by Scott, Inara
Exposing Alix
Inara Scott
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Inara Scott. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact Inara Scott at [email protected].
Cover design by Su Kopil
Ebook ISBN 978-0-615-73416-3
First Edition December 2012
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following marks mentioned in this work of fiction: Los Angeles Airport (LAX), Hummer, Marlboro Man, Hotel Bel-Air, The Oscar Award (Oscar), Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA), Warner Brothers, Botox, Pilates, Film Quarterly, ChapStick, Nikon, Dr. Phil, Sherlock Holmes, Mercedes, Citizen Kane.
For all the women who believe in love…
Chapter One
He heard the creature before he saw it—a low, heartfelt growl that promised death or at least a long stay in the hospital if it was not obeyed. Ryker Valentine froze in the act of peering into the window of the tiny clapboard cottage and spun slowly on one handmade Italian loafer, hands spread wide in supplication.
“Nice doggie?” he said hopefully, eyes widening as he took in the sleek muscled form of a Doberman pinscher.
The dog responded by lowering its head and growling again, its eyes narrow and pinned on… Good Lord, were its eyes pinned on his crotch?
“Here now,” Ryker pleaded, “we’re friends, aren’t we? I’m a nice mannie. A nice, nice mannie.”
He wiped a suddenly damp palm against his thigh before digging into his pocket. When his fingers closed around the rigid outline of his cell phone, he sighed with relief. At least he’d be able to dial 911 before the dog ripped out his throat.
As if understanding Ryker’s intent, the dog curled back one lip in warning.
Cell phone in hand, Ryker stepped closer to the tiny beach house, though the ramshackle structure, with its candy-pink trim and rotting wood porch, provided little cover.
This was the perfect end to his day. He’d already been hassled by paparazzi in Malibu, had to wait three hours at the mercy of the crowds at LAX when his flight was delayed, and then the only rental car left at the tiny Eugene, Oregon airport was a yellow Hummer, which they’d saved especially for him. He winced every time he looked at it. All this for a trip he’d been blackmailed into making.
Ryker was preparing to push the emergency call button when he saw a pair of jean-clad legs emerge from the other side of the house. A tiny, almost child-sized figure wearing dark sunglasses and an enormous white raincoat surveyed the scene and said cheerfully, “Guess you picked the wrong house to rob, huh?”
Then, as if she had no interest in the activities of her flesh-eating monster of a dog, the woman—he was almost certain it was a woman, though the bulky clothes gave little indication of the shape of the figure beneath—turned her attention to a small bed of flowers. With a flip of her parka, she bent over and began to pull weeds.
Ryker had to squash a flare of temper at her nonchalant attitude. Of course, in her defense, it must look as though he was trying to break into the house. Still, he had a dog’s nose in his crotch. Couldn’t she muster a bit of sympathy?
He tried to inject an apologetic note into his voice. “Excuse me, do you live here? Are you Daisy Zahn?”
It seemed impossible. Daisy Zahn—or Alix Z, as she was known to the film world —was famous for making sexy, art-house movies that pushed the envelope as far as they could while still maintaining the coveted “R” rating. Despite their limited releases, they’d ended up being huge moneymakers, perhaps because they were universally acknowledged to be sensual feasts for the eyes. This creature hardly appeared female, let alone capable of stimulating the sexual fantasies of thousands of viewers.
No response. A slim backside pointed his direction. A pair of binoculars swung from her neck, and she removed them before continuing her weeding. A small pile of greenery began to form at the side of the bed.
Ryker gritted his teeth and tried to smile, reminding himself that many people in the movie business were not what they seemed. Perhaps she was a raging cauldron of sexuality beneath the plastic sunglasses, bulky coat, and unfashionably short jeans. “Can you call off your dog, at least? I swear I have no interest in breaking into your house.”
“Rex, hold.”
The dog sat back on its haunches but continued to study him with an obvious bloodlust.
“I’m not sure that counts,” Ryker said.
“Look, I don’t like strangers and neither does Rex.” She threw a bit of crabgrass on the pile and then straightened, wiping her hands on her jeans. “This is private property, and you’re trespassing.” She cocked her head toward the Hummer he had parked in her driveway. “However, you’re also driving the ugliest vehicle known to man, and if I let Rex kill you, I’ll have to dispose of it myself. So I’ll give you five minutes to get it—and you—the hell out of here.”
Ryker took a deep breath and sought patience. He was here to ask this creature, if she was indeed Alix Z, for a favor. Cursing her in four colorful languages probably wouldn’t help.
“If you’re Daisy, we have a friend in common.” He grimaced at the thought of the high-strung German millionaire who’d sent him on this fool’s errand. “Although on second thought, he would probably prefer to think of himself as not having any friends, so I suppose you could say we’ve got an enemy in common. Gunther Hartcourt suggested I talk to you.”
Actually, Gunther had threatened to cut off the funds for his movie unless he convinced the mysterious Alix Z to act as his consultant. Still, it sounded better to call it a request rather than an order.
“Gunther?” She pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest. “How do you know Gunther?”
Ryker pasted his best red-carpet smile on his face. “Ryker Valentine, ma’am. At your service.”
“You say that as if it answers my questions. Should I have a clue who Ryker Valentine is?”
Her tone dripped with contempt. He gritted his teeth and tried to maintain the smile. He wished she would take off her sunglasses so he could get a look at her face. All he could see was a small, well-formed nose that spoke to either good genes or a talented plastic surgeon, and a pair of full lips. The lips had promise. The jaw—thrust at a deliberately stubborn angle—did not.
“Does the name Garden of Eden mean anything to you?”
