We pick our way through our flea-bitten welcome committee and enter a large office block. There’s a pervasive smell of rotten wood, and each desk is coated with a light sheen of dust. I count five in total as Rachel heads toward the window shutters. The swollen latch gives way to her frantic tugging and the room is flooded with the rose-tinted hues of early morning.
“Fancy a coffee?” she says, catching me yawning.
My reply is lost to a loud crash as the production office door is booted open.
“Rachel!” bellows the newcomer, her black ponytail bouncing in agitation behind her skinny shoulders. “Jake is kicking off about the costumes again. He’s demanding last-minute changes to everything and we don’t have the time. Somebody has to speak to him about it.”
“Well, he’s never going to listen to me, is he?” says Rachel calmly, switching the kettle on. “Is you-know-who here yet? He’s the only one who can calm Jake down when he’s in this sort of mood.”
“I am. And not a fucking chance,” drawls a voice as a delectable-looking man in his mid-twenties strolls into the room. He’s wearing navy combat shorts, black high-top Chucks, and a pale blue-and-white-striped Ralph Lauren shirt. His dark hair is so long and unruly that it’s curling around the tip of his collar. “Sorry, Rach, but I refuse to face the firing squad this early in the morning. Not voluntarily, anyway.”
“Who’s that?” I hiss at her. Tall and lithe with shoulders as broad as his smirk, he’s so good-looking he must be a movie star.
Rachel shoots me an incredulous look and mouths his name at me.
Oh, shit.
That’s Max Dalton?
My new boss…
“But he looks so, um…young?” I whisper.
“You mean attractive,” she says, blushing slightly.
Max grinds to a halt when he spots me lurking behind Rachel. “What have we here?” he says, eyeing me with interest. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. You must be my latest…assistant?”
“And you must be British,” I shoot back in surprise. I can’t help it. His accent isn’t the cool California drawl that I was expecting from a member of the Dalton Hollywood dynasty.
Everyone turns to stare at me.
“I prefer Trans-Atlantic mongrel myself,” says Max, looking amused. “My mother gave me the accent, but not a lot else.”
“I dare you to call your brother that,” mutters the aggrieved costume designer to my left.
“Max, this is Charlotte Winters,” says Rachel, ignoring her, and pouring out two steaming mugs of coffee.
It better be the strongest damn hit of caffeine I’ve ever had. Max is even better looking close-up, and he knows it, too.
“It’s Charlie, actually,” I say, sticking out my hand awkwardly.
“I had a friend called Charlie once,” he muses, taking my hand and grinning lazily at me. “He didn’t look half as tempting as you do, though.”
Did he really just say that?
“Rachel, come quick.” A large man clutching a walkie-talkie erupts into the office to join the melee. “The art department is staging a mutiny. Jake hates the new set design and he’s threatening to raze studio six to the ground.”
This place is quickly filling up with a whole lot of Dalton disapproval. My eyes swivel sideways to find Rachel’s. What did she call Jake again? An “amazing” producer? He sounds more like a petulant man-child who delights in throwing his budgets out of the stroller.
“Welcome to the madhouse.” Max relinquishes my hand with some reluctance. “You can always tell my brother has arrived by the mounting hysteria amongst his loyal subjects.”
I laugh, despite myself. He’s clearly a degenerate and a raging heartbreaker but I like Max Dalton immediately.
“That’s not all he’s threatening to do,” says Rachel, her cheeks coloring again as she thrusts a mug into my hand. She starts to list off Jake’s latest misdemeanors, when there’s a scuffle in the hallway outside and a loud, mocking voice reverberates off the cracked terracotta tiling.
“I don’t give a fuck about their pride. If they want to stay working on my movie, they’ll have that set fixed by lunch.”
Rachel stops talking abruptly as a dark shadow approaches the doorway. Seconds later, Jake Dalton steps into the room. Pausing to whip off his Ray Bans, he straightens his back and turns to glare at us.
Oh. Good. God.
The breath catches in my throat as everything—my heartbeat included—judders to a halt…but not before the safety barrier is breached and I’m left hurtling into a void.
Unnerved, I take a slurp of my coffee, but it goes down the wrong way and I start to splutter liquid in all directions. The magazine photo hasn’t done him any justice whatsoever. His glory is only amplified a thousand times in the flesh. There are no flaws or glitches, just a fallen angel’s perfect symmetry.
Jake’s tousled black hair is scraped back off his face but as he stands there filling the doorway with all his moody machismo, stray tendrils keep escaping and drifting into his blazing brown eyes. His skin is the color of rich honey, his jaw is darkened with stubble, deliciously so, and he’s tall, really tall. Well over six feet. Black jeans hang low off lean hips, and the sleeves of his black shirt have been pushed up to display thick, muscular forearms.
Wiping coffee off my chin, I can only gaze and gaze at him. For once, I’m all out of smart words. I’m all out of laughter.
There is nothing remotely funny about Jake Dalton.
Chapter Four
“Who the hell are you?” he demands, directing all of his bad temper at me.
This shakes me out of my stupor.
Bastard.
