My jaw drops.
“I don’t need to explain myself to anyone, Books,” he says, his gaze dropping to my open mouth for a split second. “Least of all to my brother’s assistant.”
“So it’s okay for you to go around forcing yourself on women, is it?” I challenge, recovering quickly. I know that’s not the truth. Cassie was desperate for that kiss. But the intensity of the situation has left me reeling. At least it wipes the smirk off his face.
“You really don’t know the first thing about me, do you?” He sounds exasperated now and very, very angry. “In some small way I find that refreshing. In others, it’s a pain in the ass. Cassie and I are lovers. Or rather ex-lovers, no matter how much she protests to the contrary. What transpired in there is nothing that hasn’t happened in a large number of hotel suites from London to L.A.”
My face bursts into flames. Of course they were lovers. Their body language was unmistakable.
“I’m so glad we cleared that up,” he mocks, savoring my discomfort.
“Funny sort of exes,” I huff back, refusing to concede.
“On the odd occasion, I’m still happy to blur the lines. It’s just unfortunate that you had to witness it. My crew don’t tend to enter Cassie’s Winnebago without my expressed consent to do so.”
Won’t be making that mistake again.
“Who is she, anyway?”
Jake’s smirk widens. “I suggest you add it to your Google list.”
I can smell his natural scent underneath his aftershave now, and it’s triggering a beat between my thighs and short-circuiting my defenses. I silently thank my lucky stars and every constellation that it’s Max I’m here to assist and not him.
The less time I spend in Jake’s company, the better.
Chapter Six
“This scene is completely unacceptable. I refuse to film such shit.”
I cringe as Jake chucks his script across the long glass meeting table, causing spare pencils to shoot off in all directions.
“Rachel, get me a number right away,” he says coldly. “I want rewrites scheduled as a matter of urgency.”
“On it,” she says, ducking out of the room to grab the scriptwriter’s details.
This meeting has been dragging on for hours. The sky outside is a mellow splash of red and gold and it’s long past cocktail hour, but there’s clearly no deterring Jake. The shoot starts tomorrow and he’s assembled his key crew for one final production run-through, but he seems intent on finding fault with everything. Either he’s the worst kind of perfectionist, or this man has serious issues.
When Rachel returns, he snatches the piece of paper from her outstretched fingers and disappears next door. The rest of us swap glances of relief. Everyone except Max. He’s far too busy flirting with the makeup designer to notice.
Not just me, then. I glance at Rachel as she slides back into her seat. I’m pretty sure she has a crush on him. She keeps blushing every time he speaks to her.
I’ve decided that Max is the sort of man you hate to love. He’s like an impressionist painting with hidden brush strokes—the closer you get, the more light and intricacy is revealed. He’s not just a chronic womanizer with a serious allergy to monogamy. He’s also wickedly funny, and so laid-back he’s practically horizontal. He goes out of his way to make me laugh, whereas I’m walking a tightrope of emotions whenever his brother is near. Only six hours have passed since he crash-landed into my life, but it feels like an eternity.
Jake reappears in a worse mood than before. He stands at the head of the table, scowling at his brother. I stifle another yawn and catch him scowling at me, too. “Charlie, what are your suggestions for reputable crowd casting companies in Morocco?”
He’s ditched my nickname, along with his sense of humor, by the sound of it. No, scrap that—this man doesn’t have a sense of humor. He had it fired and escorted off the premises a long time ago.
“Give me an hour and I’ll get you five, all verified and recommended,” I tell him. I need to stay ahead of the game here. I can’t show him any weakness.
Three minutes later he’s firing another question my way. “Do you have any issues with the scheduling for the Bedouin battle scene, Charlie?”
I try not to snort into my coffee. I haven’t a clue what he’s going on about and he knows it, too. I glance at Max, who breaks off his flirting to give me a sliver of a grin. Thanks a bunch, boss. I guess I’m on my own.
“More contingency might be advisable,” I say loudly. “How many camels are we proposing to use?”
Jake frowns. “I hardly see how that’s relevant.”
“Perhaps you could humor me just this once, Mr. Dalton?” I say, smiling pleasantly at him.
The frown deepens into a full-on scowl. He’s not sure where I’m going with this, and his interrogation game is backfiring. “About thirty, I should think. And I’ve told you before, call me Jake.”
“And horses?”
“Pardon?”
“How many horses are you planning to use for this battle scene? If it’s a large number, I suggest additional time for potential behavioral problems. Bolting horses and broken limbs are hardly conducive to your intransigent set-up timings, wouldn’t you agree?”
He knows I’m mocking him with big words again. I can see it in his face. Meanwhile, the rest of the room is watching, enrapt, as our private power struggle spills out into public view.
“Are you some sort of authority on animals now?” he says, his deceptively light drawl promising a jellyfish sting of retribution later.
I shake my head and meet his gaze with another smile. I’m not an easy target, and Jake Dalton is beginning to realize it.
For the rest of the meeting he leaves me alone, and during the break I catch him staring at me. That strange smile is playing at the corner of his lips again. It’s as if I’ve passed whatever challenge he has thrown at me.
