Hot Nights in Morocco

by Catherine Wiltcher

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Scorched titles… Seduced

  Sin and Ink

  Wicked Design

  The Test

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

  Copyright © 2019 by Catherine Wiltcher. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  rights@entangledpublishing.com

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Nina Bruhns

  Cover design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Cover photography by Halay Alex/Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-64063-887-7

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition November 2019

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  M, E, & J.

  My everything.

  Chapter One

  “Hold it right there, Charlie. I need a moment to process this.” Lucy exhales on a colorful verbal montage of her three favorite curse words. “Okay, now tell me exactly what she said.”

  “That the job’s mine if I want it,” I say, trying not to laugh. My best friend is a straight-up cynic with an extra splash of drama, but I adore her for it. She’s the roots to my wings. She’s also my open window into this thing called life. Reality is overrated—or it was until five minutes ago.

  Earthquakes aren’t supposed to happen in London, not ones that reduce that open window to broken fragments. Top movie executives aren’t supposed to call at stupid o’clock in the morning to offer you a job.

  Yet here I am. Charlotte Winters. Newly appointed assistant to iconic Hollywood director Max Dalton, no less.

  “It doesn’t seem real.” Lucy’s floundering again and it’s cute to watch. She’s usually the ballsy one. The great unflappable. “How much wine did you have to drink last night?”

  “Not enough to fan the flames of your burning skepticism.”

  “Oh pu-lease.” She rolls her eyes at me, but I know that there’s a smile in there somewhere. I have a smart answer for everything—even once-in-a-lifetime phone calls that have the potential to tilt my whole world on its axis. The quips drip from my tongue like mercury. For my mother and most of the universe, they’re dull and deadly. All the quicksilver gets saved for the people I love.

  Lucy kicks off her quilt and swings her legs out of bed. She looks like a crumpled pixie with her flashing blue eyes and her short blond hair all prickly with sleep. “But it’s Max Dalton, Charlie. Max freaking Dalton. Are you sure it wasn’t a prank call? Are you hallucinating?” She glances at the alarm clock on her nightstand. “It’s not even five a.m. yet. What did she sound like?”

  “Smart. Intimidating. The kind of woman who fires minions for breakfast and negotiates billion-dollar deals during hot stone yoga classes.”

  Lucy’s eyebrows disappear. She has the same image in her head as I do: smart suit with a subtle gray pinstripe, sky-high courts, and a pair of black-rimmed Chanel glasses balancing on the bridge of her nose.

  “How much are they paying you? Are you working for Max exclusively? When do you start?” Her questions are coming at me like the rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire.

  “Money’s good. My flight leaves this afternoon. The movie starts shooting in two days.”

  “No slow and steady intros, then.” She whistles. “Where are they sending you?”

  “Morocco.” How can one word sound so stupidly sexy and exotic? “When I reach Casablanca I’m connecting with a flight to a place called Erizo. It’s a small village in the middle of the Sahara Desert.”

  I can tell she’s impressed. “And they didn’t seem remotely bothered that you’re a movie Neanderthal? You’re the only person I know who’s never seen Pretty Woman.”

  “You know Richard Gere creeps me out. Maybe it’s no big deal…” I shrug. “Maybe an English major and no experience is a prerequisite for this position? Maybe, for once, they want more Shakespeare, less Hollywood Reporter?”

  Lucy starts laughing for real this time. “Oh, my God, did you just compare yourself to Shakespeare?”

  “Not him. One of his earlier tragedies, maybe.”

  The smile fades from her lips. She knows exactly what I’m referring to.

  “Hey, don’t kill my buzz,” I scold her. “I’m really excited about this.”

  “So I can see.” She sighs and I wait for those curses to start up again. “Can I at least be concerned?”

  “Nope,” I say, navigating my way through a minefield of discarded clothes and heels to reach her bedside. “I’m twenty-two, Lucy.” I chuck my age at her like it’s a live hand grenade. “So far I’ve nothing to show for it except unhealthy fixations with parental avoidance and Kindle Unlimited. Stop worrying so much, I’m only his assistant.”

  “Oh, it’s not him I’m worried about,” she says ominously. “And your mom’s going to need serious therapy to cope with this.”

  She’s right. Normal things like jobs don’t feature in my mother’s grand plans for me. She’ll only be happy when I’m married off to some rich man to justify her own choices in life.

