little electrical shock ran up her arm. Why was it still there? It should be eradicated, that zing when he touched her. She snatched her hand back, and then felt mildly foolish.
Samson took a step toward her, but before he could open his mouth, Helena put her hand on his arm. “Samson, this is super unprofessional, but would you mind if I video called my dad? He’s such a fan.”
“That would be great.” His words and smile looked forced to Rhiannon.
Why do you care?
That was right, she didn’t. They were distracted, she was outta here.
She met Lakshmi offstage. The crew bustled around them to turn over the stage for the next event. “You killed it,” Lakshmi enthused. “You three had such good chemistry.”
They had had good chemistry, in spite of—or because of—the undercurrents of anger between her and Samson. Or at least, from her to Samson. She wasn’t sure what he felt for her, because the man’s public mask was as good as hers.
Whatever. She didn’t care what he felt for her.
“Did Helena say anything about her show?”
“Yes.” A belated thrill of excitement pierced Rhiannon’s exhaustion as she relayed Helena’s invitation. World domination was so close. “We’ll get it set up.” She glanced over her shoulder at the stage.
Samson was waving dutifully at Helena’s phone while the other woman chattered away. As if he felt her gaze on him, he looked up and their eyes met. For the first time since the curtain went up, she saw his mask drop.
There was sorrow and guilt and apology there, and Rhiannon felt that stupid hope churning inside her.
A family emergency. Such vague words. They could mean anything from someone dying to a mild cold. And in the end, it didn’t matter, because as she’d told the world . . . how could you believe someone who had already let you down once?
So she cut eye contact with the jerk and smiled at Lakshmi. “I gotta run.”
“No problem. Go rest at the hotel.” Lakshmi consulted her phone. “You don’t have anything on the docket until tomorrow morning anyway.”
And as much as Rhiannon hated running, that was exactly what she did. Because she knew she’d hate herself for running now much less than she’d hate herself for hoping later.
Chapter Six
CLASSICAL MUSIC swirled through the air, spilling out of the empty living room. Rhiannon peeked inside, then said, “Sienna, turn off the music.” A small black device on the huge heavy desk turned red and the music cut off.
Katrina had a pretty set schedule, and usually that schedule included forgetting to turn the music off when she was done reading her newspaper to go make breakfast every morning.
Rhiannon sniffed the air. Whatever Katrina was cooking, it smelled good. She followed her nose, walking to the large, open-concept kitchen, the sun glinting off stainless steel appliances.
The sprawling Santa Barbara mansion belonged to her silent investor and best friend, Katrina King. As ambitious as Rhiannon was, she didn’t require fancy houses to keep her happy. Big spaces meant more things to dust. As the kid of a housekeeper, she felt weird overseeing her own cleaning staff. Even if she had made sure her mother had a well-paid weekly maid service.
Dark lofts in transitioning neighborhoods had always been more Rhiannon’s style than something like this light and airy, mostly-constructed-of-windows hilltop home. In fact, she maintained her condo in L.A., close to Crush’s offices, and crashed there for most of the week.
But weekends she spent here and had since about a year ago, when Katrina had far too casually asked if she’d be interested in living with her. Katrina rarely asked for anything, and Rhiannon had seen the sense in the setup. Rhiannon didn’t have to worry as much about Katrina, and Katrina had some company in the house she didn’t leave often.
Katrina was in front of the stove, bopping away to whatever music was coming through her giant noise-canceling headphones. She wore a camisole and short-shorts, the cotton barely containing her voluptuous body. Katrina had once confided that she loved wearing scanty clothing at home because every dimple and stretch mark and roll reminded her that she no longer had to please cameras and photographers and her agency . . . and her father.
Since she knew how much Katrina hated being surprised, Rhiannon clomped loudly into the kitchen and waved until Katrina caught sight of her in her peripheral vision. The younger woman jumped, then beamed and removed her headphones. “You’re home early! I thought you were flying