“That’s why I need you. You specialize in aggressive.”
The phone’s speaker carried the sound of a long, forceful exhale. Her cheeks heated at the humiliation of being discussed like an unappealing project, but at the same time, her lips tingled as if the gust of air he’d released from deep in his chest had breezed over them. Pathetic or not, this phone call was the most action she’d gotten in…forever.
“Age? Injuries? I have to assume there’s a reason an athlete with the talent to warrant your representation has let his training lapse.”
“Twenty-three, no injuries, and she’s not an athlete. Her name is Quinn Sheridan, and she’s preparing for a movie role—”
“Oh hell no, Eddie.” The voice now held an indignant note. “Not an actress. Anything but an actress.”
Heat burned her face for a whole different reason. Anger. How dare this self-righteous jackass reject her, based on her career choice?
Eddie sent her a sharp look, held up a hand, and closed it like a mouth to send her the universal sign for “shut it.” “My hour of need,” he reiterated into the speaker.
“Fine.” The brusque word practically slapped her. “But this is way more than an hour of need, and my time comes at a cost.” Then he proceeded to name a figure that stole her breath. Before she could find her voice and utter a flat-out rejection, he added, “Plus expenses.”
“Done,” Eddie said. “Half up front, and half at the end, provided she’s camera-ready from every angle by the time you’re finished with her. Where do you want to do this?”
“The Playground at Paradise Bay,” he responded, naming one of the priciest, most exclusive destinations in the Caribbean. “I’ve used them in the past for this type of thing, so I know the resort offers everything we need, including unparalleled privacy. They have excellent facilities, their chefs can accommodate my customized menus, and I can keep your client focused on her goal in such a contained environment.”
Holy crap. A hefty chunk of her Lena Xavier paycheck was disappearing before her eyes, and she hadn’t earned a penny of it yet. But she needed to, because private drug treatment facilities like Foundations carried a hefty price tag, and thanks to some bad financial decisions on her parents’ part, they weren’t in a position to help cover the cost of Callum’s rehab. It was all on her. Every penny.
“Reserve one of the villas,” McLean went on, squandering even more of her money without hesitation. “One with a workout room included.”
“My assistant will send you the reservation confirmation and your flight information by the end of the day,” Eddie replied. “Anything else?”
She lowered her forehead to her knees and waited for a lightheaded feeling to pass.
“Yeah. Convey this to your client…”
The note of steel in the words had her straightening, and staring at the phone.
“I have a zero bullshit policy,” he went on. “I won’t tolerate diva behavior from some neurotic, narcissistic actress who expects everyone to cater to her bottomless ego. Tell her to leave the entourage at home. I’m taking her on, not her boyfriend, her girlfriend, her mother, or her spiritual advisor. For six weeks, I’m in charge. I expect her to obey instructions and adhere to the program. No exceptions, no excuses, or no deal.”
“Uh…” Eddie had the grace to wince. “Did you get that, Quinn?”
She hauled herself to her feet—toned or not, she could damn well stand up for herself—and strode to his desk until she was close enough to brace her palms on the cool glass, and leaned toward the phone. “Every word,” she said in her best ice-bitch voice. “Luckily, neither my neurosis nor my narcissism interferes with my hearing. Tell Mr. McLean I’ll see him in Paradise Bay.”
Chapter Two
Luke McLean stepped onto the patio of the Paradise Bar—The Playground’s version of casual lounging—and scanned the tanned bodies in beachwear soaking in some final rays of sunlight before the first drinks of the evening. This was his one night to himself before he spent six weeks whipping a spoiled starlet into shape, and he planned to enjoy it.
A group of women in tiny bikinis walked by, enveloping him in the scent of coconut, and the pull of lingering gazes. Yeah, he’d definitely enjoy tonight. But despite the generous display of sun-kissed skin all around him, nobody really caught his eye, except… His attention snagged on a woman perched on one of the stools at the bar, chatting with the bartender. She sat in profile to him, but even in this sea of beauty, she stood out.
