by Skye Jordan
Her squeal vibrated in the air as he locked her body against his with one arm and launched from the top step with complete and utter faith in the men handling the ropes. And just as his foot left the rail, his harness pulled, his body lifted, and the cables carried him upward.
But Keaton immediately knew the guys handling the cables had used too much strength, and he and Brooke overshot the platform.
“Dammit,” he muttered as they swung back toward the main stage. But while they dangled like a pendulum on their way to the ground, he added, “Oh, well, that just means we get to do it again. And again, and again, and again until we get it right.” He tightened the arm at her waist, pulling her ass into his groin where heat and sensation tingled through his cock. “I’m all about getting it just right.”
She sighed a little moan and slid her hand over his arm. Turning her head a little, she asked, “Are you going to get a break? I really want a secret little rendezvous with you right now.”
Her eyes were filled with excitement, her cheeks flushed, and her heartbeat pounded quick and hard against her ribs beneath his arm. The only thing that distinguished between fear and thrill was the sparkling smile cutting across her face.
“Uh-oh…” he teased, smiling at her. “I do have a little adrenaline junkie on my hands.”
“I don’t know about an adrenaline junkie, but you might have a nympho. Because, wow, that is a serious turn-on.”
That struck a funny bone, and Keaton threw his head back and laughed. Which made Brooke laugh. They were just setting their feet on the ground and catching their breath when Keaton said, “Can you get away tonight? If we go out of town, we could find a place for dinner—”
“What in the hell is going on?”
Brooke’s whole body went rigid at the sound of Jillian’s harsh voice, and she whispered a tight, “Fuck.”
The sound of her voice saturated in dread lifted the hair on the back of Keaton’s neck. Cameron was already approaching Jillian with his all-American country-boy charm to explain the delay with the stuntwoman as Russ approached Keaton and Brooke.
“Let us take the heat,” Keaton told Brooke, his voice low. Russ unhooked the cable at his back. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t act like you did.”
He started to step past her, but Brooke grabbed his arm. Tight. She didn’t look up. “Please don’t do anything to upset—”
“Nobody commandeers my assistant without asking.” Jillian was slamming Cameron with condescension and attitude. Keaton started toward her. “Brooke,” Jillian scolded, “what do you have to say—”
“Jillian.” Keaton’s tone cut her off and drew her gaze. Her anger turned sullen. “We didn’t exactly give her a choice. And we did it to keep this film on schedule for you. Having this stunt ready to go when the stuntwoman comes will help get the film back on track.”
Brooke came into his peripheral vision, and Keaton purposely kept his gaze riveted to Jillian.
“If you needed a stand-in, you should be using me. Brooke’s hardly a substitute.” Jillian rolled her shoulders back and added a little more attitude to her stance. Her gaze sent a clear you-stepped-out-of-bounds message to Brooke, and Keaton felt horrible for the stress he knew had to be boiling inside Brooke right now. “She can barely keep my schedule straight.”
“You’re not cleared for stunt work.” He said it with a bite to draw her focus off Brooke. “The insurance would never allow it. And you should be filming right now.”
“Hmph. At least the insurance company recognizes my value.” She crossed her arms. “And one of the cameras is down next door. They’re repairing it, so they gave us a break. I thought I’d come over and stay warm by watching you work. But you’ll have to find another substitute for my double.” She turned another one of those barely tolerable looks on Brooke that made Keaton fist his hands. “Brooke has more important things to do.”
“I confirmed all your appointments,” Brooke told her, voice level. “Answered all your mail, and completed the projects we talked about.”
A slow smile curved Jillian’s lips. A tight, you-little-bitch smile. “Great. Then why don’t you go clean my trailer?”
The order took Keaton aback. Apparently it did the same to Brooke.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Clean. My. Trailer,” Jillian repeated, enunciating the words as if Brooke were an idiot. “Jeannette and Percy left it a mess. And since you dressed like trailer trash today”—Jillian’s icy gaze roamed Brooke’s outfit—“it fits.”
