by Christa Wick
But she needed to know the lay of the land—his lower abdomen's topography, where his belly button was, the crest of his sharp hips, and where a certain part of his anatomy would top out once turgid.
A glance that turned into a long stare provided the answer to her last consideration. Declan had grown hard while watching her sketch him. There was just enough strength to his thin briefs to keep him contained, forcing his cock to crawl sideways toward his hip as it stiffened.
Mentally straightening the offending member, she realized he would have to stay semi-erect or softer during filming if she expected the waistline of the pants to fall below his navel.
"Something wrong?"
He cloaked the inquiry in that bedroom voice he had that made her eyes flutter shut when she was watching his movies alone at home. Forcing her eyes to stay open, she shook her head. If she tried to use her words, she knew she'd sound like a rusty saw.
"You stopped sketching, so I thought maybe something was wrong."
Damn tease, she thought, making sure she had the art file saved. Then she lined in the adjustments she wanted and changed the color of the leather from the unimaginative black of the first sketch to a medium cobalt that would pop brilliantly against his golden tan and dark blond hair.
She saved again then a third time with no changes to give it a new file name. From there, she added thin leather straps in the same color along his chest. When her stylus stopped moving again, Declan slid off the prop and came to look over her shoulder, his thick, broad chest pushing lightly at her back, the contact heating her skin.
Her spine started to shrink and curve with anticipation over what other part of his body might push against her generous backside.
"Nice," he said, his tone communicating genuine appreciation of the sketch.
"You can see when I'm done," she chided with a pointy jab at the prop he had just abandoned. "I need to do the back, as well."
He walked away, a smile ringing in his voice as he struck a pose in front of the stage block. "You mean you don't have it memorized already?"
Hell yes, she did, but she was a professional and needed to be certain. And his overinflated ego didn't need confirmation.
"Possibly," she snarked softly. "But I can't be sure I'm not confusing your backside with Don Delano's."
Done naming the oldest actor she had worked with, a man into his seventies or beyond, she pressed her lips together to hide a smirk.
She should have known better than to poke at Declan. He reminded her a few short seconds later with a question.
"You dropped the waist up front, didn't you?"
He sounded so damn innocent delivering the line. That alone should have put her on full alert. Instead, she responded distractedly as she blocked in his basic shape.
"Yeah, about two inches."
"That's what I thought."
She didn't attach any relevance to his reply until she looked up a few minutes later to find that the back of his waistband barely reached the top curve of his toned ass cheeks. With a sharp gasp, she jerked her stylus off the screen to keep from placing any errant lines as her hand started to shake.
Slowly, oh-so-casually, he looked over his shoulder and nailed her with that stormy gray gaze. "You okay? Hand's not cramping up, is it?"
He damn well knew it wasn't.
Jabbing her stylus at the menu options, she saved what she had already sketched of his back side and closed the program.
"Hand is fine. I've got all I need. You can get dressed now."
She expected him to prolong his torment of her, but he shrugged and reached for his pants. He slid them on, his beautiful body disappearing all too quickly even though she wanted him dressed and out as soon as possible.
He stepped into his shoes as he threaded his arms through his shirt. Walking over to the worktable, he buttoned the shirt, pausing to look over her shoulder again at the existing sketches she had laid out on the table. He took a few minutes to study them—or fake studying them, his breath warming the skin of her neck the entire time.
"I'll be back Wednesday around five," he whispered ominously, his mouth close enough to her ear that it teased the superfine hairs along her jaw. "I'll want to see everything you've got, so be prepared, baby girl."
He left then, his words clinging to Melanie's skin as her knees slowly gave out.
16
"The two of you are screwing, I take it."
Melanie's stylus fell to the floor. She let it lay there, her wide gaze fixed on Michael Strake where he stood with one hip resting against her worktable.
She didn't need to ask who was the other half of his dirty assumption. Since Monday after Declan left, Strake had been probing the reasons for Bain invoking his contract right to select his own costumer.
Had she worked with him before?
-Yes, as a wardrobe girl.
How many times?
-Once.
When?
-Recently.
Had they known one another before that?
-Not at all.
And on and on and on, sometimes subtly but usually direct. Now he was getting to what had been his intended question all along.
"So he wants to..." he cocked his head, looked at Melanie's plump form and lifted both brows like he'd just swallowed a lemon. "Yet you're refusing because?"
She lifted her chin, his insult washing over her with a hot prickling of her skin. The look on his face said it was inconceivable that a woman like her would ever reject Declan Bain.
And maybe she wouldn't have if the situation had been even slightly different, but it was clear Declan wasn't interested in her, was just playing some sick game because of the whole deal with Dodgy Roger and decades of that side of his family not even acknowledging his existence—not until he was famous.
"I don't know where you're getting the idea that—"
Strake cut her off with a loud, dirty laugh.
"C'mon, sugarcakes. My production assistant saw you getting out of his limo Monday morning. He gives you a ride, gets you a job above your resume, then the two of you disappear behind a locked door for an hour and a half before he struts—"
"Look, we're related," Melanie blurted as her face turned a dark crimson.