  “What did you mean when you said that Max isn’t the one I s
hould be worried about?” I say, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror above her bed. I’m a slim, slumberous vision in a rumpled white T-shirt, with long, unruly dark hair that’s sprawled across my face like a lazy teenager’s. Definitely more gazelle than Gisele… I’ll never be one of those women who emerges from her bed looking like a supermodel.

  “I was referring to his older brother,” Lucy says, her expression clouding over. “He’s Max’s producer and a complete jerk, by all accounts. Jake Dalton has that whole dark and dangerous vibe going on, but he’s also the kind of man who shoves bleeding hearts in blenders. You know, just for kicks.”

  Lucy’s a celebrity reporter, a purveyor of the finest A-lister dirt. She’s also the most opinionated woman on the face of the planet. I’m no pushover myself, and I usually value those opinions, except when my instincts are screaming at me to get on that plane and jumpstart…something.

  “I can handle Jake Dalton,” I say with a scoff. Can I? My track record with men in general is pretty grim.

  Lucy doesn’t believe a word of it, either. She’s got that deeply skeptical look on her face again. “Do you even know what he looks like?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” I collapse onto the bed next to her and start platting the silver tassels on her quilt.

  “Seriously?” She picks up a magazine from the floor and hands it to me. “Turn to page ten.”

  I drop the tassels and do as she says. Glancing down at the article and accompanying photograph I prepare to shoot my indifference back at her, and then I pause. Why? Because Jake Dalton is fucking gorgeous. Messy black hair that’s been carelessly pushed off of his face, full contoured lips that promise a hot and heavy kind of sin. But there’s something unnerving about the way he’s staring down the camera lens like it’s the barrel of a gun.

  Remote.

  Unapproachable.

  No surprises there, then. No one ever looks that hot without some kind of negative kickback.

  “So?” I say, handing the magazine back to her, ignoring the funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. “He’s attractive. Doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Attractive?” Lucy stares at me in amazement. “That’s an understatement if ever I’ve heard one.”

  “Here, give it back to me.” I study the picture in the magazine again. Jake’s expression is bleak, his heavy brows are fused together in a frown, but his dark eyes are seriously seductive. Okay, okay, so he’s got my attention. “What’s his story, anyway? Are he and Max close, or is it a Cain and Abel kinda deal?”

  “Close. Very close. They always make movies together, but their father just passed away so Jake’s chucking it all in after this movie shoot.”

  “To do what? Start a paper round?” I say, smirking at my own wit.

  “To take over their father’s legacy, as president of their Hollywood media empire, Global Studios. You know, the folks who just employed you?”

  Ah.

  She shakes her head at me pityingly. “Max is okay, but stay away from Jake, Charlie. He’s bad news. Locate the life preservers, lower the boats, every innocent twenty-two-year-old for herself.”

  “Innocent?” I’m outraged.

  “He’ll screw with your mind. These entitled alphas always do. He’s rich, ruthless…” She trails off and fixes me with troubled eyes. “Do you really want to be around someone like that after everything that happened with your father?”

  “I’m working for Max, not Jake,” I point out. “And I don’t want to talk about my father.” Low blow, Lucy. Low blow.

  “You’ve got that weird look on your face again,” she warns me.

  “What look?” I have a look?

  “You know the one—it’s the Charlie Winters special. It tells me you’re not going to listen to a single word of reason.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  But she’s not fooled. Not for a second. She knows I never shy away from a challenge, not even when they’re six-foot-something of gorgeous bastard Hollywood royalty.

  Chapter Two

  “Please don’t. I’m begging you!”

  The tears are streaming down my face again but he doesn’t listen. He never listens. He’s picked up the gun from the table and he’s slowly passing it from one hand to the other, like some small part of him is still weighing up hope and reason against my bleak inevitability.

  But it’s just an illusion. There is no logic left in him anymore. That died the minute he stole me away.

  “Time for another game, Charlotte bird,” he says, grinning down at me. His expression makes a mockery of his endearment. His eyes are lifeless, his mouth a mournful line of dispassion.

  The coldness of the gray stone floor is bleaching into my bones. My arms are aching. It’s nighttime again and I’m scared. So scared. My body twists away from him in terror as his hand reaches out for me…

  Chapter Three

  I wake with a start. My heart is racing and my cheeks are wet. It’s been a while since I had this nightmare, but I don’t have time to consider why it’s back haunting me again. It’s six a.m. It’s my first morning in Morocco, and there’s someone thumping loudly on my hotel room door.

