I trimmed this out of chapter fifty-one. It's the scene where Virginia is cleaning her closet while Mark is supposed to be in New York. The television starts broadcasting coverage of him and Mariah Post, the young actress starring in a film the Chilvatis are funding. Remember, this is when Mark shows up at Virginia's door and gives her the necklace, telling her he loves her.
I originally wrote this to show how dedicated Mark is to Virginia. However, it is Mariah's POV of what happened that day, and I was later told I should limit the number of secondary characters whose thoughts we can see, so it had to go. I also had an early reader say she felt Mark was a little too friendly here and I definitely didn't want that!
You can tell me if you agree or not . . .
It was after one in the morning in New York, but Mariah was still up, still fuming from the events of the previous day. While waiting for the email she was expecting, her mind replayed what had taken place:
Mark pulled up in front of the Waldorf Astoria. "There you go. What time would you like us to pick you up?" he asked.
Mariah glanced at her director and leading man sitting in the back seat. They had just finished a morning full of interviews and had a few hours to grab a late lunch and get ready for the premiere. "Why don't you all come up to my suite? You can tell me if the dress I picked for the premiere is okay."
Mark didn't look too on board with the plan, but the men in the back sealed his fate when one of them answered, "Sure, why not."
Her luxury suite was on the top floor of the hotel. It was richly appointed with thick tapestry drapes in both the living room and bedroom, deep-piled, blue carpet that made her feet feel like they had died and gone to heaven, Louis XIV furniture throughout, and triple-sheeted, high thread-count bedding.
She had made her agent add it to her contract: All overnight stays in New York were to be at the Waldorf. She knew the producers could afford it—having the Chilvati family backing the movie helped provide funds for things like this.
Along with other perks.
She let her eyes slide over Mark's long, hard body as he strolled to the window and looked down at the view. Yes, indeedy. She had finally made it. Her ship had definitely come in.
She turned to her co-star. "Why don't you take Bill down and have a drink at the bar?"
"I thought you wanted us to—"
"Mark can stay here and approve the dress. He is to be my escort after all."
The actor's eyes narrowed. The two of them had been having sex here and there since filming began, but she had grown bored of his predictable moves and mediocre performance, both in bed and on screen.
"Fine," he bit out before glaring over at Mark. "Have fun."
"I'll be right down," Mark said.
"Yeah . . . sure you will," he muttered before jerking his head at Bill to follow, exiting through door they had just come in.
Mariah turned back to Mark with a flirty smile, pointing at the couch. "Have a seat. I'll go put it on and be right back."
In the bedroom she rifled through her closet for the dress she had in mind: A royal blue, halter-style mini that flattered what she had. She wasn't tall, but the barely-there length assisted in adding inches to the shapely legs she did have. As she did up the clasp at the back of her neck, she once again thanked herself for the boob job she had dug deep into her savings to purchase. Not only had her career taken a giant leap in the right direction after the expensive investment, but the E cup she now sported also went in the right direction, perky enough to go without a bra. Which she was illustrating right now, the small triangles of blue satin seeming to strain against the wealth of creamy white flesh they were tasked with containing.
Walking into the living room, she found Mark sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine.
"Well?" she purred seductively, raising her arms and doing one full turn.
His eyes flared wide. "You're wearing that tonight? A little short don't you think?"
"No, silly. I thought you might like to see this one too." She walked over to stand in front of him. He wasn't like most of the men she knew. There was no downward drifting of his eyes to lock onto her cleavage, no lecherous smile with the knowledge that somehow his day had just gotten much better. In fact, the man seemed downright disinterested.
It only added to her desire to have him.
"Mariah . . ." His voice was firm, almost parent-like.
Before he had a chance to continue, she straddled his legs and sat on his lap, putting her hands on the pads of his pectorals and drawing them slowly downward. Jesus, even through his shirt she could feel the hard ridges of muscle. The man was built like a Greek god. Better yet, an Italian god—if there were such a thing. She giggled, thinking she would have to Google that.
"I can't do this, Mariah. I'm involved with someone."
"Right," she said with a laugh, lifting her dark eyes to his blue ones. But he wasn't joking, judging by the weight of his stare. "You're serious," she said softly, removing her palms from his chest.
He nodded.
"What does she look like, this woman of yours?"
He smiled in a distracted way and she knew he was thinking of her.
"A little like you," he said. His hand reached out to play with a piece of her hair. "Long, dark hair." He let go of the strand to grasp her chin between index finger and thumb. "Beautiful lips."
"So what does she have that I don't?" She tilted her head when he dropped his hand, giving him a pout that had most men tripping over themselves.
"My heart."
Jealousy raced through her. She wasn't used to being rejected by a man. Married, engaged, single, they were all easy to bed—except for the gay ones, although she had even tried that once. It had been a total disaster.
She reached up and undid the clasp at the back of her neck. The two triangles of material went with gravity, falling in a pool at her waist. "Does she have breasts like mine?"
"Enough," he growled, not even looking at what she had bared for him. Putting his hands around her waist, he lifted her effortlessly and planted her ass down beside him before removing himself from the couch. She struggled to pull up the top of the dress and secure it, planning out a more subtle approach.
But it was too late. He was already at the door. "I'll be back at five to pick you up. Be ready!"
That had been the end of it. Oh, he had been civil enough during the premiere, but he had maintained the whole I'm-not-interested distance between them. And he'd had the nerve to cut the evening short, depositing her in front of her hotel like a pizza delivery. No man had ever dared treat her that way.
Always one to hold a grudge, although never one to admit it, she had approached the paparazzi still lingering outside the hotel. It hadn't taken long to find one that had been at the premiere. Bringing him into the bar, the guy had practically given her his camera when she expressed an interest in looking at his shots from the day.
She had found just the picture she wanted. It was the one she had staged as they got out of their limousine. With her hand on Mark's jaw, turning his head slightly as she arched her neck to look up at him, they looked seconds away from a kiss. Luck had proven to be on her side when the photographer had captured it, the moment having been that short-lived. In a heartbeat, Mark had clued into her move and lifted his chin up and out of her reach.
The computer dinged. She opened the email and read:
They are willing to run with the picture if you'll answer a few questions.
She smiled and started to type.
This is the picture in the paper Paul brings to Virginia and proceeds to lecture her about. By taking this scene out, I did risk the chance of people siding with Paul by not seeing the fact that Mark was totally innocent.
So, what did you think of Mariah? She needs to keeps her hands off our boy, am I right? Did you think Mark was too friendly? I'm curious.
I'll post another later in the week!