The Talented Mr. Maxwell

by Julia Harlow

  Grant growled a three-syllable “Fuuuuck!”

  “I know. Arianna sent me an ugly email with an attachment I had to sign saying I wouldn’t engage in any inappropriate conduct with you.”

  “You’re not serious, are you?” Grant opened the door to his balcony and stepped outside into the balmy night.

  “I need this job, Grant. The chance to do your biography is huge for me. I can’t walk away, no matter how much I might want to.”

  “Dorrie, please, let’s talk about this. If you don’t want to risk coming to my room, I’ll come to yours.”

  Dead silence. “Dorrie?”

  “I can’t take the chance. Luke could be hiding out somewhere nearby.”

  “Bloody hell! I’m going to put a hit out on that asshole. Or at least, have someone on the front desk alert me when he comes into the hotel.” Grant’s low voice was ominous.

  He heard Dorrie open a door and then heard footsteps on tile as she stepped out onto the balcony. Peering down two floors, he spied her leaning over the balcony, phone pressed to her ear. “Hi,” he said. Her head spun around, not sure where he was.

  “Over here.” She turned and he could almost make out her slow, seductive grin. Lifting her hand, she gave him a little wave.

  “Hi yourself,” she purred.

  “Think I could maneuver myself over these balconies Jason Bourne-style?”

  “Absolutely not! Are you crazy? Don’t you know there are sharp, craggy rocks below us?”

  “Crazy about you.” He watched her sink into one of the cushioned balcony chairs, angling it around so she could see him.

  “I’m pretty crazy about you, too.” He barely recognized that husky voice as hers. Their eyes locked across the expanse of several floors.

  “So, what are we going to do about it?” The sound of his voice was even huskier than hers. Dorrie leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.

  “Grant, stop. Please.” Her words came out as a combination whine and plea. “Let’s just get your interview finished so I can start writing your biography. Then the moratorium will be lifted and we can be together. If that’s what you still want.”

  “And how fucking long will all that take?”

  “Depends on how cooperative you are. So far we’ve spent more time in bed than making progress on your biography.”

  He propped his foot on the bottom of the railing. “And the problem is? You know this is bloody bullshit, Dorrie.”

  “I know. But it has to be this way for now. What’s your schedule for tomorrow? Can we meet sometime to work?”

  “We could have worked this afternoon, but let’s see, oh, yes, you ran off with that shit Parker.” He spat the words through gritted teeth.

  He watched her disappear back into the room and close the door. “I’m hanging up now. Goodnight, Grant.”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up. Dorrie? Are you still there?” All he heard was silence on the end of the line. “Dorrie?”

  “I’m still here. What?”

  “Christ. I’m sorry. It’s just so bloody frustrating.” He took take a deep breath and released it. “Okay. We’re doing the shoot at the beach tomorrow afternoon. Why don’t we meet by the pool? Is eight too early for you?”

  “No. Eight’s perfect. I’ll see you there.”

  ~*~

  The red light on the hotel phone was blinking when Dorrie woke at seven the next morning. Gentle sunlight trickled in through the balcony door. The message was from Grant.

  “Wear the bikini, sweet thing.”

  What? That itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny bikini? Dorrie recalled the svelte models traipsing around the hotel and knew she’d look like a big lump. She called room service for coffee and hopped into the shower, carefully shaving her legs and underarms and all those tender areas sure to be exposed by the bikini.

  The bottom half of the bathing suit consisted of two tiny pieces of fabric secured by ties at each hip. It was cut high on the leg making her legs seem longer. The top was ingeniously designed to provide support and structure while appearing to be unstructured. She slipped on leather sandals and stood ready to reach for the door handle. Feelings of insecurity overwhelmed her, and she wanted to wrap herself in a terry cloth robe. Her thighs were too full, her hips too round, her stomach nowhere near flat, and her boobs ridiculously huge. Her skin was as white as a lily, especially next to the chartreuse bikini.