  “Just a moment!” I holler, my voice thick with sleep. At the same time I scoop up all the icy remnants of my nightmare and dump them at the back of my mind. I’m pretty skilled at that. I’ve had sixteen years of practice.

  To the chorus of more knocking, I root through a suitcase that’s more books than clothes and throw on a pair of khaki shorts and a white vest top. After scraping my hair into a loose ponytail and tucking the stray strands of my bangs behind my ears, I open the door and stand blinking in the bright sunlight. The next thing I know, a cute-looking blonde in denim cutoffs and a tight blue T-shirt is thrusting a wad of paper into my hands.

  “Hi, you must be Charlie. I’m Rachel, Jake’s assistant,” she chirps, her mega-watt smile pinning me to the doorframe like a hot, white spotlight. “I figured I’d swing by and say hello. Here’s a copy of the latest script. Jake changed it again last night.”

  “Th-thanks,” I stammer. That’s too much information before my first espresso. She’s not much older than me and she seems nice enough. A little lightweight maybe… A little too upbeat… Then again, I’m used to Lucy and her bulldozer personality.

  Rachel gives me a quick once-over, then frowns. “Are you ready to go? Our car’s waiting downstairs. It leaves for the studios at seven.” She consults her watch with a brisk flick of her wrist, and something tells me her immaculate bob haircut isn’t just a quirk of fate. “It’s ten-to already.”

  “Uh, sure,” I say, feeling ambushed. “Can I have a minute to brush my teeth?”

  Rachel flicks her wrist at me again. “Better make that thirty seconds…” She trails off as her phone starts chiming. She reads the message and her face drops before she’s backing away from me at top speed. “I’ll, um, meet you downstairs,” she calls out over her shoulder.

  When I join her in the back of our jeep, she’s pounding away on her iPad as if her life depends on it.

  “Is everything okay?” I venture cautiously, reaching around for my seat belt.

  She shakes her head. “Jake arrived this morning without telling anyone. Caught an early flight. Bam! Just like that. Not even his L.A. team knew. He’s already at the studios—”

  And already raising hell, if her expression is anything to go by.

  She’s left the sentence hanging on purpose and it’s got me drawing some serious conclusions about Jake Dalton. She looks dead nervous, but about what? Jake? Being caught on the hop? She keeps gnawing at her bottom lip with small, very white teeth.

  “Is he a relentless asshole all the time, or are we blessed with brief periods of remission?” I blurt out suddenly.

  Her head jerks up in shock. “Excuse me?”

 
“I heard the rumors.” My off-switch is malfunctioning again.

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Is it true he’s alienated half of Hollywood with his behavior?”

  Her mouth drops open. I’m not playing by the rules that a deferential new assistant should abide by. “I don’t know what you think you’ve heard, Charlie, but Jake’s an amazing producer.”

  If you say so. My verdict is still very much out, somewhere in amongst the golden sand dunes that are coating the horizon.

  Our driver hits the accelerator and we rumble out of the hotel parking lot at a slow crawl. Rachel can’t stop staring at me, and I know what’s being concluded beneath that flawless makeup of hers. I’m just another outspoken film crew wannabe with an out-of-control set of bangs that dips indolently into her eyelashes.

  But it’s all a front. I’m all about the contradictions. No one knows the real truth about me, not even Lucy, and she’s the closest thing I have to family. Yeah, my real one was shattered a long time ago.

  “Are you always this direct?” Rachel splutters eventually.

  Get the words in first so that no one has a chance to wound me with theirs.

  “Bad habit,” I mumble, regretting my outburst. Day one, and I’m already topping her shit list.

  “I see.”

  I think she does, as well. Something tells me that she’s a lot more astute than her ditzy image implies. A smile starts playing at the corner of her lips—completely sincere, no catty connotations. All of a sudden, I don’t want to be on her shit list anymore—I want to be her friend.

  “Max will adore that about you, but I’d rein it in around Jake,” she advises gently. “He’s not such a fan of other people’s opinions.”

  That’s never going to happen, but I don’t tell Rachel.

  Ten minutes later we’re being waved through a security station. Up ahead, the Moroccan film studio is laid out before us in a sprawling confusion of dusty-brown buildings and warehouses. We park up next to one and exit the jeep, a pack of stray dogs surging forward from the shadows to greet us with energetic barks. In the distance I can see the soaring peaks of the Atlas Mountains conquering the landscape like an army of craggy-faced militia. I swipe my palm across my brow. It’s still early, but already the desert heat is intense.