“Let me finish up,” he says, snatching the gaffer tape away from me. “Max won’t have any of his lights left at this rate. Go and get yourself dressed, both of you. The party starts in less than an hour.”
“Are you sure?”
He shoots me his once-in-a-blue-moon devastating half smile and I melt on the spot. “Boss’s orders,” he says more for Rachel’s benefit, before lowering his voice just for me. “Don’t spend all night over it, though. I’m only going to get you naked again later.”
Tearing out of the courtyard, we head straight for Rachel’s room to get ready. It’s the obvious choice. Her makeup game is so much stronger than mine. Before long, there are clothes strewn all over the bed, half-drunk glasses of wine on every surface, and an ever-present waft of hairspray.
“Can I borrow one of your lipsticks?” I shout out to her through the bathroom door.
“Sure, help yourself.”
Seconds later, a rainbow mishmash of lip paraphernalia is tumbling into the sink. I pop the plastic lid off one and set to work, scouring my face for imperfections as I do. Thankfully, the spot on my chin that has been threatening eruption all day has vanished. A bit like my willpower every time Jake unbuckles his belt.
There’s a sharp rap on the door. “Are you nearly done? I wouldn’t mind a drink before the gaffers start raiding the free bar…” Rachel’s words trail off as I emerge from the bathroom. “Whoa. Charlie, you look a-mazing.”
I’m wearing one of Lucy’s dresses. I swiped it from her closet the day I left London, and like most of her clothes, it screams sex—a short, black bodycon that flaunts every curve and makes my legs look super skinny. My hair is hanging in a dark waterfall over my slim shoulders, and, on Rachel’s instructions, I’ve coated each eyelid in black eyeliner and applied at least five layers of mascara.
She can’t stop gazing at me in wonder. “You look incredible! Like Jennifer Connolly and Liv Tyler’s lesbian lovechild. I’d hit on you myself if I was into chicks.”
“You look pretty hot, yourself,” I say, admiring her maxi flora number.
She grins at me in delight. “Good, because this single is ready to mingle. Max clearly isn’t interested, so I might as well have a crack at our lead actor. It’s rumored he swings both ways these days.”
Just then her phone starts chiming.
“That’s weird.” She checks the message and frowns. “Cassie left for the airport as soon as we wrapped, but she’s refusing to board her flight until she speaks to Jake.”
“Well isn’t he the lucky one?” I scoff, downing the dregs of my Sauvignon. My dislike for the actress has continued to stagnate these past few months like an algae-infested swamp.
“I’m not sure Jake’s going to see it that way,” Rachel says, quickly hitting his speed dial number. “She’s threatening to go to the press with a story about him. She’s on her way back to the hotel right now.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Thirty minutes later, I’m polishing off my third mojito. I’ve never drunk so fast in my life, but it’s not having the desired effect. Not even close. The toxic unease that’s been poisoning the pit of my stomach ever since Rachel received that text is growing and growing.
What story does Cassie want to feed to the press?
Has she found out about Jake and me?
I’m standing at the bar next to Max, who is oblivious of my panic and is busy admiring Lucy’s dress from every conceivable angle.
“Are you sure you’re into monogamy, Charlie? Because that dress is seriously complicating matters for me.”
I clench my fingers around my fourth mojito and take a swig. “Jake thinks I should keep making movies.”
“Is that a euphemism? Have I not given my brother enough credit for his sexual ingenuity?”
“Shush. I’m being serious. Where is he, anyway?”
Has Cassie arrived back at the hotel already?
“Held up on a conference call with the board. The Global Studios prison bars are beckoning.”
“Does he hate it that much?”
Max shrugs. “It’s not just a case of walking away from the place. It’s more about who’ll inherit it if he does.” He finishes his drink and checks his phone. “Gotta go. No point laboring under false pretenses. You’re never going to put out for me, so I’m off to find someone who will.”
“Hey!”