Sonofabitch. Keaton’s temper raged beneath his skin.
But Brooke just offered a subdued, “Yes ma’am,” and walked back to the corner of the warehouse to collect her things. With her head down, she hurried to exit through a side door.
“Who the fuck have you become?” Keaton crossed his arms, set his feet, and stared Jillian down. “Is this what divorce does to you? Or is it the fame? Maybe the money? It has to be something that happened in the last few years, because you weren’t like this when I met you.”
“Like what? Strong, confident, straightforward? Oh, yes, I was. And you liked it.”
“I also like common decency and compassion and kindness, which you don’t have a trace of now. Now you’re just mean. You’re straight-up cruel. I hate this word, and I rarely use it, but, baby, you are a royal bitch.”
She laughed, as if his slight meant nothing. “I’m a bitch because I discipline my staff for goofing off on my dime?”
“She wasn’t goofing off. Didn’t you hear me tell you why we put her in that harness? Didn’t you hear her tell you she’d completed all the work you’d asked her to do? Then to send her on such a menial job to satisfy your own frustration—that’s just sadistic, Jillian.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So this is about Brooke.”
“There’s that hearing problem again. No, this is not about Brooke. This is about everyone here.” He held his arms wide and realized everyone was listening and watching. Which was just fucking fine with him. “You talk down to every employee here. You complain about everything, no matter how well something is done or how hard anyone tries to please you. You ignore anyone and everyone else’s needs and feelings. The truth is you don’t give a fuck about anyone but yourself, and you do your damnedest to make everyone around you feel as small as possible. And I am fucking sick of it.”
Rob, the assistant director, came up to them, alarm clear on his face. “What’s going on?”
Jillian looked at Rob, then at Keaton. “Keaton was just telling me how thoughtless, rude, and bitchy I am.”
Rob’s gaze turned on Keaton with a please-tell-me-she’s-kidding look.
“You’ve worked with me,” he told Rob. He wasn’t pulling punches now. “And you know I won’t put up with this diva shit.”
“You don’t have to work with her,” Rob said, then turned to Jillian. “You should be in the other warehouse, filming.”
“They’re fixing a broken camera.” She turned her attitude on Rob. “As the director, you should know that.”
Keaton pointed at her but spoke to Rob. “Attitudes like that kill morale. And you know as well as anyone that bad morale translates into the film.” He held his hands up in surrender. “Not my problem. I’m out of here when Dupleaux recovers. Just keep her away from me.”
He turned and stalked back toward the metal jungle, passing Cam with a grouchy “Let’s get back to work.”
9
Brooke stood at the French doors to her suite, watching the sun set over the Colorado River and wishing she could appreciate the beauty, but her nerves felt like they’d been double knotted all over her body.
“Tammy told me Justin was accepted into the program,” she said to Lydia, the liaison within the research team handling the bronchial thermoplasty trial. “I can’t tell you how grateful we are.”
“When I saw his name on the final list I was thrilled.” Lydia’s warmth and enthusiasm touched Brooke. They’d built up a friendly rapport over
the last six months since Tammy had discovered the project and Brooke had taken over management of the paperwork. Brooke and Lydia talked so often, Lydia felt like a friend now. “I was so excited when his name was chosen that I took a bathroom break just to go out in the hall and jump up and down.”
Brooke laughed, and tears burned her eyes. Tears of joy. Tears of fear. “You’ve been so sweet to us, Lydia. I honestly don’t know what we would have done without you through this process. You should be the poster girl for patience.”
“Awww, thank you. I really haven’t done anything but monitor the process, but I’m happy I could help. So where are you now? You’re always in some exotic location, doing something exciting.”
Not with Jillian. But she knew her life looked glamorous from the outside. “Not this time. Austin, Texas.”
“Hey, almost out our back door.” The research team was based in Oklahoma. “If you ever get up my way, you have to call. I’ll take you out to lunch or dinner. I’d love to meet you in person.”