It wasn’t the waves of Scandinavian-blond hair tumbling to her shoulders, or wide-set eyes lit with a seductive sparkle. No, he corrected as she tipped her head to the side, and those eyes strayed his way. Challenge. They sparked with challenge. And while he appreciated a good challenge more than most, the inherent provocation wasn’t what captured his attention. It also wasn’t the cock-teasing curves set off to perfection by a miniscule white bikini—though plenty of other guys on the terrace noticed them.
It was her mouth that enslaved him. A soft, pink cupid bow perpetually turned up at one corner in a wicked little smile. A hint that suggested this angel had a devilish side, and the irony of it amused the hell out of her.
While he watched, she took a sip of her drink. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and then her tongue took a leisurely pass along her damp lips. First the top, then the bottom. By the time her mouth settled into the Mona Lisa smile again, his balls throbbed hard enough to make him curse under his breath. He wanted to see her swallow and lick her lips like that again—just like that—after he jacked himself off in her sinful mouth. Oblivious to the havoc she wreaked mere feet away, she batted her eyes at the bartender, and laughed at something he said.
That laugh. Low. Throaty. Completely uncensored and obscenely sexy. Around the bar, heads turned, and a bunch of Wall Street ballers in board shorts and brand new tans wondered in silent unison if she made an equally sultry sound when she came. A totally unwarranted, but shockingly strong surge of possessiveness raged through him. Anthropologists might label it a primitive remnant from a time when the appropriate response to competition for the most desirable female involved thumping his chest, roaring, and intimidating all others away with a show of strength and dominance. Then he’d claim his prize, right there in the sand, with her blond hair roped around his fist and his balls slapping her ass until the lush curves turned the same ripe pink as her lips. He imagined thrusting, and thrusting, and thrusting, so his lungs burned and his muscles screamed. Until she reared up, her body clenching and quivering around him, and cried out in gratitude, using that same husky voice.
The larger, more evolved part of his brain pointed out that if this beautiful stranger had the faintest idea what kind of rogue Neanderthal impulses had hijacked his thoughts, she’d slap him so fast his head would spin. If not literally slap him, then hit him with a restraining order. Possibly both.
Or maybe not. As if equally primitive receptors somewhere inside her picked up on the testosterone blasting off him like heat from a furnace, she turned and looked straight at him, and…
Damn.
Reality was what slapped him, hard, leaving behind a cold sting of frustration that did nothing to burn away the lust.
Quinn Sheridan. According to Eddie, she wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow morning. Apparently, she’d caught an earlier flight.
No two-dimensional medium did her justice. The woman sitting ten feet away at the bar looked like exactly that—a woman—rather than the kittenish cheerleader he’d watched sing, dance, and connive her way through the screener Eddie had sent him so he could see what his new client ‘should’ look like.
Personally, he begged to differ. Her current BMI put her at the curvaceous end of the healthy spectrum, and squarely into male fantasy territory—his, at any rate—but professionally, he understood Eddie’s concern. The movie role she’d signed on for required she look sleek and nimble as a lynx. Someone not to be fucked with. Right now she looked entirely too…fuckable.
Want sliced through him. Hot and sharp, and not her fault, despite how easy it would be to lay the blame at her feet.
Note to self. You don’t fuck actresses. No, he did not. Not anymore. He’d done his share during his ten years in Hollywood, and he refused to reboard that particular crazy-train. He also didn’t fuck clients. And he absolutely, positively did not fuck actresses who were clients.
Her attention lingered on him this time, so undisguised he thought for a moment she realized who he was, and was about to say something to him. Maybe he hadn’t been the only one to do some research before arriving?
The gaze wandered lower, moving over him as slowly and thoroughly as an appraisal. By the time she finished looking her fill, his whole body ached. Then the little tease picked up a spoon, dug into a confection of whipped cream and chocolate he hadn’t noticed on a small plate in front of her, and brought it to her mouth. The spoon dripped with melted fudge and empty calories. Her lips closed around the bite, and her eyelids fluttered. She savored the mouthful for a drawn-out moment, then swallowed and licked chocolate from her lower lip. The bartender brought her another glass filled with a generous pour of something chilled and bubbly.