What I feel then is beyond the highest high and the bloodiest victory. It’s a bone-shaking, stomach-clenching intoxication that rocks the roots of my foundations and leaves me craving more.
Let the games begin.
Chapter Seven
Once the meeting is over there’s a stampede for the door, with Max leading the charge. “We’ll go through my diary tomorrow,” he hollers out to me before disappearing into the hallway.
Always tomorrow. As far as I can tell, his job mainly consists of him drifting around the studios and attempting to screw anything that’s not nailed down by monogamy. Through the window I watch him vault into a jeep and drive off in an enormous cloud of dust.
“Off to wine and dine some gorgeous woman, I expect,” says Rachel, her blond hair flopping dejectedly into her eyes as she bends down to switch off the conference screen. “Did you see him with the makeup designer in the meeting?”
“I was a little preoccupied.” I say grimly, tucking the tails of my long bangs behind my ears as I kneel down to help her. “Which, FYI, was about as fun as a bikini wax.”
Rachel smiles but refuses to be drawn into a bitch session about Jake. It’s something I’ve noticed more and more with his crew. He’s a hard man to work for but he receives nothing but loyalty and respect in return.
“Okay, so it was a bit strange,” she admits reluctantly, straightening up again.
“Strange how?”
“Well, he’s never asked for opinions before, especially about movie scheduling.” She hands me a pile of leftover scripts. “Can you take these back to my desk? I’ll follow along in a bit with the rest.”
With Rachel’s words still ringing in my ears, I make my way along the labyrinth of hallways toward the production office. I’m so deep in thought that I walk straight into a row of mannequins lined up like naked firing squad victims outside the costume department. Snatching up armfuls of dropped scripts and plastic limbs, I freeze as a loud bang er
upts behind me. The noise echoes throughout the vacant space like a horror scene unfolding. It’s nightfall after a long day, and most of the crew are on their way back to the hotel. I choke on my panic as dark memories force their way to the forefront of my mind.
Racing around the corner, I spy the production office up ahead. The door’s open. The place is deserted, but I can hear angry voices coming from inside Jake’s office. He’s not alone. Cassie’s there, too. She’s our lead actress, apparently. Rachel informed me of this over lunch.
Full name: Cassie Lee. Number of Oscar nominations: two. At twenty-five, and with the added bonus of having Jake cast her in three of his last six box office hits, Cassie has recently achieved superstar status and is reveling in every last golden minute of it. Which basically means she’s a royal pain in the ass.
I hate her perfect stomach.
I hate her nauseating sense of entitlement more.
I slide the scripts onto Rachel’s desk and turn to leave, but my feet clearly didn’t get the memo. Acrimony is seeping out from under the door and I can’t stop myself from eavesdropping.
Inside, Jake’s voice is beginning to spiral. “I don’t want to talk about this, Cassie. I said all I needed to say months ago.”
“I don’t believe you! Not after yesterday. I know you still want me.”
“Think what you like, make up these fucking fantasies if you must, but what happened in your trailer was a mistake. You and I are done.”
“Have dinner with me. For old time’s sake.” She’s begging him, trying to penetrate that chilly exterior. Good luck with that.
“You don’t get it, do you? Your contract doesn’t include fucking me anymore.”
“Then maybe I should quit.”
There’s a crash followed by the sound of breaking glass as an object is hurled at the wall.
“You wouldn’t dare. You wanted in on this movie, sweetheart. Your agent was on my back twenty-four seven for months. Don’t make me regret hiring you.”
There’s a pause, and then the sound of hysterical weeping. “You can’t keep breaking people’s hearts like this, Jake. There’s gonna be repercussions.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much.”
He sounds bored. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost…
“It doesn’t have to be like this. Let me love you again. You’re shouldering too much responsibility. Walt Wilson is happy to keep on running Global so you can stay producing movies. Brad’s really stepping up—”
“Christ, you have some nerve mentioning his name in front of me.”
“Brad’s history, and you know it.”
“I don’t give a shit. What’s done is done.”
“Screw you, Jake. And screw your stupid movie!”
There’s a clatter as another object smashes to the ground and then the sound of high heels heading in my direction.
Crap. As quick as I can, I turn to the photocopier behind me, yanking out the paper tray as Jake’s door flies opens. I can feel Cassie’s foxy brown eyes on me, scorching holes in the back of my white vest top. Taking a deep breath, I turn to face her, fixing a smile on my face as I do.
“Oh, it’s you.” She sniffs at me like I’m gum on the red sole of her black Laboutins. “Tell me, honey, where do you buy such awful clothes?”
“The same place you buy your hair extensions,” I say mildly.
That shuts her right up, and I watch in glee as she flounces out of the office, catching her heel in a crack in the tiles. I may not be as beautiful, but I have at least two brain cells, which easily makes me twice as smart.
The skin on my face starts prickling. I glance over to find Jake watching me. He’s leaning against the doorway to his office, his face expressionless, hands in pockets. A statue more beautiful than David, with a complexity to rival The Thinker.
Our gazes hold. Straightaway that sizzling intensity is back. There’s a muscle working in his cheek, as if some monumental battle is taking place inside him. He takes a step toward me, then stops. “What the hell are you doing here, Books?”
