Hot Nights in Morocco

by Catherine Wiltcher

  Way to go, Charlie. You just called your new boss a manwhore in front of his brother.

  Jake arches his eyebrows at me. “Sullying your reputation? What a decadent turn of phrase.” He takes my arm again and hauls me over to a waiting black jeep. “I’m just dying to see how long that moral turpitude lasts around here.”

  Chapter Five

  “Get in.”

  I scowl at Jake’s terseness. I hate people barking orders at me, and he seems to sense it.

  He drops my arm and opens the passenger door with an exaggerated flourish. “Would you like to take a seat, Miss Winters?”

  I slide in obediently and he slams the door behind me so hard it makes the whole jeep rattle.

  Two large men have emerged from the studios and are striding toward a second vehicle parked nearby. I turn to watch as they open their doors and shift sideways into their seats. The sunlight catches the exposed metal of the firearms in their holsters and my heart clenches in fear.

  Meanwhile, Jake is vaulting into the driver’s seat, the black leather creaking in protest beneath his large frame. He’s barely three feet away from me and all I can smell is his bloody aftershave again. I focus on the dashboard and try to block him out. I need to get ahold of myself. I feel like I’m tumbling headfirst into a dark-eyed abyss.

  “Do you ever do as you’re told?” he rumbles, grabbing the wheel with one hand and smashing the heel of the other against the ignition switch.

  “It depends on who’s doing the telling,” I say sweetly. I’m not usually like this, but I can’t help myself. Not after all the insults he’s hurled my way.

  He says nothing as we tear out of the parking lot. How has he managed to wheedle his way under my skin so quickly, eliciting these seismic reactions, riling me up as much as I have him? All of a sudden I want to sleep with Max just to piss him off.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  “Unit base. First loc.”

  He’s speaking an alien language, but I don’t ask him to explain. I don’t want to be accused of insolence and stupidity on my first morning.

  Without warning he takes a sharp right, and my hand splays out against the passenger door to steady myself. The man drives like a maniac, but he’s all precision and control. I steal another glance at him. His perfect jaw is rigid and his disheveled hair is so black it’s almost silk-like in appearance. In contrast, the knuckles gripping the steering wheel are ghostly white.

  “So, where’s this ‘first loc’, then?” I ask him carefully.

  “West. Sahara.” He’s speaking through gritted teeth.

  “Are we filming today? I thought the shoot doesn’t start for another—?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  There’s a pause. “What’s with the accent?” I ask.

  “What’s with the questions?”

  “We’re both adults. It’s kind of what we do. You and your brother sound more British than American. Max said something about your mother being—”

  “Oxford,” interrupts Jake, giving me nothing more than that.

  “University? What did you read?”

  “Books.”

  “Very droll,” I say, gazing out of the window again. “Of the closed variety, perchance?”

  There’s another pause. “What about you?”

  “Huh?” I whip my head round in surprise.

  “What did you study, besides how to irritate the crap out of people?”

  “English literature,” I say, caught off guard.

  His lips curl into a scornful smile. “But of course you did.”

  “Little Women,” I declare with a huff.

  He frowns, his dark brows creasing into that now-familiar warning sign. “Why the fuck are you slinging book titles at me?”

  I consider him for a moment. “You swear a lot, don’t you? I read somewhere that swearing is a sign of more intelligence, not less. I guess there are always exceptions to the rule.”

  “Book title,” he says coldly. “Why?”

  “I was pre-empting your next question. You heard what my major was and you assumed Pride and Prejudice groupie. I hate to refute the old cliché, Mr. Dalton, but not all female English literature students are lured to their lectures by Mr. Darcy.”

  “Is that so?” He sounds amused suddenly. “And here I was thinking all women were attracted to arrogance and indifference.”

  To men like you, you mean…

  “Not this one,” I say firmly, crossing my arms. “I like books. I have a very dedicated seven-books-a-week habit. And you never told me what you studied.”

  “Why books?”

