I shrug. “I ain’t…I mean, I’m not. ”
He laughs, a single huff. “You lie, Gracie. ”
“What am I afraid of, then?” I find my voice somehow, and pretend insouciance I don’t nearly feel.
“Me. ” He caresses my hips. “This. ”
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I suck in a long, deep breath. “Don’t touch me. Please. Just let me dance. ”
He backs away, dropping his hands, and collapses to the couch, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and pulling on it. “Then dance. ”
So I dance. Naked, afraid, and humiliated somehow, fraught with some kind of desire I don’t understand, I dance. Not like a stripper. Not to provoke lust. I dance. As Grey, I dance.
All motion and power and confidence, I dance. I lose myself in it, in the music and the movement, heedless of my bared body. When I stop, Dawson is on the couch still, the bottle forgotten. His eyes are dark and conflicted, but the bulge at the zipper of his tight, expensive blue jeans shows me the effect of my dance. He sets the bottle down and stands up. I resist the urge to back away from him, but he doesn’t touch me again, although he reaches for me.
“You don’t belong here. ” He gingerly extends his hand, brushes a lock of hair away from my mouth. It’s a tender gesture, and it confuses me, scares me. Hits me somewhere deep inside.
His mouth descends to mine, and his lips brush across mine, hot and moist and soft. I’m not breathing. How can I? He’s kissing me. Why? My heart is frozen. My blood is a scorching river of fire in my veins, and I’m shaking all over. The black silk of his button-down dress shirt is stretched taut across his chest, and as he kisses me, he draws me against him. Silk is cold against my flesh, sinfully soft against skin and brushing my bare ni**les, turning them rigid. His tongue slides across the seam of my lips and his fingers curl into the muscle of my backside, sending thrills of heat through me.
It lasts a mere moment, and then it’s over.
He spins away abruptly, departs with a slam of the door, and I’m left limp. Emptied of everything, gasping for breath and trembling.
What just happened? I collapse back against the couch and struggle to breathe.
When I return to the main club floor, he’s gone.
And I’m changed, totally.
Chapter 8
I get home after three in the morning, so I don’t have time to go back through the project files before classes the next day. My first class is at eight, and since I have to be at the Fourth Dimension office immediately after class, I dress in my business attire before I leave the dorm. There’s no time between classes for anything but hurrying to the next class. I don’t even have time for lunch, like most days. By the time I leave my “History of Europe from 1700” class, my stomach has been growling for hours. I shoulder my backpack full of textbooks and notebooks, sling my purse across my body, and click in my three-inch heels to the bus stop.
My stomach is a mess, roiling and growling, waffling between ravenous and nauseous. Today is the first day the Fourth Dimension team meets the cast of the film. The project has gone through development and preproduction, and now we’re getting ready to start actually shooting. I don’t know what to expect. I should, but I don’t. I should have every aspect of the project memorized by now, but I don’t even know who the lead is. I’m jittery, excited, and scared. In my film classes I’ve gone through the entire process of film making in miniature, from development to sound and electrical, camera to auditions to post-production. But that’s all been in-class mock-ups. This is for real. I’ll be working with a real actor, dealing with his rider and various other requirements.
The Fourth Dimension parking lot is filled with expensive cars. There’s a Ferrari, a Bentley, a stretch limousine, and an assortment of Mercedes and BMWs. And then, in the back by itself, is a low-slung sports car painted a kind of silver-chrome that’s almost a mirror. The car looks like it’s worth more than all the other cars in the lot combined, although I couldn’t tell you what brand it is. And here I am, arriving on foot from the bus stop.
I step into the ladies room before going up to the conference room. I’ve brought a fresh blouse to change into, knowing I’d sweat through the one I’m wearing. I put on deodorant, my new blouse, touch up my makeup and fix my hair. I’m dressed in my most conservative outfit. It’s a plain gray linen skirt that falls to my capri line, a pair of black heels, and a non-revealing white blouse. I look professional, like a businesswoman. There’s not a shred of sexy in my appearance at all, and that’s exactly how I want it.
I take the elevator up and follow the sound of voices to the conference room. The meeting is in full swing, but Kaz knows I come right from class. I pause outside the door, out of view, and suck in a deep breath, hold it for a ten count. Through that door sit some of the most powerful and influential men and women in Hollywood. And then there’s me, a messed-up pastor’s daughter from Georgia, a film student stripping her way through college.