Brooke smiled, and some of the chill Jillian had produced earlier in the day melted away. “I will absolutely do that. I’d love to meet you too. I feel like I already know you.”
“Right?”
They laughed.
Brooke sighed, closed her eyes, and took the uncomfortable plunge. “Lydia, I have a hypothetical for you.”
“Sure.”
“Now that Justin’s been admitted to the program, what would happen if, say, worst case scenario, I lost my job?”
A little gasp sounded over the phone, and Brooke’s stomach fell.
“Are you afraid that might happen?” Lydia asked, her voice filled with concern.
“Oh, you know. These actors can be pretty temperamental. No matter how much you do for them, sometimes it’s never enough.”
“Oh, Brooke, I’m so sorry.”
“Well, it hasn’t happened yet. And I’m going to do everything in my power to keep it from happening, but I was hoping there would be a way to keep Justin in the program if my worst nightmare were realized.”
“To be honest, it would be a real problem. The guidelines require payment in full or half the payment upon entrance to the program and a solid credit background and sufficient income to provide payments for the remaining half. That requires a solid work history and a current job that’s secure.”
Brooke winced. “What would be considered secure?”
“Employment with the same company for three years. If it’s less, you’ll need to have a letter from the employer stating that your employment is secure for the coming year.”
Her stomach sank a little lower, and desperation released into her system. The thought of borrowing more money from Ellie made Brooke sick. She opened her eyes and found the sun gone, the night as dark as she felt inside. “I see.”
“Let’s take things one step at a time,” Lydia said, her voice gentle. “Maybe things with your boss aren’t as bad as you think.”
Oh yes. They are.
“Sure. You’re probably right.” Brooke pressed fingers to her watering eyes. “I’m just tossing around what-ifs. I like to have all my bases covered, you know?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to you soon then. And I will definitely call you the next time I get close to Oklahoma so we can meet.”
They said good-bye, Brooke disconnected and pressed her free hand to the railing of her balcony. She took a deep breath, exhaled and accepted her reality. She just had to learn to live with Jillian treating her like dirt. And she’d have to keep a bigger distance between herself and Keaton.
Brooke had never been as mortified as she’d been earlier when Jillian had called her trailer trash in front of Keaton. The rest of the crew too, but Keaton…
She pressed her hand to her face, burning with shame. The memory still made humiliation swirl in her gut and rise in her throat. She wanted to get mad. She wanted to get spitting angry. She fantasized about telling Jillian exactly what she thought of her, about what Jillian could do with this miserable job—
Her phone vibrated in her hand.
Brooke pried her eyes open, took a steadying breath and looked at her screen, hoping it wasn’t another apology from Keaton. Or another plea for a phone call. She couldn’t even bring herself to talk to him. Not yet. Not until she faced Jillian again to get a feel for where she stood.
The text was from Jillian and simply said, I’m back.
Which was a summons. Jillian had been at dinner with a big producer who was passing through on his way to Los Angeles. Normally Brooke would have gone along to take notes, but since her fall from grace, she hadn’t been invited.
She was definitely being punished. But instead of doing what she wanted to do, which was to walk in and quit, Brooke picked up her iPad and her notebook. At the door, she paused and checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothing her hand down the front of her straight navy skirt. She was back in full business dress, even though it was nine p.m.
Brooke kept her focus on getting from moment to moment. She strode to the end of the hall murmuring, “It’s not a big deal. I’m going to pretend it didn’t happen. By now she’s probably drunk on wine and high on attention.”
Stopping in front of Jillian’s door, she paused, took a steadying breath and knocked.
“Come.” Jillian’s buoyant voice floated through the door and had Brooke raising her brows.
“Okay…” So she wasn’t in a foul mood.
Brooke stepped into the suite and caught the tail end of Jillian’s side of a telephone conversation.