Shit, that was the last thing she wanted to say. Better to have Strake think they were fucking around. Now he might ask her how or, even worse, ask Declan and give the actor one more reason to torment her.
Strake swept his gaze up and down Melanie's body, his mouth dancing with indecision at her thickest curves. "I can see the resemblance in the face—your face is gorgeous"
The urge to retrieve her stylus and jam it in his eye quivered through her hand.
How many times had she heard that bullshit in life?
A beautiful face, but...
Grimacing in the shape of a smile, she corrected him. "We're not blood relatives—different sides of an…extended family."
"Oh. Meaning, legally, he could still fuck you," Strake said, rounding the worktable to her side. He stopped about a foot and a half away and eyed her again. "I know a trainer, works miracles, could get the rest of you to line up with your face."
Another wave of shock and anger rolled through her.
"Part of the benefits package, so to speak. That is, if you're interested in an upgraded package."
Her right eye twitched in disbelief. Had Strake really just adjusted his cock as he said the word "package"?
Her hand started to bounce on the table, the nail of her middle finger striking the surface hard and repetitively as she contained the urge to explode. A glance at the clock told her she only had to tolerate the idiot a few more minutes—if Declan kept his appointment for five o'clock.
In three years of working in the industry, the situation was a first for her. She was positive her weight had cost her jobs—whether because the people responsible for hiring didn't think she could hustle as much as the gig required or from equally ignorant assholes who didn't want the aesthetics
of their set spoiled. But all the extra curves and jiggly bits had also provided a level of immunity against sexual harassment.
Until now.
Maybe the interest Declan was showing Melanie had cast a sort of competitive glamour over her as far as Strake was concerned.
"What do you say, baby?" Strake took another step forward, his hips leading the way.
"I say you need to stay on the other side of the table," she answered coolly.
Oblivious to her rejection, he took another step forward. She turned away from the table, her gaze picking a safe route to the door he had closed when he came into her workspace under the pretext of checking on her progress.
He snatched at her wrist, seizing it in a rough grip. Intent on more than just stopping her retreat, he jerked her to him.
"You think this table is strong enough for you to sit on while I fuck you?"
Seeing his mouth zero in on hers, she brought her hand up sharply. Aiming to slam her palm in his nose, she wasn't fast enough. She caught him under the chin and pushed up. With her fingers near his lips, Strake tried to suck one into her mouth, grossing her out before anger and fear took over.
"Let go of me!" she screamed.
Grabbing her other wrist, he twisted her arms until they were behind her back and his hips were pushing at the curve of her stomach.
Bile rose up in her mouth.
"I bet you've got a tight pussy." He pumped his hips against her once and she felt the thin pencil of his erection between the layers of fabric separating them. "If you won't give it up for Bain, then you're not like most girls your size. Most fatties will give it up to any man willing to drop his pants."
"When you let go of my arms," she growled. "It better be to run."
Laughing, he tried to nuzzle at her neck.
She snapped at his ear before screaming again.
"Let go of me!"
"Scream all you want," Strake taunted. "You'll be moaning for me to come back when I'm through fu—"
The office door burst open. Strake jerked his head toward the intruder, his expression flashing from annoyed to terrified as he saw Declan charging at him, head down and his muscular arms outstretched.
Releasing Melanie's wrists, Strake tried to pull back. She brought her hands up and slammed both of them against his chest, knocking him backwards. Declan adjusted his charge, dropped one arm and wrapped the other around Strake's neck in a chokehold, bringing the man to his knees.
Melanie stared, stunned twice over. First at the attack and then at Declan's rescue.
"Stop," she said, starting with a whisper before repeating it more loudly as she grabbed at his arm. "Stop!"
Strake looked at her, eyes bulging as his face mottled red and purple.
"Unless you tell me you wanted that," Declan growled. "I'm going to wring his fucking neck."
Her tone gentled and she stared into Bain's furious gaze. "I didn't want it, but you have to stop anyway. Think it through, the cops—"
"Are going to haul his worthless ass away for assault?"
She shook her head, tugging lightly at Declan's arm as Strake's eyelids started to flutter shut. "Where there are cops, there are reporters...especially if there’s a dead body."
Digging his fingers in Strake's hair, Declan withdrew his arm from around the flagging man's neck. Bain glared at her, the muscles on his arm tight and flexing.
"He's going to do this to someone else."
Holding back tears, she nodded. "You know he won't go to jail, even with both of us testifying. It probably wouldn't even go to trial."
Strake had too much money and power in Hollywood. He'd say she and Declan were colluding, that it was Declan who had made the marks on her wrist. He'd tell a thousand different lies and, best case scenario, plead to something with no jail time and continue slandering them to anyone who would listen so he could rehabilitate his reputation.
People—women included—would eagerly line up to work with him.
"Think about it," she coaxed. "This wasn't his first time trying to hold a woman down."
