Page 3 of The Sun & Her Burn (Impossible Universe Trilogy #2)

SEBASTIAN

S he wore her signature white—a silk blouse tied in a bow at her throat and a pencil skirt that hugged every inch of her.

That cloud of curled pale-blond hair was the same as ever, and even though she had aged over the last decade, she still maintained that haughty beauty reminiscent of a Victorian-era painting.

Without hesitation, those big blue eyes found me as they swept the space, and her mouth pressed into a firm line.

Because Savannah was with her husband, Tate Richardson, and the young, hot thing in Hollywood these days, Jace Galentine.

No doubt, they were trying to convince him to star in one of their upcoming productions.

He had worked with them on numerous movies over the past five years even though there were whispers in the industry that Savannah was having an affair with him.

My blood turned to poison, sickening me with every brutal beat of my heart.

I was standing before I knew it, offering my hand to Isla with a big smile, hoping its legendary effect would distract her from my discomfort.

“Should we take a walk? This bar is so stuffy, and it’s a beautiful day out.”

A frown flickered between her brows, but Isla dutifully tucked away her tablet, grabbed her recorder, and accepted my offered hand.

“Stuffy,” she asked as we moved toward the party of three still loitering at the doors. “Or crowded?”

“They are often synonymous, aren’t they?” I replied mildly as we approached the other group.

“Seb, my boy,” Tate bellowed in his 1950s radio announcer voice, a crackling, booming baritone that commanded any space. “What a surprise! It’s wonderful to see you.”

His sincerity had long ago broken down my bitterness, so the smile I gave him in return was shockingly genuine. “Hey Tate, good to see you, too. Savannah. Jace.”

I nodded at the other two in turn.

Savannah was just staring at me in that way she had, a beseeching look that asked for my forgiveness and my attention. The last time she had phoned me, I didn’t answer. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to call again until I reached out first.

Jace only nodded back curtly. He was not particularly tall, as most actors weren’t, but that was his only shortcoming.

Beautiful like an angel descended from heaven with the kind of golden-blond hair that could not be bought in a bottle and features that were finely tuned yet still masculine.

He played charming, irreverent characters in action movies and romcoms, the light-hearted, easygoing foil to my darkly brooding, often tragic characters.

We did not particularly like each other, and it only confirmed for me that the rumors of his affair with Savannah were true.

She did, after all, like young, up-and-coming actors.

“Come sit with us,” Tate demanded in the way of all old white men, as if my refusal to obey never crossed his mind. “We were going to drink old-fashioneds and talk about this damn movie we’re trying to get into pre-production.”

“I’m happily tied up at the moment,” I said, indicating the woman on my arm. “Have you met my lovely companion, Isla Goodspeed?”

In my peripheral vision, I noticed Savannah frowning at Isla, who was pretty enough to make any woman jealous.

And Savvy, for all her grace and power, was not above envy or possessiveness, even when it was wildly inappropriate.

“You should really join us, Sebastian,” she pressed, suddenly stepping closer, her hand reaching out to land as gentle as a butterfly on my arm. “You’ve played hard to get for too long. It is beyond time for you to take a role in a Richardson Production.”

I would rather burn my own eyes out.

“I’m in the middle of an interview,” I said, smiling at Isla warmly. “So we should be going. But it was great to see you all.”

“I’ll call you,” Tate said as we moved by them. “We can hit the racket at the club like old times.”

We had played tennis only three or four times when I was younger and more prone to that kind of idiocy. I tried to keep my space now even though Tate’s fatherly, jovial nature would have appealed to me greatly under other circumstances.

I’d never had someone like that in my life. An older man who genuinely just liked me and wanted the best for me in a paternal way.

Andrea, maybe, but we were co-collaborators even though he was older than me. And his personal life was such a travesty that he was never in any place to give me advice the way Tate liked to do.

“ Bene ,” I said anyway, before flicking a hand over my shoulder and then opening the door for Isla.

We walked in surprising silence for a few moments. I was grateful to Isla for giving me the brief respite.

“Tower Bar?” I suggested.

She nodded, slanting me a playful look. “Do you enjoy being such an enigma? You seem like such an open, charming, affable man, but you never truly say anything of substance about your life other than your work.”

“I would argue I speak about my family, too.” I was proud as hell to be a Lombardi, to count my sisters as both my best friends and family.

“Sure,” she agreed easily. “But what about the elusive heart of Sebastian Lombardi? Copies of the magazine would fly off the shelves if I could get that story.”

“I would buy my own copy,” I joked as I ushered her into the cool lobby and toward the bar.

“Are you implying you don’t know your own heart?” she asked shrewdly as the hostess recognized me instantly and silently ushered us into the dimly lit room.

It was busier in the Tower Bar, even in the early afternoon during the week. A few friends tipped their chins at me as we walked by, but I did not linger.

“Do you know why you love what you love and long for what you don’t have?” I argued as we stopped at a table in the corner with a view of the glossy, dark wood bar. “And if you do, would you want to talk about it for the world to dissect?”