  Suddenly, she remembered the sarong Grant had purchased. It had totally slipped her mind. She slid it from the dresser drawer and wrapped it diagonally across her hips. The effect calmed her. It covered her hips and upper thighs while dissecting her tummy. She slathered on sunscreen, pulled one side of her long hair back with a gold-toned barrette, grabbed her tote, and made her way to the elevator. As she headed out to the pool, her kitten heels clicking on the ceramic tiles, she breathed in the distinctive scent of the lobby, like afternoon sunshine in the lemon groves with a hint of something tantalizingly sweet.

  Early morning was glorious on the Amalfi Coast. Dorrie stood on the enormous terrace by the pool, unable to move, while she let the natural beauty seep into her consciousness so that she could summon this precious memory whenever she wanted to in the future. Purple flowers drizzled down the exterior of the hotel, forming a lush backdrop. One side of the pool was bordered by the rugged rocky coast, while the front view was the endless deep sapphire sea.

  Whoever designed the pool terrace knew the only things needed were lounge chairs and sun umbrellas. Anything more would detract from the genuine old world elegance of the setting.

  The sun was still low in the cloudless sky, hinting at the perfect day to come. Because she was the only one at the pool, she guessed it was too early for the other guests. A slight breeze ruffled the edge of her sarong and caused goose bumps on her arms. It was around sixty degrees, and Dorrie wondered if she should have brought something to wrap around her shoulders.

  That was when she saw him, white shirt open revealing that lickable chest and midnight blue swim trunks that hung low on his hips. Whew! One look at that incredible body and she knew she wouldn’t need anything to keep her warm, not while sharing space with Grant Maxwell.

  ~*~

  Grant stopped short at the sight of her, as if an invisible barrier had suddenly been erected in front of him. His first impulse was to find a blanket to cover her up. He didn’t want any eyes lingering on her other than his. Instead, he couldn’t help drinking in the sight of her. He couldn’t have selected a more perfect bathing suit for her; the cut showed off the soft curve of her hips and the generous swell of her breasts while the shade of green set off her opalescent skin and silky hair.

  Compared with the female hard bodies of the modeling business, Dorrie was a vision from heaven. And the fact that she didn’t have a clue about it made her all the more desirable. He was already hard as his eyes continued to flicker over every inch of lusciousness, finally settling on her . . . worried eyes?

  In mere seconds, Grant was at her side. “Everything all right?” His voice was low as he caressed the silky skin of her shoulders and searched her eyes.

  Dorrie crossed her arms over her chest and stared down at the tiles. “Everything’s fine. I just feel a little self-conscious. This pretty ensemble you purchased doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Should I change?”

  Grant wanted her to change but only so no one else could gawp at her. “You look exquisite, Dorrie. I’m just not sure how much work we’ll get done with you looking like that.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You told me to wear this!” She found a chaise lounge to settle in and took the laptop out of her tote just as a waiter decked out in a white shirt, black trousers, and bow tie and carrying a silver salver approached them.

  “Buongiorno. May I bring you a sampling of our breakfast offerings?”

  Grant turned to Dorrie after stretching out in the chaise next to her. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Just coffee. But I’m not in the mood for much right now.”<
br />
  Grant squinted up at the waiter. “Bring us two cornettos with jam and two cappuccinos.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Maxwell.” He nodded and hurried back inside.

  “Cornettos?”

  “They’re the Italian version of croissants. I thought you’d enjoy sampling something distinctively Italian.”

  “I most definitely would. Thank you.” She propped the laptop on her knees and opened the correct document. Except for talking a little about being born in Scotland and his upbringing outside of London, Grant had proved to be almost as closed up as a clamshell when it came to talking about himself, so she’d decided to try a different tack to ease him into the process. “This morning we’re going to start with your opinions on different aspects of the modeling world from the male perspective. Okay?”

  “Sure. Ask away.”

  Dorrie slipped off her sandals and returned her pretty, bare feet to the chaise. “What was it like when you first started modeling, in terms of how you were treated?”

  Grant frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me preface my answer; much of this happens to female as well as male models.