My nickname has returned but his voice is low and hostile, like I’m trespassing on his territory. I’m overstepping some invisible line by being here alone with him.
“Max left his filming schedule behind,” I say, snatching one up from my desk and holding it aloft like it’s conclusive evidence in a murder trial. “He wants to go through it once more before shooting starts tomorrow.”
“Are you sure about that?” Jake doesn’t believe a word of it. “Max couldn’t give a damn about the schedule. He dances to his own fucking tune.”
“Family trait, is it?”
“What did you overhear?”
“Nothing, I swear.” I take a step back but the weight of the lie unbalances me. My foot twists and I crash sideways into the desk, smashing my left hip against the paper tray and sending Rachel’s scripts flying. The noise in the silent room is deafening.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
Jake strides up to me and hauls me to my feet by my arm. His grip is firm and I’m assaulted by his delicious scent again. We stand like statues, breathing each other in.
Machismo. The word swirls around my head like a silver-gray mist. The scope, the bluntness, the power. He makes every man I’ve ever stood next to pale into insignificance. He still hasn’t let go of my arm. I daren’t look at him, so I stare at his chest instead, fighting an overwhelming urge to rest my forehead against it.
“You shouldn’t be here, Books.”
A strong finger curls under my chin and tips my head back to meet his gaze. His eyes are firing cold, dark bullets into mine.
“Story of my life,” I mutter. Somehow, I know that if I glance downward I’ll see the outline of his erection pushing against the fabric of his jeans. The same way my nipples are pushing against the thin cotton of my top.
Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod.
He inclines his head and for one breathtaking moment I swear he’s going to kiss me, and then he’s jerking his hand away like my skin is contaminated, as though I’m the Chernobyl of temptation.
Taking a step back, he curses under his breath. “Good night, Charlie Winters,” he says firmly. And then he’s walking away, leaving me empty and confused all over again.
Chapter Eight
“Cameras rolling,” shouts the camera operator as his clapper loader jumps out from behind him to snap his boards. “Scene thirteen A. Take one!”
“Aa-nd action!” yells Max.
I’m sitting inside a canvas camera monitor tent five days later, with my new boss poised next to me in his monogrammed black canvas director’s chair. In between takes he’ll spring forth like a restless tiger and prowl about the set giving tips and last-minute motivationals to his actors. Jake disappeared hours ago to take some long-distance phone call, and I’m enjoying a break from his endless sniping to watch the organized chaos here instead. He’s flat-out refusing to discuss what happened in his office the other night, but his mood has taken a colossal nosedive ever since.
“And cut!”
Straightaway the set is invaded by a horde of slender, pink-faced makeup ladies.
“Let’s go again, people,” shouts Max a minute later. He’s very much the authoritarian today, a total contrast to that first day. It suits him, and I contemplate his reasons for becoming a director in the first place. It must be the only time he can snatch a bit of control back from his brother.
His first assistant director is requesting final checks. I watch as the standby art directors make their last minute tweaks, and the costume and makeup teams apply their final expert touches. Stray lashes are lightly brushed away, hanging threads snipped, and a little more green foundation applied to tone down flushed, sunburned cheeks. It’s fascinating to watch the interplay between the different departments. It’s like an intricate ballet where everybody knows
their part to perfection.
Satisfied, Max saunters back into the tent and collapses into his director’s chair. “Nice tits,” he murmurs as he passes.
“You really are a misogynist pig, Max,” I say, quirking my eyebrows at him.
“Sounds like an eighties pop group. When are you going to have a drink with me?”
“I don’t date my boss. Haven’t you got some Victoria’s Secret model on speed dial to take care of that?”
“They’re not a patch on you, Winters.”
This is a pattern that’s emerged between us over the last few days. Max will flirt outrageously with me, but only on the proviso that I knock him back with increasingly clever remarks. It’s clear that neither of us wants to hook up, and that’s what I keep telling Rachel, who is watching our latest exchange like a hawk.
“What do you think of my set?” he asks, picking up his headphones. “You learning the ropes okay?”
“No regrets so far. I can’t believe I’m getting paid for this.”
“Not much, if my brother’s got anything to do with it.”
As if on cue, Jake stalks into the tent looking like a desert rock god in black jeans, a tight white T-shirt, and his signature pair of classic Ray Bans embracing those devastating cheekbones. I’m quickly learning that perfection is a surprisingly ugly word. It encompasses all manner of assholes.
He whips off his sunglasses and glares at Max. “Stop fingering your assistant and get a move on. I’m not paying crew overtime this early into a shoot.”
Max starts laughing, good-natured as always. “Your woeful understanding of foreplay never fails to amuse me, Jake. Are your lovers perpetually disappointed? Would you like me to demonstrate? I’m sure Charlie would oblige…”
“Oh, I’m sure she would,” he says, shooting me a hard look.
“Anyway, she’s my assistant. I can do whatever the heck I like with her. We’re two consenting adults, aren’t we?” Grinning at me, Max turns back to his monitor as Jake yanks me sideways and out of the tent.
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