His voice is deeper than Max’s, with more of that upper class British drawl that drips scorn by the spadeful. Jake is a proper alpha, as well—monster ego and completely uncompromising. He’s dominating the room with his presence alone, flattening us all to the walls with his force field of menace.
“Jake, this is Charlie,” answers Rachel, shooting me a warning look. At least she’s starting to get a handle on my personality. “HR hired her yesterday as Max’s new assistant. They sent us a memo last night—”
Jake silences her with a look of his own, a considerably less pleasant one. His gaze flicks back to me, and he starts to sweep those dark, dispassionate eyes over my face. My breath hitches. I can feel my heart thudding painfully against my rib cage. He’s so intimidating, but I force myself to meet his scrutiny.
Time slows.
There’s a faint buzzing in my ears.
“What’s the problem with the set?” Max’s voice seems to be coming from a million miles away.
Jake ignores him. At the same time, a wry smile starts to tug at the edges of his lips, chasing the shadows from his face and loosening his scowl. The emerging sunshine burns my retinas and frazzles my synapses. Inhaling sharply, I take a step back. It’s a tantalizing glimpse of another side to him, and I feel my life start spinning on an unknown trajectory. Round One to Jake Dalton.
Max clears his throat again. “Earth to Jake? I believe we have a few issues to sort out?”
Reluctantly, I drag my eyes back to my new boss. How long have Jake and I been standing here staring at each other? It feels like hours.
Jake breaks the contact, too, rounding on his brother as his alpha mask slides neatly back into place. “Damn right we do. This shoot’s a fucking shambles. If you paid half as much attention to art direction as you do to costume runners we might be in better shape for tomorrow.”
Max deflects his criticism with a hapless shrug. “Everyone has their priorities.”
This makes me smile despite all the zigzagging tension in the room, which in turn earns me a withering look from Jake. He hauls Max off to an adjoining office and slams the door behind them.
I catch Rachel’s eye and a flash of c
amaraderie passes between us.
“First impressions?” she whispers, though we both know it’s a rout. Jake Dalton has just gone and confirmed all my preconceived notions about him.
“Not a lot,” I tell her, but my voice is strained. The pitch is too high. The truth is, I’m reeling. My experience with men is close to non-existent, but I’m pretty sure such a visceral reaction to one doesn’t happen every day. “How old is he, anyway?”
“Just turned thirty. He hired out Chateau Marmont for the birthday bash. It was pretty wild. Everyone was there. Did you not see the pictures online?”
“I don’t really follow celebrity gossip,” I say as Jake’s office door swings open again and Max is ejected. But I have a feeling that’s about to change.
“Master Dalton will see you now,” he calls out to me.
“But I don’t work for him, I work for you,” I protest, frowning at him.
“He wants to lay down a few ground rules, apparently.” Max pauses by my desk, his hot gaze stripping me bare again. “Just remember, rules are meant to be broken, and preferably with me.”
I sidle my eyes away, thinking fast. I’m not ready to be left alone in a room with Jake Dalton, but I need to level this playing field between us. I can’t have him thinking I’m a star-stuck pushover. “Okay, fine,” I say, wondering how best to play this. Catch him off guard? Unnerve him as much as he’s unnerving me?
I’m still reflecting on the merits of this plan as I barge into his office without knocking and grind to a halt in the doorway.
And naturally, he had to have amazing taste, as well. The room is a bright, bold clash of Moroccan and Western style and influence, like someone dipped a popsicle of technology into a bowlful of the exotic. It’s twice the size of the production office, with red and gold Berber rugs, smoldering Baroque furniture, and hi-tech flat-screens all over the place.
My gaze jerks upward. The walls are different. They’re more honest somehow, more revealing of the man behind the fame and the money. They’re covered in set design plans with peeling corners, location photographs with neon-pink Post-it arrows, and a montage of stark pencil drawings with more detail than any comic. For some reason I can’t stop staring at them. They’re surprisingly elegant, too, like something you’d find hanging in a London art gallery instead of on a studio wall in North Africa.
“They’re storyboards,” snaps a voice to my left, and my whole body radiates in his direction, a sunflower seeking warmth, but there’s none to be found. Jake is sitting behind a vast mahogany desk, as dark and menacing as his mood. He’s watching me carefully. His face is impassive but he’s drumming the fingers of one hand lightly against the woodwork. “They’re intended to provide inspiration for our camera shots. If you’re interested in that sort of thing, of course.”
He sounds bored. Inconvenienced. It gets my back up straightaway.
“Are they working?” Clearly not after this morning’s performance.
“Like hell they are.” He takes the provocation like he welcomes it. Like it’s some kind of release for him. “They’re giving me about as much creative vision as my art department’s sets.”
He rises from his desk and moves to stand in front of me. My nerve starts to waver. His close proximity is playing havoc with my senses. I can’t believe he’s affecting me so much. Hell, even his aftershave is divine. Cedarwood and citrus. It’s so dominant, so…safe.
“I don’t apologize to anyone, Miss Winters,” he announces, folding his arms in front of him and settling on the edge of his desk. “Though I fear I may have offended you when we were first introduced. If you found me indescribably rude, it’s only because you’re on the receiving end of a very difficult week.”