I don’t know why this thought hits me now. No one knows what I do. Lizzie barely acknowledges my presence, Kaz thinks I work at a bar (which is kind of true), and there’s no one else who cares. I’m not friends with any of my classmates. Devin is busy with her own life at Auburn, and my dad doesn’t want to know I’m alive. It’s better this way. I’m not lonely; I’m too busy for friends.
Then why do I blink away the blurriness, the wet salt at my eyes? The plain beige carpet under my feet wavers.
Deep breaths, long and slow and steadying. I can do this. I can do this.
I blink hard, dig a Kleenex from purse, and dab at my eyes, then check my makeup in a compact.
I push through the door, a tight smile on my face. A dozen heads swivel my way. Kaz smiles at me from his place at the head of the long oval table, and with a wave ushers me toward the table. He gestures for me to take the one empty chair. I’m too nervous to register who’s in the room. I take the seat and focus on breathing. I hear Kaz talking in my ear, and realize he’s introducing me. I miss several of the names, but I know most of them. I recognize Bill Henderson, the AD; Francine James, the casting director; Ollie Muniz, the unit director. A few others, names I miss, but who will be listed in the files. I force my attention on Kaz.
“…Erskine, our director. Across from you, Grey, is Rose Garret, who will play Scarlett. Next to Rose is Carrie Dawes, playing Melanie. Armand Larochelle to your left, who will play Ashley Wilkes…” My breath catches painfully in my chest when I hear Armand’s name. He’s staring at me intently, a small smile on his lips. But Kaz isn’t done with the introductions yet. “And, last but not least, at the head of the table is Dawson Kellor, who has the role of Rhett. ”
I’m dizzy—the world is spinning, my heart crashing in my chest. No. No way. I force my eyes up to Dawson’s. His face is blank and carefully expressionless, but his mouth is turned down slightly, tight at the corners.
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Kaz is clearly oblivious to the sudden tension. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Dawson’s work, Grey. You will be his assistant for the duration of the film. Anything he needs, you will provide. Anything. ” Kaz’s eyes flick to mine, and I force myself to breathe in before I pass out. Kaz addresses Dawson. “Grey is the best intern I’ve ever had, Mr. Kellor. I have complete faith in her abilities. ”
Dawson rubs his upper lip with his finger. “Grey, hmm? Do you have a last name, Miss Grey?”
I swallow hard. “Am…Amundsen. Grey Amundsen. ”
I’m two seats away from Dawson, but we might be the only two people in the room. He’s staring at me intently, as if he could glean my secrets through my eyes. Only, he already knows my secret.
I flash back to last night, to his hot gaze on mine, his hands on my skin, his eyes raking over my naked body. I feel his lips against mine. I stumble to my feet and lurch to the door.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble to Kaz. “I’m not—I’m not feeling well. Some
thing…I ate. ” I put my hand over my mouth and rush to the ladies room, where I bend over a toilet and vomit, a burning acid flood.
This can’t be happening. It’s not real. I know for a fact Kaz will fire me in a heartbeat if he knows I’m a stripper. I watched him fire an assistant secretary when he discovered she’d stripped in college. He fired her, not for having been a stripper, but for having lied about it. I’ve lied about it. Not directly, but by omission. It’s enough. I can’t work with Dawson. Not now. He knows my dark secret. He has power over me.
Never mind all that. Dawson himself is the problem. The way he looks at me, the way he touches me. Even in the public business atmosphere of the conference room, his eyes burned into mine, quicksilver gray and hypnotic. His mere presence sets my blood racing and my body trembling.
I hear the bathroom door open and a pair of heels click across the tile. Carrie Dawes pushes the stall door open and touches my back, then pulls my hair away.
“Grey? Are you okay?” Carrie is young and beautiful, with naturally red hair and fair skin, and she’s gotten a lot of notice recently for her leading roles in some of the best-reviewed dramatic films of the last three years.
I nod and force myself upright. “Yeah, I’m okay. ” I wipe my mouth and inch past Carrie to the sink. “Thank you. Something I ate didn’t agree with me. ”
Carrie leans back against the counter, and I see her doubt. “Uh-huh. It looked to me like you’d seen a ghost. ”
“I had a late night and some bad food. I’m fine. ” I have a travel-size bottle of mouthwash in my purse, and I rinse my mouth with it.
Carrie rolls her eyes. “If you say so. ” She leaves then, and I’m alone once more.