  “The first thing I noticed when I started working as a model was that I was judged on my looks in an overt and unforgiving manner and that I was treated as a product.

  “The demand to be ‘picture-perfect’ was overwhelming. But by far the most troubling was, and is, the stereotype that male models are brainless mannequins. If I were to offer a suggestion for ways to improve a shoot, for instance, I was looked upon as a precocious child. ‘Wasn’t it cute this mimbo was giving his little opinion?’

  “Male modeling and male fashion is still fashion’s least of the high-profile industries. Compared to female models and fashions.”

  “How do your earnings compare with those of a top female model?”

  He bent one knee and slid on his sunglasses as the sun inched higher. “Not good. Male models only make a fraction of the annual salary of female models. Usually less than one-tenth.” Grant leaned his head back on the chaise’s orange cushion. “That’s just the way it is.”

  The waiter set their cornettos and cappuccinos on the table in between them. Grant signed for the charge and added a significant tip. The waiter beamed. “Grazie.”

  Grant knew the aroma coming from the cappuccinos was too delectable for Dorrie to keep working. She slid her legs over the side of the chaise, and he watched her savor the smell before taking a sip. He noticed the way her breasts moved in the slinky fabric of the bikini top and the way the muscles in her abdomen contracted when she sat up. He was spellbound.

  “Drink your cappuccino, Grant.”

  He chuckled and shook his head slowly, clinking his cup with hers. “Here’s to the speedy completion of this biography. If you know what I mean.” He winked at her.

  “Very subtle. I’ve got to try one of these yummy-looking cornettos.” She pulled apart the crispy outside, revealing gooey jam on the inside. When she slipped the end of one half in her mouth, Grant groaned. She ignored him, closing her eyes as he imagined the flavors hitting her taste buds. “Oh, God. They’re wonderful.”

  She was poised to take another bite when two blond, svelte models appeared at the pool. When they spied Grant, they both immediately started to preen like peacocks, fluffing their hair, pushing their breasts up in their skimpy bikini tops, and wiping the corners of their plump mouths. Neither model’s perfectly proportioned body had an ounce of fat on it. Dorrie set down the rest of the cornetto.

  The two models sashayed over to them and stopped at the foot of Grant’s chaise. They posed, each with one foot angled in front of the other, gazing down at him. In a sultry voice, one of them said, “Hello, Grant. How are you this morning?” Her accent was foreign, but Grant wasn’t sure what country she was from.

  He dragged his eyes from Dorrie’s mouth. “Fine. This is Dorrie Applegate. She’s a top journalist with Omni Publishing in New York. Dorrie, Katrina and Yvette are here for the shoot.”

  Dorrie smiled up at them and said, “Nice to meet you.”

  Grant couldn’t help the chilly tone of his voice, and he barely glanced at them. The silence that dragged on was awkward.

  Finally, he broke it. “We need to get back to work. Enjoy this fantastic morning.” Just like that, they’d been dismissed.

  Their shoulders may have slumped as they slunk away. Grant couldn’t be sure.

  “That was a little harsh,” Dorrie whispered.

  “Maybe. But I’ve learned from experience that they don’t pick up on subtle cues. And you said you wanted to work.” He took a sip of cappuccino, set his cup down, and ate half a cornetto in one bite.

  “Okay. Speaking of rejection, how did you deal with it?”

  He finished chewing and swallowed. “Not well at first. But I quickly found that I needed to develop a thick skin. Rejection and criticism are inevitable in this business, so I tried to distance my emotions and focus on learning anything I could from it. And then move on to the next casting.”

  “Casting?”

  “A ‘casting’ is an open model audition; whereas a ‘go-see’ is an appointment to see a client.”

  Dorrie finished her cornetto and drank the last of her cappuccino.

  “Do male models have the same issues with weight? More to the point, do they have eating disorders?”

  “That’s not something I’ve had to deal with personally, but, yes, eating disorders are pretty common among male models.”

