“You look amazing,” he says, kissing me chastely on the cheek. I stiffen as his lips graze my skin. I’m dining with the enemy. I want to turn and run, but my legs won’t allow it. Fortunately, Brad doesn’t seem to notice. He takes my arm and leads me over to our table, which is easily the best in the house.
“Tell me about your movie,” I blurt out as our waiter fusses with the wine cork. Brad’s already ordered something red and expensive.
“Murder mystery,” he says, tasting the wine and nodding approvingly.
“Can I presume Cassie gets decapitated and thrown in the River Thames in the first scene? Or have you built enough contingency into your budget for a record number of takes?”
Brad grins. “You really don’t like her, huh?”
“What’s there to like?” I take a large gulp of my wine.
“You know, she’s okay once you get to know her.”
“Do you want her back?” I start fiddling with my bread knife next. I can’t believe that the blight of my love life is a famous American actress with fake tits and the likeability factor of Osama bin Laden.
“Fuck, no!” Brad laughs. “She drives me up the wall. God knows how Jake put up with it for years.”
God knows, indeed.
“That’s the big difference between you and him, right there.” I drop the bread knife and take another gulp of wine. “If I’d asked him the same question, he would have changed the subject.”
“That’s not the only difference, I hope.”
“Well, we’re not fighting with each other…yet. That seemed to be the modus operandi in Morocco.” I grimace. “Do you think I’m insecure?”
Brad picks up the menu. “Not in the slightest. You’re one of the ballsiest women I know. I think Jake made you insecure.”
I sit back to contemplate that, but end up asking, “Who’s Sienna?”
Brad pauses a millisecond too long. “No idea,” he says, his eyes flicking back to his menu. “Are you ready to order?”
“Not yet. Tell me about your mother.”
He frowns and slaps the menu down on the table. “The smoked salmon mousse here is awesome. You should try it.”
“Nice change of subject there.” I shoot him a quick grin. “Turns out, you’re more like your brother than you think.”
Indigo switches to cold, hard steel and I feel the first wave of uneasiness.
“Sorry, bad choice of words,” I mutter.
“Don’t be.” Brad picks up the menu again, his expression thawing slightly.
The waiter arrives to take our order and is promptly sent packing.
“Jake told me a bit about her in Morocco. I know she left his father to be with yours.”
Brad seems bothered by this for some reason. “So, he did share something with you.”
“I caught him off guard. It was a moment of weakness.”
Don’t think about Marrakech. Don’t think about Marrakech.
“Jake…weak?” Brad’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s a lot of things, Charlie, most of them unpleasant, but I’d never accuse him of that.” He starts to toy with his wineglass, his finger and thumb running grooves up and down the elegant stem. “Jake sided with his father after his parents divorced. He made my life hell.” Brad grits his jaw and I watch the muscles tense beneath his golden skin.
I can’t imagine Jake being vindictive. It’s not his style. He’s more a cold shoulder, leave-you-out-in-the-freezing-wilderness kind of a guy. Then again, he stole Cassie from Brad, which fits with the whole jealous older brother thing.
I glance up to find Brad watching me. He turns and signals for the waiter straightaway.
“Check, please.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, relief washing over me. “I’m in too much of a reflective mood to do this restaurant any justice tonight.”
He nods. “I think we both just lost our appetites. Let’s go find a bar instead.”
Outside, I brace myself against the breeze that’s whipping up the streets of East London. I’m used to the desert temperatures of Morocco, and I’m shaking like a leaf in Lucy’s dress.
“I’m sorry about dinner.”
He frowns and wraps his navy mohair jacket around my shoulders. “Don’t sweat it. Talking about Jake tends to turn my stomach, too. Let’s go lose ourselves in a bottle of something really expensive.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Brad’s driver drops us off on Shaftesbury Avenue. We avoid the tourist bars, strolling arm in arm through Soho in search of something smaller and more anonymous. The pavements are crammed with the overspill of cafés and restaurants, and we take a short detour to admire the kitschy colors of Carnaby Street.