“That sounds heavenly. Lord knows I’m going to need a vacation when this is over.”
Amen. Brooke would get a vacation just by having Jillian take one. She stood in the foyer for a moment while Jillian stared out at the night, pulling off her earrings and laughing at something the person on the other end of the phone was saying. She’d been back in the hotel room for at least a little while, because she’d changed out of her dinner attire and donned her black silk robe. Her colored and frosted hair was down, rolling in a smooth tumble past her shoulders.
A flash of Jillian, dressed like this, wrapped in Keaton’s arms, one of his big hands tangled in her blond hair, the other locked around Jillian’s small waist, assaulted Brooke out of nowhere. An ugly chill shivered through her body, but Brooke refocused on the Impressionist painting dominating the wall in front of her and shook off the insecurity. There was no mistaking how Keaton felt about Jillian now. And Brooke had made her share of less than perfect choices when it came to one-night-stands.
“I know, I know,” Jillian said. “And I agree, Anguilla would be lovely, but I’ve always been partial to Barbados. There’s always Bermuda… Oh, please,” she laughed the words. “It is not the Hamptons of the Caribbean. Okay, okay. We’ll talk soon. Bye-bye.”
Jillian kissed into the phone and Brooke was so grateful her boss was in a good mood, her knees weakened with relief.
When Jillian didn’t immediately launch into a tale about her night or the vacation she’d just planned or start issuing orders, Brooke clicked into work mode and moved to the sofa, perching on the edge of a cushion.
“I’ve printed out your schedule for tomorrow.” Brooke opened her leather portfolio and pulled out a second copy, laying it on the coffee table. Normally, she would have asked about Jillian’s dinner, let the woman preen about whatever she wanted to preen about. But after today, Brooke just wanted to find level professional ground again. “All your spa appointments have been confirmed and Henry has your schedule.”
Jillian turned from the French doors and wandered toward the sofa.
“You have four hours between your last spa appointment, which is your massage, and your first interview. I’ve left a two-hour break between your massage for Jeannette and Percy to get you ready for your photo shoots.”
Brooke paused and checked Jillian’s expression. She stood beside the arm of the sofa with that cool holier-than-thou smirk, one ha
nd absently twirling the tie to her robe. That gave Brooke another sliver of relief. It was Jillian’s norm, and right now, Brooke would take the miserable known to the turbulent unknown in a heartbeat.
“I’ve laid out the periwinkle Vera Wang suit for your five o’clock interview with the Austin American-Statesman,” she went on, returning her gaze to tomorrow’s schedule even though she had it memorized. “The tailored red Donna Karan for your six thirty taping with Access Hollywood and the black sequined Anne Klein for the live cocktail party interview segment at nine.”
She laid the paper on the table and lifted her gaze to Jillian’s. “Jeannette and Percy have cleared their schedules and will be wherever you need them when you need them.”
“Of course they will,” was Jillian’s response. “But your choice of outfits is all wrong.”
Brooke mentally reached for some of the armor she’d let slide off. Jillian had never questioned Brooke’s wardrobe choices before.
“I’ll be wearing the periwinkle to the Access Hollywood taping, because, as you said earlier today, my eyes pop when I wear blue. And there’s certainly no point in wearing something that makes my eyes stand out when I’m interviewing with a newspaper reporter from the American-Statesman. In fact, it really doesn’t matter what I wear to that interview, so I’ll be dressing down. Pull out my favorite jeans and one of my Marc Jacobs sweaters.”
Jeans?
Brooke wasn’t sure which fire to smother first—explaining that the journalist Jillian would be interviewed by was the stepson of a Los Angeles movie production mogul? Or reminding her that the ex-Miss America who’d be sitting in the chair opposite her on the Access Hollywood set always wore some shade of blue for the very same reason? And to knock the girl on her ass, Jillian would have to wear something stunning?
“Oh, well, um…” Brooke started.
But Jillian was done with the conversation and was already strolling toward one of the bedrooms.