  I like to lose myself in someone else’s pain. It makes mine easier to bear.

  I wave a hand at him. “Why not?”

  “A belligerent bibliophile. How charming.”

  “A procrastinating producer. Aren’t I the lucky one?”

  “If you’re that desperate to know, I suggest you try Google.”

  “I couldn’t possibly spare the time,” I say, smiling sweetly at him again. “I’ve just started a new job, you see. Something tells me I’m going to be very busy.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but his grip on the steering wheel tightens. That’s something else I could major in with honors—pissing this man off.

  Good.

  Really?

  He’s so abrasive, but I have to admit, there’s something alluring about his complete inability to give a shit about my feelings. Everyone except Lucy tiptoes around me and I’m sick to death of it. That’s half the reason I got on the plane here.

  My gaze starts to travel over him, leaving no inch unchartered. That’s when I notice a small, livid, semicircle scar on the inside of his right wrist. An ugly blemish that’s in stark contrast to the smooth tendons beneath it. I go very still. I have something similar near the elbow crease on my arm.

  He catches me staring and jerks his wrist away. “Keep your eyes to yourself. Every day I’m gawped at, and don’t get me started on the paparazzi. I don’t expect the same behavior from people on my movie’s payroll.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed to have been caught scrutinizing something so private. Even so, it’s a fragile connection to him that I wasn’t expecting—a brief insight into a past as troubled as mine. “Can you at least tell me why you’re so uptight?” We’re zipping past smatterings of rust-colored palm trees and broken-down shacks on the outskirts of Erizo now.

  “You think I’m uptight?”

  I risk another glance at him. The corners of his mouth are lifting. Holy cow, this man is mercurial. He shifts emotional gears faster than a Ferrari.

  “A little,” I say, shrugging nonchalantly. At least I hope it looks nonchalant. My hammering heart says otherwise.

  “Are you mocking me, Winters?”

  “I wouldn’t dare, Mr. Dalton,” I say, doing just that. I’m feeling bolder. His change in mood has shifted something between us.

  “The crap I have to deal with today,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “HR sends us you, and now my lead actress is trying to sabotage my entire shoot.”

  She is?

  He’s glowering at the road again. His frown lines have intensified into deep trenches of premonition. Outside, the scenery has transformed into more of those drifting golden dunes stretching far into the distance. Inside, I can’t stop fidgeting. The jeep’s air conditioning is blasting out cold air, but I’m feeling prickly and uncomfortable. It’s the closeness of Jake Dalton. He’s enough to set anyone on edge.

  “Do you find me intimidating?” he asks suddenly, as if reading my mind.

  “No,” I lie. Where did that come from? “Let’s reverse the question, shall we?”

  To my surprise he starts laughing, genuinely laughing at this. Like the mere possibility of it couldn’t be further from
the truth. But, goddamn—that rich, deep, heavenly sound, that full mouth… I try not to think of all the Gemmas and Dees he has waiting back in L.A. for him.

  “Do I find you intimidating?” he mocks. “Unbelievable. Tell me, Books, does anything faze you?”

  Books?

  Yes, you, I want to say, rolling my new nickname around my head. I like it more than I should. I like it because he gave it to me. Oh, God. I am way out of my depth, just as Lucy predicted.

  “I’d have fired anyone else who talked back to me the way you have today. I should pack you off on the first plane back to London.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Can he even do that? I make a mental note to ask Max if that’s part of the deal around here. I’m not having this man lording his ego trip over me.

  He slows down to overtake an old cattle herder by the side of the road. The skinny hindquarters of his animals are a strange compliment to his jutting collarbone and sunken face.

  “Truth is, I might enjoy the novelty.” He gazes out at the hungry animals. “At least you’re not scared of me. Yet.”

  “So, not for my outstanding work ethic, then?”

  “I’m hoping that’s a given. I’ll be firing the head of my HR department otherwise.”

  “Would you miss me?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Like hell he will! He’s only known me for five minutes and we’ve been sparring for most of it.