Brad is easy company once we stop talking about Jake. He’s more like the man I met in L.A. We walk and talk for miles before my blisters start to sting like hell. Kicking off my heels, I produce a pair of ballet pumps from my bag. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. I like dwarfing women. Brings out the caveman in me.”
His words rumble with flirtatious interest. They should tingle me in all the right places, but I’m empty inside. Jake’s gone and carved out all the best parts for himself.
What the hell is wrong with me? Brad’s hot. He’s single…
We’ve retraced our steps. We’re now circumnavigating the hordes that are milling about Leicester Square.
“What time are you shooting tomorrow?” I ask him, noting the late hour on the billboard outside the Empire.
“We’re not.”
Something in his voice makes me glance up. Brad’s expression has taken on that dangerous quality again. “Jake shut us down this afternoon. Says we crossed a line by going into production without his approval. He’s flying someone in for crisis talks tomorrow.”
Is Jake flying in, as well? A thousand emotions start punching my thoughts.
Scared, anxious… Hopeful.
“Wow. Closing down the whole production must be costing him a fortune.”
“As I said, Jake doesn’t give a shit about stuff like that. As long as he’s seen to be the one in control.”
Control.
Yes, he’s good at that. I remember him exercising that particular sentiment over me in the lobby of his mansion in L.A. What I wouldn’t give to feel his hands on me now, bending my body to his will, satisfying every part of me…
“You okay?” Brad’s stopped, and he’s frowning down at me again.
Somehow I force the images from my mind. “Can I ask you something? It might seem a little—”
“Weird?” He laughs, breaking the tension. “Honey, we just bailed on a reservation at one of the best restaurants in London. I left a thousand dollar bottle of Saint-Emilion half drunk on the table. This night couldn’t get any weirder.”
Shit, I’m turning into my mother. She’s the profligate one, not me.
He cocks an eyebrow and waits for a beat. “So? You gonna enlighten me?”
I hesitate. “It’s kind of personal too.”
“I reckon I can handle it.”
“Okay then, why did Jake’s father give up control of his studios to the same man who ran off with his wife?”
Brad’s reaction is as I expected. He straightens his back and his good humor vanishes. “It’s always been Pa’s company by reputation,” he says stiffly. “He’s the one who built it up.”
Didn’t Rachel imply that it was Jake’s father who had been the business genius?
I open my mouth to contradict him but he beats me to it, whirling around to face me, indigos flashing. Drawing me in like a lighthouse and dashing me on his rocks.
“You should work for me. My offer still stands, you know.”
My reply is interrupted by a mob of tourists pushing past. I lose my footing as I’m shoved backward into a dirty red telephone box.
Brad chuckles and reaches out to grab my arm. “I won’t keep you in the shadows like Jake did. If you wanna produce movies, I’ll let you. Come be my assistant first. What d’ya say?”
Pandora’s box has never been this tempting. The job is perfect. I can’t believe my luck. Even so, it’s one that is bursting with doubt and recrimination. Working for him will mean seeing Jake again, working alongside Jake again, and the thought of that makes my stomach churn. These two men hate one another. Jake will see it as the ultimate betrayal.
“What if he closes down the London shoot for good?” I’m grappling for excuses not to accept.
“Then we’ll figure out something else. To hell with Jake. Just because he screwed you in Morocco, doesn’t mean he gets to screw over your career, too.”
I wince at Brad’s words. They’re too overfamiliar. Too coarse. Another flicker of doubt crosses my mind. Jake was so insistent that I should never work with Brad…
“Don’t think so much,” he says softly, drawing me close as another group of tourists pummel past. “Do what your heart is telling you.”
I breathe in his energy and his strength, and I wish I could steal a part of it. As for my heart? It’s telling me to go where Jake is, no matter the cost.