He’s glaring at me now as if it’s somehow my fault.
“Will you be saying the same to your costume designer and art department?” I ask, tilting my chin in his direction. “From what I hear, you’ve been indescribably rude to them, as well.”
A flash of disbelief crosses his face. “Are you always this rude?”
No.
“I guess I’m being led by example,” I counter swiftly.
His dark eyes are glinting dangerously at me now. His intensity is stifling. His office may be huge but the walls are closing in on me already. There’s a power struggle here and it’s catching us both by surprise. I’m hanging onto this job by a thread, but I’m determined not to give him an inch.
“I appreciate that you’re new to this business, but there’s a certain pecking order on my movie sets.” He stretches out his legs, bridging the gap between us. I find myself both drawn to and repelled by this encroachment on my personal space. I want to inch closer and let his masculinity envelop me, but I’m afraid of what might happen if I do. I’m afraid of what I might do.
Get a grip, Charlie.
“There are rules you need to abide by, especially if you want to stay working as my brother’s assistant.”
I remember Max’s words from earlier and suppress a crazy swell of laughter.
“Did you hear what I said?” His gaze rakes over my face, leaving bloody weals of frustration and anger.
The next few months are going to be interesting. I’ve never cared much for authority. My mother and stepfather can certainly testify to that.
Opening my mouth to make another smart remark, I catch a waft of his aftershave again and lose my train of thought. I’m then forced to watch as he rakes his hand through his hair. What does it feel like, I wonder? Does it smell as good as he looks? It’s a universally acknowledged law: bastards always have the best hair.
He’s so much more than that, though, from the square arrogance of his jawline to the cut cheekbones, the long straight nose, and the faint frown lines carved into his forehead. He’s pure physical male perfection, right there in front of me. We hold each other’s gazes for a beat before the shrill ring of his telephone interrupts us. His hand snakes out and snatches up the receiver. His eyes never leave mine, even for a second.
“What is it?” He listens for a moment, his face losing some of its animosity. “Gemma, doll, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll have to call you back.”
Who the hell is Gemma?
Why do I care?
“I’ll make it up to you when I’m back in L.A.”
There’s a gleam of contempt in his dark eyes now. It’s as though he can see through my belligerence and can sense my reluctant attraction to him. If so, then he’s mocking me for it. Forcing me to listen to him toy with another woman.
He replaces the receiver and it starts ringing again. “What the hell is it now?”
This time I can hear Rachel’s voice patiently detailing some crisis. Jake breaks our impasse by rolling his eyes and then closing them in anger. I savor my small victory as he circles the desk and returns to his chair. “That fucking woman! Why can’t she behave herself?”
Freed from his laser-beam scrutiny, I shoot my gaze around the room. Straightaway I’m drawn to a black and white photograph lying in amongst the debris of paperwork on the coffee table. Intrigued, I inch forward to take a closer look.
A small boy of about eight is laughing delightedly for the camera at some undetermined joke, his arms clinging tightly to the torso of the older man next to him. There’s no mistaking the boy’s intense brown eyes nor the pair’s likeness in features, and the love shining forth from the photograph is irrepressible. It makes me ache for a time I don’t remember. Did I ever feel that way about my father?
I stop that train of thought before it takes me to dark, dark places I buried long ago. Taking a step back, I catch Jake staring at me again. His eyes swivel from me to the photograph and his face turns to stone. Shit. I hope he’s not mistaking my expression for pity.
“Are you for real?” he says into the phone. “Listen, you’re a smart girl, I’m sure you can handle it. Oh, for God’s sake. F
ine. Tell her I’m on my way.”
Hanging up, he grabs his car keys from his desk and heads for the door. “Come,” he barks at me. It’s a command rather than a request.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“But what if Max needs me?”
There’s a pause as we both digest the unwanted connotations behind my words.
“Call it a baptism of fire—a show-and-tell of some of those rules I was just talking about. Max will understand.”
“But—” I give up. “Fine. Where are we going?”
“Out.”
Jake stalks though the production office and out into the hallway.
Rachel shoots me a puzzled look as I jog after him with a shrug. “Jake, there’s a Lydia on hold for you,” she calls out. “Oh, and a Dee. At least I think that’s what she said her name was.”
“Get rid of them,” he says without turning back.
“Mr. Dalton? Could you please slow down a little?” I’m starting to pant like a dog.
He does so, but only marginally, and as soon as we step outside he’s spinning around to grasp my upper arm, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. “Rule number one,” he declares briskly, his face tense with some unreadable emotion. I can feel my bare skin burning beneath his fingertips. “Do not fuck my brother. Or else.”
“Or else what?” I say with a gasp, too shocked to offer up any of my usual antagonism.
Jake’s mouth twists in scorn and—dare I say it?—a touch of disappointment. “Already considered it, have you? How predictable. There’s a reason why your predecessors have flittered away like ashes to the wind, Miss Winters.”
I wrench my arm away from him. Who the hell does he think he is, talking to me like that? “Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Dalton, but your HR department hired me for my brains and not for any other part of my anatomy. Furthermore, I have no intention of sullying my reputation with Max the manwhore.”
Hot Nights in Morocco Page 2