  “Don’t,” he warns suddenly.

  “Don’t what?”

  “You know what.”

  I feign ignorance to salvage what’s left of my dignity. “I made pretty good grades at school, Mr. Dalton, but I’m not a mind reader.”

  “Christ, the mouth on you! Did any of those qualifications include a module on respect and deference to employers? I’m guessing not. And call me Jake.”

  “I thought you said I had to show you deference?”

  “Shut up, Books. I need to think.”

  About what? But I never get my answer. The air has shifted between us again. It has changed shape like a burning pyre caught up in a late evening breeze and now it’s crackling with something thick and indefinable.

  We turn off the main road onto a sandy track. Peering through the windscreen I can make out the fuzzy outline of a white Winnebago encampment on the horizon, the image distorted and unworldly, courtesy of the fierce desert heat.

  “Unit base, I presume?” I say, hazarding at a guess. His clues are scant at best. “Is it always this hot?” I can feel the moisture trickling between my shoulder blades.

  “It’s the desert. Get used to it.”

  He’s barely sweating in his designer black shirt and jeans. He’s too damn cool for that. He screeches to a halt beside a catering van and is out of the jeep before I’ve unclipped my seat belt. I clamber out through the open door after him.

  The place is bedlam. White noise drenched in chaos. There are gray camera trucks, humming generators, and billowing canvas tents everywhere. It’s like a circus where all the animals have been replaced by swarms of overheated humanoid ants, all yelling out instructions to one another.

  I catch up with Jake on the steps of the largest Winnebago. He can really shift it when he wants to. He barely glances at me. It’s as if I don’t exist anymore. He doesn’t even hold the door open for me when he barges inside. I manage to catch it with my fingertips, just as it’s closing on the parting image of his perfectly taut ass.

  “Some gentleman you are,” I mutter, wrenching it open again and then pausing in the doorway to let my eyes adjust to the lack of light. I’m hit by a tsunami of fragrance and my nose wrinkles in distaste. Chanel No. 5. I’d know it anywhere—my mother drenches herself in the stuff. The atmosphere inside the trailer is already heavy and claustrophobic. I don’t need any more reminders of her.

  “I won’t do it, Jake. Not this time!”

  My head snaps up in surprise. Jake and some gorgeous, half-naked supermodel of a woman are angrily squaring up to one another at the other end of the trailer. Light and dark. Her long, ash-blond hair is as fair as his is black. They haven’t noticed me yet, but I can’t stop staring at them. They’re like a movie scene all of their own. They’re so beautiful together, so cool and composed, despite their scorching tempers. In comparison, I’m a hot, sweaty mess. I can feel the beads of sweat dripping between my shoulder blades again as they continue to hurl words in each other’s flawless faces.

  “Don’t push me, Cassie. I’m warning you!”

  “Screw you, Jake!”

  Her accent is shrill and foreign. American. The electricity continues to crackle and pulse between them. Any minute now this is going to erupt in bloodshed…or crazy, passionate sex. I feel a flicker of envy at the latter, then banish it twice as quick. She’s barely half his size. They can’t be more than a foot apart.

  Should I intervene?

  She’s wearing little more than a black bikini, and I risk a glance at her smooth, sculptured midriff. She must live at the gym. My own enthusiasm for cross-trainers and treadmills grinds to a halt on the second of January.

  Jake’s back is turned so I can’t see his expression, but I’m mesmerized by hers. Her foxy brown eyes are fixed on his face. She wants him, that much is clear, but she wants to antagonize the hell out of him first.

  “I’m not working under these conditions,” she warns, tossing a delicate sliver of ash-blond hair away from her face. “My agent and manager both agree I should walk.”

  “You knew exactly what you signed up for here, sweetheart. We’re paying you ten million bucks, so quit messing us around.”