My decision is clear.
“When do I start?” I say, smiling back at Brad.
Chapter Forty-Three
I have my answer at seven a.m. the next day. Brad calls me as I’m climbing out of the shower. “Honey, we need you. We’re back shooting on the South Bank for the next two weeks.”
“I thought production was suspended?” With wet hair streaming down my back, I nestle the phone in the crook of my neck and reach for my toothbrush.
“Jake did a surprise U-turn last night. He’s still sending someone out to oversee, but production is good to go. We’re half a day behind and it’s panic stations. Are you up for the challenge?”
“Yes!” I drop my toothbrush and start scrabbling around for my black jeans in the laundry basket. “What do you need me to do?”
“Head to Soho and meet with our director, Ryan Ramirez. He’s mega talented and famous, but tricky as hell. He insists on walking partway to location everyday and he needs someone from production to hold his hand.”
“Can’t we just buy him a GPS?”
“He needs to be mobbed by his fans, Charlie,” Brad says seriously. “It strokes his ego. He refuses to work without this routine, so fake it if you have to.”
I pause my assault on the laundry basket. I can’t tell if Brad’s joking or not.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Hang on, let me get this straight,” I say, a note of incredulity creeping into my voice. “He wants me to walk him all the way from Soho to the South Bank fighting off his rabid fans with my bare hands?” I can just imagine Jake’s reaction to such a request.
“Don’t be stupid. You only need to walk him as far as Shaftesbury, and he’ll have his own security. I’ll tell the car to meet you there.”
Brad’s tone sends another shiver up and down my spine. “Fine,” I say hastily. “Message me the details and I’ll leave straightaway.”
An hour later, I’m standing outside the front door of an exclusive, brick-fronted, members-only media club in the heart of Soho. It has a very select clientele. I know because Lucy told me so. The persistent pack of paparazzi lurking outside is further proof.
I’m buzzed into the building straightaway. Ryan Ramirez is waiting for me in a foyer that’s gushing pretention like a purple monsoon. He’s splayed out on a crushed velvet chaise longue, flanked by two bodyguards wearing identical black bomber jackets and dark sunglasses. My heart sinks when I see him. He looks like an asshole, and his first words to me confirm it. “Where the fuck have you been?” he yells, spittle flying in all directions. “The paparazzi better still be waiting for me out there.”
Photoshop—it’s the scourge of internet stalking. Ramirez doesn’t look anything like the press images I found of him on the way here. Up close, he looks more like a bad-tempered hobbit in Armani jeans.
“Brad only just called,” I explain patiently. “Are you ready to leave?”
“I’ve been ready for the last freaking hour. Get behind me and stay the hell out of shot!”
The narrow sidewalk explodes with enthusiasm as soon as we step outside. There are hundreds of bodies straining to paw at their idol, and I’m being accosted from all sides by the stench of stale sweat and excitement.
The questions come from all angles.
“Right this way, Ramirez!”
“Can you tell us about the movie you’re shooting?”
“Any messages for your fans?”
We’re facing a firing squad of outstretched iPhones and camera lenses. It’s no wonder Jake can’t stand this. Not Ramirez. He’s loving every minute. The expression on his face is near orgasmic.
His bodyguards push and fight our way to the corner of the street where the car is waiting for us. After signing one final autograph, Ramirez heaves himself into the backseat as one bodyguard follows after him and the other jumps into the front passenger seat. The doors slam shut and I’m left stranded on the pavement as the car roars off down the road, scattering the paparazzi like ten pins.
By the time I reach the South Bank I’m shaking with anger. I need to find Brad. I want fireworks. I want heads rolling. I want evil glares and sharp words between him and Ramirez before filming starts.
The production has transformed a nearby car park into a white city of Winnebagos and generators. Brad’s over by the craft services table, bawling out some pretty floor runner about his breakfast order.