“Is that why you haven’t written a screenplay in ten years?” she pushed while she took her seat.

My smile was crooked. “I do not believe in pursuing anything unless it arrests me. Unfortunately, I have not been struck by the unyielding urge to write in a long time.”

My ability to create was something fragile, like a new spring sprout or a castle made from sand, and it had been eviscerated along with my heart after the breakup with the Meyers.

Sometimes something stirred in my chest, a phantom urge to put pen to paper, but I knew it could be years still, if ever, until I wanted to let a vein in order to story tell that way again.

A scent hit me then, aromatic and floral, like spice warmed in a hot pan.

That dark tendril of spicy smoke wafted over me, through me, and brought to mind the thick, fragrant air of a tropical garden, the intimate scent of a woman’s inner thigh, the intoxication of Moroccan spice markets, undercut by the salt blowing in on a breeze from the coast. It hooked me by the nostrils and reeled me in, tugging my gaze over my left shoulder to watch as a woman walked by our table toward the bar.

She was tall, her lush curves wrapped in a bright yellow dress, the same color as the sunshine warming the winter skies outside.

She moved with a careless kind of sensuality, a physicality usually reserved for athletes or dancers.

The long, slightly tangled waves of her blond hair cascaded down her back, brushing the browned base of her spine where it showed through a cutout in the fabric.

I watched as her hips swayed, her tanned calves flashing beneath the hem of the dress as she cut across the dining room without a single glance around at the many people who were drawn to her light.

I certainly was. I’d always been a sucker for blonds, and this one with her mass of artlessly wavy hair was a stunner even from behind.

“Sebastian?”

I wrenched my gaze from the gorgeous woman and grinned at Isla, who was watching me with sparkling eyes.

“Would you like me to introduce you two?”

“You know her?” I frowned. If she were famous, how was it possible that I hadn’t crossed paths with her before? It could have been arrogant of me, but up until that moment, I was pretty damn sure I knew everyone worth knowing in Hollywood.

Isla shook her head and propped her pretty face in her hands. “No, but I sure as hell would like to meet the girl who made Sebastian Lombardi drool.”

“You and me both,” I said, looking back over at the girl in question as she finally stopped at the bar, near enough to our table that I could make out the generous swell of her cleavage as she twisted slightly to the side, and the exact pale-yellow shade of her hair.

The woman she sat beside was older, with a pinched expression that didn’t yield as she turned to look at the blonde.

However, the bartender immediately spotted her, and they greeted each other familiarly with a kiss on each cheek.

I felt my chest tighten with unexpected jealousy and scowled.

It wasn’t that I was unused to the feeling.

As an Italian, a brother to three beautiful sisters, and a red-blooded male, I was just about as possessive as they came without crossing into unhealthily obsessive.

But even I could admit that I had no right to thump my chest over a woman I couldn’t even put a name to.

“She’s gorgeous,” Isla said. “You don’t even want to know the things I would do to look like her.”

You don’t even want to know the things I would do to be inside her .

“I can imagine,” I murmured instead.

I watched her cross those endless legs, my eyes tracking the slinky fabric of her dress as it parted at the thigh and revealed a wedge of golden thigh. My throat was dry, and my skin was prickling.

I wanted her.

And not in the polite civilized way that men were encouraged to desire women now.

No, the way I wanted that blond goddess sitting across the room from me was ferocious, a language of the blood that was untranslatable in any language.

My muscles swelled with adrenaline, and I had to grind my teeth to keep from stalking over to her like some heathen and claiming her for my own, at least for the night.

“In all honesty, though, Seb, the world hasn’t seen you more than once with a woman other than your sisters or Savannah Richardson in years.

I’m dying to know why,” Isla said, leaning forward far enough that a loose lock of her hair fell over the table and into her water glass.

She didn’t notice. And even though I liked Isla and she was the only reporter I almost considered a friend, I wasn’t feeling generous, given her continued pursuit of information about Savvy.

“I don’t talk about my personal life,” I said, taking a large gulp of the smooth whiskey. “I’ve been polite about that, Isla, but you are trying my patience.”

“Sebastian, I need something of substance for this article,” she insisted, her own pleasant expression souring. “With the rumors swirling right now, this article will have to be pushed if you don’t give me something headline worthy.”

“What rumors?” I asked, suddenly bored with this game and conversation.

My gaze kept slipping back to the vibrant blonde at the bar, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face if she turned in her seat. Something about her called to me, faint as a siren’s song buried beneath the rhythm of waves. A recognition.

“About Adam Meyers,” Isla said, waiting with a coy smile when my gaze snapped back to her.

My heart lodged in my threat, beating so rapidly I thought I might gag.

Like a shark sensing blood in the water, Isla reached into her purse and retrieved a folded magazine I recognized as a trashy gossip rag.

She handed it over like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, all smug superiority, waiting with tangible anticipation as I read the headline before dropping the curtain.

“The rumor is that he’s gay.”