Snarling, Declan planted a foot against Strake's back and sent him sprawling onto the ground. Barely conscious, the man groaned.
"Get your shit together and wait for me in the limo."
Melanie stood frozen, only her lips capable of moving.
"What are you going to do?"
Angling his head away from her, Declan stared at Melanie with one eye, his hands clenched in fists at his sides.
"Talk."
She looked at the beautifully carved muscles flexing beneath his clothes, the massive chest plates, the taut abdomen.
His hard, short breaths scared her.
"With your hands or your mouth?"
The corner of his mouth twitched in a regretful smile. "If I knew Morse Code, I would gladly tap the warning against his thick skull."
"I don't want—"
"You don't have a choice, Mel. Now get your shit and go—leave me at least a little patience to deal with this fucker."
"You're really just going to talk to him?" she persisted, the tears she'd been holding back finally escaping down her cheeks.
She didn't like any of this, didn't like not calling the cops even if it was her idea, and she certainly didn't want to leave Declan alone with Strake. Cold fury burned in the icy gray gaze.
He nodded, his face gentling slightly.
"Now go."
17
"Circle the block," Declan ordered over the intercom, the limo's interior tinted window up since he’d stormed out of the production company's offices, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
His gaze flicked in Melanie's direction.
"Does your mom know you live in this area?"
She squirmed in her seat. Other than ordering Melanie to give Russell her address, he’d said nothing to her on the drive from the studio to her small apartment building on the corner of Normandie Avenue and West 60th Place.
"My mother has my address," she answered, staring at several spots on his silk dress shirt that were darker than the fabric's deep purple.
There had been no time for her to study his clothes in her office, but the spots still had a wet look to them when Declan slid into the limo's backseat, the black of his pupils eating up all but a thin ribbon of the gray irises.
Grunting, he flexed his right arm, his hand buried in the pocket of his dress slacks the entire drive.
"Well, has she ever fucking looked at it on a satellite map?"
Melanie shrugged. Her mom didn't use the internet like that. Her father would have foregone looking at it on the map to visit it in person then promptly found her someplace else to live at his expense. But George Archer had died before she moved to Los Angeles.
Declan shook his head. "Stupid question, she would never let you live here if she had."
Melanie rolled her lips together, grinding away at the glib responses that wanted to correct his ignorance. If her mother was the type of parent to try to restrict where her child lived, she would have checked the place out one way or another. And it didn't matter. Melanie was old enough and sufficiently self-supporting to live wherever the hell she pleased.
Not that the small one bedroom she shared with Cammie pleased her. But Los Angeles was crazy expensive, even in the bad neighborhoods.
Irritation snaking all around his face, Declan forgot himself, reaching out with his right hand to press the intercom button again. "Stop and drop us off, then keep circling."
Melanie stared at his hand, the skin on the base knuckles of his index and middle finger torn and in the process of scabbing. Catching the direction of her gaze, he shoved the hand back into his pocket until the limo came to a stop.
He threw the door open, scanned the sidewalk then ordered her out.
Daylight still clung to the sky, but it was beginning to fade. Any working streetlights across the city would be flickering on, but the streetlights never worked on this stretch of Normandie.
"I don't need
walked to my door," she protested as he grabbed her by the elbow and tried to steer her toward the small parking lot.
"I'm not walking you to your door. I'm going in."
His gray gaze shot daggers at her. Planting her feet, she dug in with her heels.
"Don't make me throw you over my shoulder, Melanie Lee," he growled.
She snorted, the sound issuing as a challenge. He spun on her, his lean muscular body dipping as his hand slid from her elbow to her wrist.
Fuck, he was really going to do it—or at least try.
"Wait, wait..." She pushed lightly at his head, afraid of really pissing him off. She couldn't understand why he was so angry with her to begin with. "I'll take you inside, but you have to promise not to be a jerk to my roommate."
"Roommate?" He lifted his head, his body straightening at the same time. His gaze narrowed as Melanie was slow to elaborate.
"Yes," she sniped. "She doesn't deserve you acting like an asshole—and neither do I!"
His lips pursed together, wiggled and then he shut his hate-filled eyes for a few seconds.
"Don't worry, I'll play nice."
She didn't believe him, not entirely, not with the clipped way the words had left him.
Jerking her hand out of his grip, she marched past the security fence that even she could have scaled and to the main entrance on the first floor.
"No keycard and the lock's been punched—are you serious?"
Clamping her mouth shut, she gave him a side glare and headed for the stairs to the second floor.
"How many break-ins each month?"
Even if she’d known the answer, she wouldn't have told him. She only knew that her apartment hadn't been broken into. It was on the second floor, furthest from the stairwell. The neighborhood crooks were too lazy to make it that far whenever they made it past the entry door on the bottom level.
It was Cammie's poor little Honda that couldn't catch a break. The dancer had so many radios stolen out of it, she'd given up replacing them. She didn't even bother locking the doors to it so she wouldn't have to replace any window glass when someone broke in to see if anything had been left inside.