“Are you stupid or just incompetent?” I hear him yelling at her. “I asked for the vegan breakfast, not this!”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilson! It won’t happen again.”
“Damn right, it won’t. Get the fuck out of here. You’re fired!”
Not fully processing the scene, I march straight up to him and start running my own mouth off. “What a jerk Ramirez is! You’re never going to believe—”
“Keep your voice down!” he snarls, switching his anger to me.
The tearful runner shoots me an incredulous look as I take a step back in shock. Brad’s whole demeanor has switched from light and playful to cold and flat. He’s morphed from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde overnight.
“And I thought I told you to get lost.” He dismisses the girl with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. With a jolt, I recognize it as the same gesture he gave the crewmember in the café yesterday.
“Brad—”
“I don’t wanna hear it, Charlie. That jerk happens to be the only thing keeping my movie going. I can’t justify the finances if Ramirez walks, and Jake’s itching to see me fall flat on my ass. If Ramirez leaves, we’re finished, so whatever he wants, he gets. Understood?”
Over his shoulder, the fired runner has collapsed sobbing into the arms of a nearby makeup designer. Holy shit. Jake was moody and difficult, but he was never cruel like this. If he fired someone, they usually deserved it.
“Quit bitching and take this to Ramirez.” He thrusts a script at me. “And Charlie? Don’t expect to ride in a director’s car, or a producer’s car, for that matter. Screwing Dalton doesn’t win you any special dispensation around here, unless you wanna open your legs for me, too?” The look he gives me makes me want to curl up into a ball of shame. “Rein in those delusions of grandeur, sweetheart, or get the fuck off my movie set.”
Chapter Forty-Four
The rest of the day is a waking nightmare, though I doubt anyone could have dreamed up such an exulted level of hideousness.
Ramirez and Brad seem to be competing with each other to see who can crush my self-confidence first. I’d already pegged Ramirez as a grade A bastard, but with Brad it’s different. It feels as though he’s punishing me for
something that has yet to be revealed. Cassie, of course, is in heaven about the whole thing. She can’t stop smirking at me.
It’s taking some serious restraint on my part not to bite back. I’d love to tell them exactly which part of the River Thames they can all take a running jump into. But it’s eyes on the prize, and I’ll take whatever shit they throw at me for that.
This is my one shot at seeing Jake. Yes, he’ll probably cast me off all over again but I’m twisted like that. Rejection has shaped my whole life. Maybe I need to have him slam that door in my face and drag the bolt across, just as my father did sixteen years ago.
“You’re useless! What the hell did Brad hire you for?” screams Ramirez when I bring him an Americano from the wrong coffee chain. Slumped next to him by the camera monitor, Brad makes no move to intervene. He just glares at me as if I’m somehow sabotaging his whole production again.
Banished from set, I seek refuge in the catering bus with a stale ham and cheese sandwich. I push it around the plate a few times but I don’t take a bite. My fears about Brad are multiplying. My pain over Jake is too. I’m so lost in my black hole of despair that I don’t notice two crewmembers entering the bus until they start chatting away in front of me.
“Brad’s giving his new assistant a rough ride,” says one, taking a noisy slurp of her coke.
“Not surprising,” laughs her friend. “The man’s idea of an employee reward scheme is a punch in the face. There’s a black heart lurking below those dreamy blues. He treats his women just as badly. Did you know he used to date Cassie?”
“They deserve each other. They’re both idiots.”
“Cassie’s not evil though, just stupid. Brad fired six people yesterday, and three today.”
I push my uneaten sandwich to the side.
“I wish Jake Dalton was producing this movie,” declares the first girl suddenly, sounding wistful. “I worked for him last year. He’s a misery guts, but he’s such a pro. He’s hot as fuck, too.”
“He’s done with producing. He’s taken over Global Studios. Such a shame. He could teach Brad a few things. This shoot’s a disaster. Cassie and Ramirez are impossible. They’re costing production a fortune.”
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