Lust and frustration simmered into anger. Was she really sitting there, eating chocolate and chugging champagne in front of the man her agent had emotionally extorted into helping her? Dammit, he’d put carefully laid plans aside to come here and tackle this “emergency.” And she wasn’t taking it seriously. Granted, their six weeks didn’t start until tomorrow at noon, and maybe she didn’t actually realize who he was, but this sneak peek at her commitment level didn’t impress him.
Time to lay down the law.
She straightened as he approached, and aimed the sly smile at him, but no flicker of recognition crossed her features. She didn’t know who he was. At least there was that. She hadn’t deliberately flaunted her bad behavior at him, but even so, she’d definitely earned a warning.
He stepped into the empty space between her chair and one occupied by the female half of a very affectionate couple sharing an oversize umbrella drink. Restoring the Texas drawl fifteen years in Los Angeles had eroded, he led with a relaxed, “Sorry for staring, but aren’t you—”
“No.” She let the smile turn apologetic and lowered her eyelids. “I get that a lot, but no, I’m not her.” Long, naked eyelashes flicked up to reveal guileless eyes as clear and blue as the Caribbean shimmering in the distance. “I hope you’re not too disappointed?”
He had to hand it to her. She had this act down pat. “Somehow, I doubt you’ve ever disappointed.” Leaning a forearm on the bar, he eased closer. “Now that I see you up close, I realize you’re much prettier than what’s-her-face.”
“Quinn Sheridan?” She couldn’t quite hide the hint of irritation in her voice at the backhanded compliment.
“I guess that’s her name. She’s got, well, you know…” He smiled vaguely, and deliberately refrained from elaborating. Knowing actors—and he did—she wouldn’t be able to resist finding out what imperfection he perceived.
Her brows drew together for one fleeting moment, before she arranged her features into a show of mild curiosity. “What?”
“The plastic look. Inexpressive. Like she’s had too much Botox. I guess that’s what happens when a thirty-something actress plays the part of a high school student. She’s got to be getting desperate to move on. She’s not going to be able to pull it off much longer.”
Her mouth dropped open. Inexpressive? Uh-uh. She might have a certain look she presented to the world, but her real emotions were right there beneath the surface, ready to break through. Finally, she took a long gulp of her drink before swallowing and clearing her throat.
“I’m sure she’s not thirty-something. She looks very natural to me. I don’t have a hard time buying her in the role.”
He shrugged. “I guess you suspend your sense of disbelief more easily. Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s not her looks that throw me. Maybe it’s her performance.”
Color flooded her cheeks. She swiveled so that she faced him, and folded her arms over her chest. “What’s wrong with her performance?”
“She comes across kind of wooden, don’t you think?”
Her mouth dropped open again. She actually sputtered. “Wooden? Hell, no. She’s won awards for her performance. She’s been nominated for an Emmy.”
He shrugged again. He’d read her bio. He knew about her Emmy noms. “Has she?”
“Twice!” Her palm slapped the bar for emphasis.
“Didn’t win, though, huh?” Before she could respond, he continued, “If she’s so talented, why hasn’t she broken out? Could be I missed it, but I haven’t seen her in anything except that show.” He caught the bartender’s eye. “I’ll have a glass of what she’s having, and—” He glanced at her. “Would you like another?”
“Yes. Thank you,” she said, and under her breath added, “Bring the bottle.” When the bartender moved away, she drew herself up to full height. Five feet, four inches of slightly inebriated, very pissed off actress ready to defend herself. “Maybe she was waiting for the right role? I heard she’s going to be in the movie version of Dirty Games, and”—her white-knuckled grip on the bar offered him a small sign of her nervousness about that situation—“I think she’s going to make an amazing Lena Xavier.”
Now that he’d gotten her all primed to do battle, it was time to lull her into thinking she’d won. He held up his hands. “Hey, listen, I don’t mean to offend you. You’re obviously a fan.”
Her grip on the bar relaxed a fraction. “And you’re obviously not.”