I turn on the faucet and dip my cupped palms under the cold water, rinse my mouth and spit several times to get the taste of bile out of my mouth. I’m retouching my lip stain when the bathroom door opens. Dawson strolls through the door, and I can’t breathe all over again. He’s dressed in dark blue distressed jeans and a tight light gray T-shirt that looks softer than clouds. His dark hair is artfully mussed, and a shadow of stubble covers his rugged jawline. His eyes match his shirt, the color of an overcast sky. He doesn’t stop, but crosses the bathroom to stand barely an inch away.
I can’t meet his eyes. My cheeks feel like they’ve been set on fire. “Mr. Kellor, sir. What can I do for you?”
“You can explain. ” His voice is like an earthquake felt from miles away, a low rumble.
I inch away from him, but I can still feel the heat emanating from his huge, hard body as if he’s a furnace. I shrug, a roll of one shoulder. “There’s nothing to explain, sir. ”
“Quit that. Even if you were just an intern-assistant, you wouldn’t call me sir. How are you here?”
“I took a bus. ”
Dawson grunts in irritation and rubs his hands over his face. “Don’t be obtuse. ”
I try to breathe, but I can’t. I’ve got his reflection in the mirror, and the blinding reality of his presence in front of me. He’s too gorgeous for words. Too much man to be real. His cheeks are high and sharp, his jaw like a sculpture of marble. His arms are thick and long and rippling with muscle. The T-shirt is a second skin over his muscles. His jeans cup his thighs and backside, and I just can’t look away from him. I close my eyes and try to breathe. I’m nauseous all over again.
“I’ll make this easy,” Dawson says. “You were at the club last night. You were Gracie. Now you’re here, and you’re Grey. ”
I feel a rush of panic, and it comes out as anger. “There’s nothing to explain! You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? You saw what I do. What else do you want me to say?”
I push away off the counter, but my heel slips and I stumble. Strong arms catch me and hold me, lift me upright.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, shoving away from him.
“Grey, it’s fine. I don’t care. ”
“It’s not fine. I care. ” I’m facing the door, with Dawson behind me.
His fingers touch my shoulder and effortlessly spin me around. I duck my head to avoid his eyes, because his gaze is all too intent, all too knowing. Just the touch of his fingers on my shoulder is enough to set my heart thumping. I was leaving, I was walking out, but I can’t move. I can’t pull away. He’s sucking me into the orbit of his intensity. His touch is a riptide. It sucks me under. It’s a catalyst, igniting the fire of need. I need. Him, his touch, something. Anything. I don’t even know. Just him.
I panic and scramble away from him. “I have to go. ”
“Where?”
“Away. I don’t know. ” I yank the door open, but his hand catches my wrist and stops me. I jerk free. “I said, don’t touch me! This won’t work, Mr. Kellor. I’ll have Kaz—I mean, Mr. Kazantzidis—assign another intern for you. ”
“I don’t think so. ”
I don’t answer. Arguing is futile. I can’t do this. He’s too much. He knows. Working with him professionally, when he knows what I am…no. I can’t.
I go back to the conference room, and everyone asks if I’m okay. “I’m fine,” I say. “Kaz, can I have a word in private?”
He frowns but accompanies me to his office. I sit in the deep leather chair in front of his desk and wait for him to sit. “Is everything okay, Grey?”
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I shake my head in a negative. “No, sir. I…I can’t accept this assignment. ”
“Grey, I don’t understand. This is vitally important. This is potentially the biggest film this studio has ever worked on. It could gross billions. What’s the problem?”
I don’t know what to say, how to explain without explaining everything. “I just…I can’t work with Dawson Kellor. ”
Kaz leans back in his chair. “God. I was wondering if this would come up. ” He sighs and fiddles with his pen, spinning it around his fingers. “I know Dawson has a bit of…a reputation. But I’ve been assured that his time away from Hollywood has matured him. ”
I have no idea what he’s talking about at first, but then I remember reading a series of articles in various magazines about Dawson. He had a reputation as a hard-partying womanizing playboy. There was a scandal involving a married assistant, and then another one with a famous actress, also already married. And that didn’t even touch the endless parade of girlfriends he’d been photographed with. He had a different woman on his arm in every photograph, several of whom sold stories to the media about his predilections in the bedroom. He liked dirty sex, according to the stories. And a lot of it. The scandals mounted and swirled around him like a hurricane, but through it all he kept acting, and each role was better than the last, so he kept getting roles. Then there was an allegation of rape, and that was when Dawson vanished from the public eye for the last few years. This role as Rhett Butler is going to be his big comeback, his reboot of his career and his image.