“Kidding!” He laughs and holds up his cell. “Jake just messaged. He’s on his way down, so I’m making myself scarce before he goes all Sly Stallone on my ass again.”
I’m desperate to find out if he’s spoken to Cassie yet, so I exit the bar with every intention of intercepting him. As I do, I find myself stepping into a battlefield of heat and perspiration. The hotel courtyard has been swallowed up by a fresh wave of arrivals, and every square inch is crammed with heels and handbags. Doubling back, I find myself threaded into a conversation with a couple of floor runners, but it’s not long before my skin starts tingling in that oh so familiar way.
Jake.
Looking around, I feel my head slipping underwater. He’s wearing those Levi’s, the ones I love so much, and the same black shirt from our night in Marrakech. I know he’s chosen it deliberately. It’s his way of keeping a part of me close to him in such a public arena.
I watch him scan the crowds with a slight frown on his face. I know he’s looking for me. When we lock eyes, I watch his gaze rake downward. He likes what he sees. It’s there in the way he makes a beeline straight for me, never deviating, no matter how many offers of free beers are thrust his way by the circling waiters. And then he’s here, drinking in me instead. “That dress is obscene,” he murmurs by way of a greeting.
Is his voice thick with disapproval or desire? Both have the ability to soak my panties. “I thought you liked me naked, or nearabouts?” I say innocently.
He opens his mouth to deliver his verdict when there’s a shout of recognition, and a blur of faces start elbowing me out of the way. Everybody wants to buy him a drink and say good-bye. Everybody except me. All I want from Jake Dalton are multiple orgasms and his assurance that his ex isn’t about to break my world in two.
Right before he disappears into the bar, he leans over and whispers into my ear, “I love your dress, Books. It deserves its own twenty-eight-line soliloquy. But I’ll like it even better when I flip it up, bend you over, and fuck your ass into tomorrow.”
Holy. Shit.
My equilibrium goes nuts, and sends me staggering backward into a surprised but delighted Max. He catches me with a grin. “Am I sweeping you off your feet again, Charlie?”
“You Daltons should be illegal,” I gasp, swatting him away.
“I think I am in four countries already.”
“Charlie, there you are!” Rachel comes rushing up to me looking gorgeous with her blue eyes sparkling and her immaculate blond bob framing her face like liquid gold. She stops abruptly when she sees Max. “Oh. Hi.”
“Gotta go,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “Phone call. Can’t wait.”
She shakes her head as he sidles away. “Phantom phone call, more like. He can’t even be bothered to talk to me anymore. God, those cameramen should be banned from wrap parties. I’m fed up with having my ass pinched. Surely, this level of sexual harassment qualifies for a superhero rescue?”
“Absolutely,” I say, laughing at the look of outrage on her face. “Jake can make a movie about it.”
That’s when it hits me. I’m going to miss Rachel. I’m going to miss everyone here, even the lechy camera department.
“You’re staring very intently at your cocktail,” she says, elbowing me gently. It’s as if she can sense my sudden melancholy “What’s it telling you? Are lemon pips a good omen or a bad?”
“Oh, definitely good,” I say, forcing a smile back to my lips.
“Except when
they get stuck in your teeth. What else has mystic mojito got to say for herself, then?”
“Something about a tall, dark, and handsome producer, I can imagine,” drawls a voice, and Jake reappears next to me clutching two beers. “Do you mind if I borrow Charlie for a moment?”
“Not at all,” says Rachel, grinning at me. “I need a refill, anyway.”
“Here, have mine,” he says, handing her the beers.
Ensnaring me with the ghost of a wink, he takes my arm and leads me away to the other side of the courtyard.
“You’re very arrogant,” I say pointedly.
“And you’re exquisite,” he murmurs.
Oh, my. That tension is ricocheting between us again.
“Cassie’s on the warpath,” I tell him. “She’s looking for you, apparently.”
“She can look all she wants, but she’ll never find me.”