“My only point is, you’re much prettier. You should be an actress. Or a model.”
The compliment distracted her, and earned him a surprisingly sincere smile, but then she tossed her hair over her shoulders and sighed. “I’m too short to model, and, at the moment”—she grimaced and finished her drink—“I’m also out of shape.” A busboy interrupted the unguarded moment to clear her empty glass.
“There’s nothing wrong with your shape.” He said it because it was the kind of response a man hitting on a woman should offer, but also because it was a fact. Anywhere except Hollywood, she’d be considered perfect, which provided yet another example of what a screwed up place Hollywood was and why he’d opted out.
The sincere smile made an encore appearance. “That’s nice of you to say, but my mirror says different. I’m a dancer, but I got a little derailed a couple months ago and had to take a break. Now, I need to get back to work. So”—she fiddled with the stem of her glass— “I’m banished to Paradise for some austerity measures.”
“Lucky me.” He glanced pointedly at the tequila-sunset sky blazing above the horizon, and added, “And lucky you. There are worse places to be banished.”
“Maybe, but tonight is probably my only chance to enjoy it.” Her gaze landed meaningfully on him, full of invitation, but her fingers moved from the wineglass to her cocktail napkin, and picked at a corner. “Starting tomorrow, I’m stuck spending the next six weeks with some overpriced personal trainer my agent insisted on.”
Oh yeah. They’d be adjusting her attitude. “A good trainer delivers results quickly and safely. A lot of people would say that’s worth every penny.”
She waved a hand as if swatting a fly. “I don’t need some arrogant fitness nazi barking at me to drop and give him twenty. I’ll bet this guy builds freakishly large muscles to compensate for the fact that he has a single-digit IQ, and the world’s smallest dick.”
The bartender chose that moment to deliver their drinks. Luke made the “check please” sign as his unsuspecting client leaned in so her breasts nearly touched his chest. The heat of her body penetrated his shirt. “Thank you for the drink. Enough about me. What brings you to Paradise Bay?”
He leaned in, too, bringing their faces close. “Work.”
“What kind of work?” Her attention drifted to his mouth, then back up to look him in the eye. The blue of
her irises deepened to violet around the pupils, making them seem even wider. Genetics had smiled on Quinn Sheridan, right down to the fine details. She scraped her teeth over her lower lip. His teeth itched to do the same. Itched to rough up that plush velvety flesh before he soothed it with his tongue.
The cocktail of frustration and desire she stirred in him left a bittersweet taste in his mouth. Seems they were both due for a reality check. He took her chin, absently appreciating how the faint dimple accommodated his thumb, and dropped the drawl as he answered, “I’m surprised you can’t guess by my arrogance and freakishly large muscles.”
Confusion clouded her eyes for a split second before realization seeped in. She tried to pull away, but he held onto her chin and kept her close. Her tongue darted out again, quickly this time, like a criminal making a prison break—and then she offered him an imperious smile. “Well played, Mr. McLean, but I knew it was you the whole time.”
“Sorry, Miss Sheridan, but you’re not that good an actress.”
Her eyes chilled to glaciers. “Is this your version of an audition? One I failed? Am I in trouble now?”
“You are trouble.” He released her chin. “And we’re not here to play games. I’ll let tonight slide, since we’re not on the clock yet, but lie to me again and our deal is off.” With that warning hanging in the air, he clinked his glass to hers, took a sip, and placed it on the bar. “We start tomorrow morning at nine sharp in the gym at your villa. Don’t keep me waiting.”
He turned and took a step away before tossing over his shoulder, “And for the record, both my IQ and my dick are well above average.”
Chapter Three
Quinn pulled her hair into a ponytail as she lurched down the stairs of her villa and tried to ignore the pounding at the back of her skull. Retina-scorching sunbeams poured through tall patio doors and bounced off the white walls. Squinting, she fumbled her way into the open kitchen with its gleaming granite countertops and grabbed her sunglasses from where she’d tossed them yesterday evening after returning from the debacle of her first meeting with Luke McLean.
Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation Book 4) Page 2