  Dorrie stopped typing and fiddled with the fabric of her sarong. “The thought of you starving yourself, or even going hungry, is really upsetting to me.”

  “There’s only one thing I’m hungry for right now.” His deep voice sounded hoarse as his eyes meandered over her body.

  She gazed over at him. “I know. Me, too. But we can’t, so let’s move on.” She sat up, straightened her shoulders, and stared at the laptop. “How do you manage to stay so trim?”

  “Early on, I figured out an exercise routine that worked for me. If I exercised regularly, it kept my metabolism up so that I could eat what I wanted, and I’ve stuck with that. I don’t deny myself, Dorrie. You’ve eaten with me, so you’ve seen that I drink alcohol and enjoy food.

  “It’s about portion control, staying away from processed foods, and being diligent about sugar intake. If I have, say, a cornetto, I’ll work out longer. There’s a formula in my head that I follow. And discipline is key. Maybe I won’t feel like going to the gym, but I do. Then when I’m finished with the workout, I feel fantastic.”

  “Do you work out every day?”

  “Yes, sometimes more than once a day. My body is my career. And I don’t look like this by being a couch potato or by overindulging. Before an underwear or bathing suit shoot, I cut out drink and carbohydrates for about a month. Other than that, I enjoy everything in moderation.”

  “On a lighter note, how do you deal with stimulation on a shoot?”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “You know—models rubbing their bodies all over you. That sort of thing. It’s not easy for a guy to conceal.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, it’s hard.” He chuckled at his own pun, and Dorrie couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

  “Seriously, Grant, how do you deal with it?”

  “I think about something else. Sometimes I focus on a particular car I’d like to own or some aspect of the house I’m remodeling. Anything to take my mind off the stimulation.” He grinned at her. “Speaking of stimulation . . .”

  Chapter 9

  Carly Thomas grabbed a pen and notepad from her pristine white desk and jotted down the date and time from the newspaper article. Her heart started to pound as she realized this was it. She’d found him, the man who was going to make all her dreams come true. She picked up the magazine next to the newspaper and studied his image. He was gorgeous all right. No doubt about that. But it wasn’t his appearance that had caught her attention as she waited for a call fr
om a potential buyer in her office. No, it was the number on the computer screen that had her heart pounding and her breath quickening.

  Carly Thomas was the type of woman that every guy wanted but had no chance of having. With a mere flick of her long strawberry-blond waves, she dismissed even the most handsome of men. It wasn’t her wide-set green eyes or her long, shapely legs, or even her round, pert breasts; although those attributes were eye-catching. No, it was something in her unflappable demeanor, in her undeniable confidence, almost as if she were an untouchable celebrity.

  But she wasn’t. She sold yachts to the uber-wealthy of Palm Beach, Florida. She prided herself on being able to notice a man’s watch and instantly calculate how much he could afford to spend. She was the youngest and most successful broker at Worth Avenue Yachts. She drove the newest Porsche 911 Carrera and lived in a prestigious gated, oceanfront community. But as she neared her twenty-sixth birthday, she knew it was time for the next move in her life. Gisele had sacked Tom Brady, and Bradley Cooper and Ryan Gosling were out of the running, so she had to set her sights at the top of another arena.

  It wasn’t going to be easy. But then nothing she’d managed to accomplish in her life had been easy. She leaned back in the white leather and shiny chrome chair and thought back to those dark, ugly days of her young life in Kentucky.

  Her father had been a race-car driver, somewhat successful in the minor circuit. Tad Applegate was tall and handsome, and he’d pampered Carly Ann whenever he was home and whenever he wasn’t drunk, which wasn’t too often. He’d called her his beautiful little munchkin, and when he kissed her forehead or her cheek or the top of her head, she melted into him, sinking all her love and adoration into this one man. They’d lived in a nice apartment—at least it was nice as far as she knew—and he liked it to be clean and well maintained for his daughter. He’d taken her shopping for her sixth birthday and let her pick out a bedspread and curtains for her room in her favorite colors: lavender and white.