  “I didn’t have to take the gig, baby,” she purrs, changing tack and moving in for the kill. “I did it for you, remember? After Marrakech, I thought—”

  “Fuck Marrakech! Don’t kid yourself. You wanted an Oscar and you knew damn well my script gave you a shot at it. As far as I’m concerned, this matter is done.”

  “No, Jake, not this time. I’m not setting foot on that set until you give me what I want.”

  There’s a horrible pause before his hand shoots out and clamps around the back of her neck like a vise. Moments later, their lips are crashing together in a sickening crunch. Her response is immediate. She digs her fingers into his hair and kisses him back twice as hard. As for me, I’m too shocked to move. I’m a voyeur to the most crazy, heart-stopping thing I’ve ever witnessed.

  The brutal kiss lasts a few seconds before he’s pulling away. Their faces are frozen millimeters apart as they bask in each other’s body heat. “Cut me some slack here, Cassie,” I hear him murmur. “You owe me, remember?”

  The breath catches in her throat. She’s as affected by him as I am. Is that why he kissed her? To shut her up? If so, then he’s a master manipulator as well as a beautiful bastard, and he just plummeted sixty floors in my estimation. I hate men who play twisted games with others’ emotions. To me, it’s the worst kind of deceit.

  I turn to leave, but my movement catches his attention.

  “Wait, Books.”

  He relinquishes the woman and a flicker of regret crosses his face before that mask of cold indifference smothers it again.

  “Who the hell is she?” demands the woman, her hands flying to her neck. The marks from Jake’s fingertips are still blanching her skin.

  He blinks at me. “Max’s new assistant.”

  “I don’t care if she’s George Clooney’s punching bag. What the fuck is she doing in my trailer?” She turns her cat-like fury onto me. “Get out!”

  “No.” Jake’s voice is like a thunderclap. “I want her opinion on this.”

  “You do?” I stare at him in disbelief, marveling at how quickly this scenario has shifted. My opinion on what? That kiss?

  “You’re gonna consult with that?” The woman—Cassie—sounds stunned, but Jake ignores her. His eyes are glinting
at me with an unforeseen challenge. They’re all I can see. It’s like he’s hypnotizing me. He takes a step in my direction and I automatically take a step back. He clocks this and frowns.

  “I have a question for you.”

  I lick my lips. “Okay.”

  “As an unbiased observer, do you think this trailer is comfortable enough?”

  I blink. Is he serious? Excess is all around me, stifling me. It’s so in-my-face that it’s practically wearing me—from the softest, creamiest shag pile to the Italian leather couches and the fifty-inch flat-screen.

  “Comfortable enough for whom?” I mutter. “A Disney princess or the Queen of Sheba?”

  Jake’s lips twist with the faintest trace of a smile. “Exactly,” he says, turning back to the other woman who is looking like she wants to rip me apart with her French manicure. “Cassie, there is simply no question of us shipping in another trailer for you. This one is perfectly adequate. I expect to see you on set first thing tomorrow morning. On schedule.”

  He brushes past me and exits the Winnebago, leaving me quailing in the face of Cassie’s rage.

  “I’ll just…” My words tail off as I spin around to follow him out.

  “Yeah, you do that,” she says, her upper lip curling in distaste. “And don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”

  I whip round super quick to deliver a choice riposte. That’s when Jake reappears, grabs my arm, and hauls me out of the trailer behind him. He stops once we’re outside, whirling me around to face him. I’m still on the top stair, him on the bottom, but our eyeline is on par. His beauty this close-up is mesmeric. His eyes are so dark they’re almost the same color as his hair. The shadow of stubble ornamenting his jawline is a field of the sweetest razor wire, and I can feel his hot breath on my skin.

  “Rule number two,” he rumbles, still holding onto my arm. “Don’t take anything personally, especially not from the likes of her.”

  “Shouldn’t that be: ‘always turn a blind eye when the producer decides to get a little too personal with his actors’?” I hiss, yanking my arm free.

  He cocks his head to one side and smirks. “Oh, dear, have I offended your delicate sensibilities?”