“Did he make a pass at you?” Kaz asks.
I want to say he did. I want to put it all on Dawson, let his reputation win the fight for me. But I can’t. I shake my head. “No, it’s not that. ”
“Well, then, I confess I don’t understand. What’s the problem?”
I’m near tears. I breathe and try to focus. “It’s…I just can’t, Kaz. I’m sorry. I just…can’t. ”
Kaz pinches the bridge of his nose. “Grey, I like you. You’re hard-working, you’re smart, and you really seem to love the business. I want to hire you full-time. I really do. I think you could go far. But…if you refuse this, my hands are tied. Unless you have accusations to level at Dawson, you need to do this. This is the biggest opportunity of your life. It could make your career, but if you don’t do it, it will break it. I’m being honest with you. ”
I do cry then, a few tears leaking out. “I get it. ”
“Why don’t you go home and think about it?”
I nod. “I will, sir. Thank you. ”
Rising on uns
teady feet, I leave his office, ride the elevator down, and walk the two and a half blocks to the bus stop. I don’t hear him behind me until it’s too late.
“Where are you going?” His voice is right behind me, buzzing intimately in my ear.
I jump, and then hunch forward, away from him, away from his intense presence. “Home. ”
“What are you afraid of…Gracie?”
I whirl in place and have to restrain my impulse to slap him. “That’s not my name. Don’t call me that, and don’t touch me. ”
I step back. If he touches me, I’m lost. Something bad will happen. I know what will happen.
He closes the space between us, and despite the scorching early-evening heat, he’s perfectly unruffled. His hair is perfect, his clothes are dry. My armpits are sweaty and my forehead is dotted with moisture and my hands are shaking. It’s after seven in the evening, and I haven’t eaten since six this morning and am getting dizzy. But all this is irrelevant in the face of his proximity. He’s not even an inch away. My br**sts are brushing his chest. I remember how his eyes looked at me, how he devoured me with his eyes. He wanted me. But he saw me, too. Saw me, saw into me.
You don’t belong here, he said.
And then he kissed me. He’s that close again, and I’m drowning. If he presses his mouth to mine, I won’t be able to stop him.
My stomach growls then, and a wave of dizziness crushes me. I sway on my feet, and I’d fall if it weren’t for an iron arm around my waist holding me up.
“When did you last eat?”
I shake free of him. “I’m fine. I just need to get back to my dorm. ” I stumble again as I try to get away from him. I lean against the bus stop sign, and struggle for steadiness and for breath.
“You’re not fine. Let me drive you home,” he says.
I wish it was home. It’s just a dorm room; it’s not home. I don’t have a home. I shake my head and cling to the sign.
He glares at me, seeming affronted by my stubbornness. “You’re going to pass out. ”
“I’ll be fine. ”
He shakes his head and spins on his heel. I hear him mutter under his breath: “Stupid ass. ”
“I heard that,” I mumble.
He doesn’t answer, just strides away. I can’t help watching him; he moves like a predator, like a panther stalking through the grass. I clench my eyes closed. Something in him speaks to me, calls me. It’s not just that’s he’s so beautiful. It’s something in him. Some magnetic draw in his eyes and his presence dragging me into him.
Tires squeal, and a sleek mirror-silver car, the one I’d seen in the parking lot, roars toward me. No. No. I have to resist.
He skids to a stop in the middle of the curb-side lane, flings open his door and gets out, heedless of the traffic piling up behind him, unmindful of the horns and the shouts. As he moves toward me, his eyes are different. A blue-gray now, and angry. He jerks open the passenger door, wraps an arm around my waist, and easily and un-gently shoves me into the car. The door closes, and then he fills the driver’s side, and I’m assaulted by his scent, cologne and sweat. The car is cool, air conditioning blasting. Rock music blares from the speakers, something hard and heavy. I’m dizzy, so dizzy. The world spins, and all I see is Dawson next to me, a bead of sweat trickling down his tanned neck and under his shirt collar. All I know is the rocking motion of Dawson’s driving to the thumping drums of the heavy metal. I’m cognizant of the power of this vehicle, the effortless speed. I glance at the dashboard, and he’s doing sixty, weaving through traffic with mad and reckless skill. I remember that he did a movie in which he played a stunt driver, and the rumors were that he did nearly all of the driving stunts himself. I close my eyes as we carve through an intersection, blowing a red light and nearly causing a wreck behind us. I’m pressed against the seat, struggling to breathe.
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