Don’t cut anyone excuses just because you think they’re dealing with something. Everyone has problems, but not all of us let it affect how we treat other people. People need boundaries.”

  “Speaking of which, did I mention that my father thinks I need professional help?” Sage updated Bella on the conversation she hadn’t until then been ready to repeat.

  “He’s the one who needs help. I know he’s your father, but he’s also an asshole.”

  Another point I can’t argue. “What do they say is one sign of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? What is wrong with me that I always think if I’m just a little nicer, try a little harder, he’ll see something good in me?”

  “Oh, Sage. There is more good in you than in most people I know put together. I wish I could wave a wand and give you the parents you deserve, but life doesn’t work that way. They never came back for you at boarding school, Sage. They’re not coming now. I’m sorry. You need to start accepting your relationship with them and stand up for yourself.”

  As if on cue, Sage’s phone beeped with an incoming call. “It’s my mother. Can I call you back later?”

  “Sure. Especially if you need me. I’ll be working on a case tonight, but just reading for it. I can take a break.”

  “Thanks, Bella.”