Have I? “Rachel says she has a story that she wants to leak to the press.”
“How thoughtful of her.” He doesn’t look quite so genial anymore. “Doing her bit for the movie’s PR, is she?”
“Could it be about us?”
He shakes his head. “I doubt it. Cassie has bigger fish to fry, or rather pan griddle with a slice of lemon. She doesn’t do empty calories, remember?”
I start grinning, despite myself. Jake doesn’t seem bothered by Cassie’s revelations. Perhaps I should do the same.
“I like it when you smile,” he muses suddenly. “It’s like you’ve run out of smart words to hide behind, and all that’s left is you.”
The ground falls away beneath my feet.
“And that dress is far too sexy for this wrap party,” he adds, trailing his gaze downward again. “The things I could do to you in it.”
“So you keep saying,” I mutter, yanking myself together. “By all means, go ahead. But I’m keeping my heels on.”
His eyes narrow to dark, enticing slits. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Okay, let’s liven this party up, shall we? Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you tonight. Tell me exactly what you’d like.”
“Now?” I’m shocked. It’s tricky enough to inhale clean air in this courtyard, let alone exhale my filthiest fantasies.
“Yes, now,” he says, savoring my discomfort like it’s a 2009 Chateau Latour.
“Fine. I’ll play your sordid little game.” I knock back the rest of my drink in one hit and glance about. Our closest neighbors are a couple of set designers necking like it’s going out of style.
“Well?” He’s tugging at my inhibitions like they’re my lingerie.
“I’m imagining us both naked,” I blurt out.
Jake tuts and shakes his head in disappointment. It’s a tepid attempt at talking dirty and we both know it. “Come on, you can do better than that. What would really make you wet?” He’s almost feral in his lust for me now.
You do. Repeatedly.
“Bend me over your bed like you promised.”
“Hmm tempting.”
“Fuck me anywhere you choose, any which way.”
“Yes,” he breathes, inching closer.
Holy shit. Holy hell. I think I’m going to combust.
“Heels on or off?” I croak.
“On. Always on. Just like you stipulated. I bet you didn’t get that idea from one of your books.”
“I’m starting to think there might be life after literature, after all.”
“Do you, now?” That wicked gleam is mesmerizing, reflecting like hazard signs off the glow of Max’s fairy lights.
“Go back to the part where you say how hard you’re going to fuck me.”
“I’ll only be satisfied when you lose control, Charlie, screaming my name and fisting the sheets as you come.”
It’s my turn to take an involuntarily step closer.
“Careful.” The tone of his voice is a warning. “There’s a reporter standing ten meters away. If we continue like this, I’m going to take you right here, right now. To hell with public decency.”
For a split second, I contemplate smashing my caveat. It would be worth it to feel his hands on my body, satisfying my craving, putting all of my deepest, darkest fantasies into practice. Then the icy fingertips of my past send a ripple of fear up and down my spine. I can never let that happen.
He must never know.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It’s nearly midnight and I’ve lost Jake again. He disappeared upstairs to make another call, so I’ve been sitting by the edge of the pool, my feet dangling in the water, chatting with the makeup department instead. I know their gossip is about to turn scandalous because they’ve closed ranks to anyone not within our select semicircle of sun loungers.
Zoe Evans, Jake’s chief makeup artist, is dominating the conversation, as usual.
“This shoot’s been an absolute blast,” she declares loudly in her cut-glass English accent, while rummaging around in her Gucci holdall. “Where the fuck has my lipstick gone?”
“Yes, but only after Jake stopped being such a monster to everyone,” chips in one of her pink-haired minions. “Here, have mine.”
“Rachel says he’s had a lot on his mind.” I swish my feet to and fro, chopping shapes and relishing the sensation.
The water feels like liquid ice against my burning, frustrated skin. Jake has exactly five minutes, and then I’m dragging him away from his call. I don’t care if it loses him squillions.
“Oh, everyone knows about that,” says Zoe patronizingly, leaning over the side of the pool to use her reflection as a mirror. “He wants to push some new studio wing through, but Wilson’s not having any of it. He’s still contesting Robert’s will.”
“Is this about the new art house division?”
She nods, handing the lipstick back to her colleague. “Sounds like World War Three just blew up over Hollywood. We’ve all heard Jake shouting down the phone about it. He held up shooting for two hours the other day because of some make-or-break meeting.”
“But Jake’s the studio head. Shouldn’t he be dictating this stuff?” I hate gossiping about him but I’m desperate for insights.
“Not that simple.” Zoe sits down next to me and plunges her ruby-red-tipped toes into the water. “God, that’s bliss. Wilson’s run Global for the Daltons for years. He’s not surrendering control without a fight. That’s a gorgeous dress, by the way,” she says, fingering the material.
“Thanks. It’s my friend’s. She stole it backstage from London Fashion Week.”
Was that what our trip to L.A. was all about?
“Walt’s just promoted his son to some top production position without even consulting Jake. Can you imagine? No wonder he’s spitting blood.”
“You mean Brad Wilson?” I ask in surprise.
“The blond Viking himself.” She sighs dramatically. “He can conquer me any day of the week. Have you met him yet? He’s lush.”
I nod. “Briefly, last month.”
“Not surprising he looks like that though, is it? Godlike genes totally dominate that family.”
I bend down to remove a stray white jasmine petal from the water. “Is Walt Wilson attractive, then?”
“Not Walt, silly. I meant Jake and Max.”
I’m confused. “What did you say?”
Zoe frowns at me. “Oh, you didn’t click? Brad’s their half-brother.”
“But that’s—” I’m gobsmacked. “Are you sure?”
“It’s no big secret, Charlie. I’m off to the bar. Do you want a top up?” She makes to stand up.
“But that would mean Jake’s mother—”
“Married Walt Wilson,” she finishes, rooting around in her purse again for her cigarettes. “They had Brad soon after they were married. Bit of a shotgun thing, I gather. I can’t believe you don’t know this.” Zoe eyes m
e suspiciously. “You’re the one who works in an office all day with him.”
“I’m not his assistant. Rachel is,” I say automatically.
“Yes, well, you won’t be anything of his or Max’s for much longer.” She looks down her long nose at me. “You’re freelance, aren’t you? You’re contracted for this movie only. That means they won’t be taking you back to L.A. with them.”
Those words… They’re like darts dipped in venom.
I watch Zoe disappear into the bar, and then I’m jumping up from the edge of the pool and heading indoors to find Jake. I can see Rachel over by the patio heaters flirting with one of the art directors. Max is hovering nearby. With every fresh peel of her laughter, he glances over in Rachel’s direction and scowls.
As I draw closer, I catch snatches of their conversation.
“How long do you think our lead actor’s been locked in the closet?”
“Oh, honey, it was obvious from day one. No one gets that many supermodels on his arm without some kind of incentive.”
“Hollywood’s streets are paved with sexual contradiction. Is it just me, or is this industry close to running out of sexy heteros?”
Forthcoming sexy heteros, I muse, running through that roulette wheel of emotions again—the one that Jake has such a deft hand in spinning. I hate how he’s so reluctant to open up to me. Even though I realize I’m the biggest hypocrite in the world by thinking that.
I smack my hand against the call button, but the descending lift is too slow. I take the outside staircase up to Jake’s suite instead—the one that climbs around the side of our hotel like twisted iron ivy.
I raise my fist to bang down his door, and that’s when I hear Cassie’s voice.
In there.
With him.
“Charlie’s only been working for you for a matter of weeks, Jake. It’s such a cliché, carrying on with your assistant.”
“She’s not my fucking assistant, Cassie, she’s Max’s. Or rather, she was—on both accounts. I fly back to L.A. tomorrow. She flies back to London. We’re done. Finished, ka-fucking-put. Happy now?”
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