Garden of Eden was Ryker’s directorial debut, a gritty mafia story universally acknowledged as the sleeper hit of the year. Gunther Hartcourt had produced it, taking a chance on a young, untested director who cast himself as leading man and had won big. Ryker had been up for Best Director and Best Actor, though he’d walked away from Oscar night empty-handed.
“No.”
She was lying. She had to be. Everyone in America had seen Garden of Eden. At least, everyone with taste.
“Cowboy Justice? Blue Moon?” he said helpfully, naming the first two films in which he’d starred, which had also been critical and box office hits.
She shook her head again. “No and no.”
Gunther had said this might happen, but Ryker had refused to believe him. He pushed a few buttons on his cell and then held it out, grimly aware that the move required putting his flesh within closer reach of the ever-watchful Rex’s jaws.
Growing up in South Central Los Angeles, he had seen the injury a zealous guard dog could inflict. Gunther knew that, because they had talked about having a pit bull on the set of
Salva’s Revenge and Ryker had flatly refused. Over the years, he had learned to tolerate certain family dogs but not guard dogs.
He hated guard dogs.
Okay, was terrified of them, truth be told.
Gunther, who liked to imagine himself a practical joker, thought Ryker’s feelings about dogs were amusing.
“Talk to Gunther. He’ll explain.”
And when this was all over, Ryker would kill him.
Chapter Two
Alix snatched the phone from the man’s perfectly tanned fingers, careful not to touch the smooth brown skin or well-manicured nails. Of course she’d seen Garden of Eden. Everyone over the age of seventeen with a pulse had seen it. But that didn’t mean she had to give Mr. Fall-at-My-Feet-I’m-a-Movie-Star Ryker Valentine the time of day.
She pushed the call button and waited. The familiar brusque voice answered immediately.
“Ryker? What are you doing calling me? You’re supposed to be talking to Alix. A-L-I-X. You need her, Ryker, and if you want to make a movie for me, you’ll get her.”
At another time, those words might have inspired a feeling of pride; right now they only sent a flash of fury rippling through her. “This is Alix, Gunther,” she bit out.
“Liebling!” Satisfaction flooded his voice, with the strong German accent she swore he cultivated to sound intimidating. “You didn’t recognize him? Or said you didn’t, you cheeky thing. I knew it. I absolutely knew it.”
“What’s this all about?”
“Before I answer, please tell me Rex is doing something unspeakable to Mr. Valentine.”
Unable to entirely suppress a smile, she said, “They’re getting acquainted.”
She could picture the grin splitting his ruddy cheeks. “Lovely,” he exhaled. “I’ve been waiting weeks for this.”
Alix paused, waiting for him to explain, but there was silence on the other line. “Um, Gunther?” she said finally. “Did you have something you wanted to tell me? Like, why you sent a swollen-headed movie star to break into my house?” She flashed a quick look at Ryker, who was glaring at Rex with a mix of fury and horror. He wore a loose button-down shirt of some fine, silky material that had evidently been rained on and now outlined his absurdly broad shoulders. Raw, potent masculinity oozed from his pores, just like it had on the big screen. Most actors looked smaller in person than they did on film, but not Ryker. He looked even bigger, as if the camera couldn’t entirely capture the enormity of his brooding, physical presence.
She forced herself to tear her eyes away.
“Sorry, darling,” Gunther continued. “I was just enjoying a visual of the scene. Listen, you know I wouldn’t send anyone to you lightly. Ryker’s got something to ask, and you’re going to want to say no. But you have to promise me you’ll hear him out.”
The smile dropped from her face. “Gunther, does this have anything to do with—”
“So suspicious!” he chided. “Just hear him out and then call me.”
Resisting the urge to bury the phone deep in the sand, she let out a long exhale. “Gunther, you know I’m not doing that anymore.”
“I never said you were. We can argue about it later. Just listen to what he has to say, all right? I’ve got to run. I’ve got people coming for drinks in an hour to discuss a new script, and the house is a wreck!”
Abruptly, the phone went dead, and she stared down at the screen with a sense of growing futility. She owed Gunther everything she had, and he’d never asked for anything in return. Of course, she had made millions for his production company, but still. If he wanted her to talk to Ryker Valentine, she had no choice but to do it.
Sighing, Alix turned her gaze to the painfully beautiful man glaring at her from an admittedly uncomfortable position, pressed against the front of the house. Rex, ever patient, sat calmly in front of him, tongue lolling to one side. Alix snapped her fingers, and the dog obediently turned and loped to her side, still keeping a watchful eye on the stranger with the thick black hair curling at his temples.
Ryker Valentine.
She’d seen beautiful men before, many in all their naked glory. It was an occupational hazard of directing movies with love scenes that didn’t allow for much—or any—clothing. But Ryker Valentine had something those men did not. He had a presence, a dark humor lighting his eyes and wealth of stories in the deep lines around his mouth. He was Marlboro Man mixed with Latino sensuality; rock hard muscles and the grace of a cat. The fact that he was somewhat reclusive, living in relative isolation on the coast in Malibu rather than in the flashier, prominent neighborhoods of Bel Air or the Hollywood Hills, only made him more desirable.
Of course, Alix didn’t have any interest in a man like Ryker. She knew far too much to make such a rookie mistake. Like every other actor, director, and related Hollywood type, he was firmly excluded from consideration for dating—or any other romantic endeavor, for that matter.
“I guess you had better come inside,” she said reluctantly.
He nodded, and for a moment, the hostility spread from him in waves. But it was immediately replaced with a bone-jarringly sexy smile, his toffee-colored skin so warm and rich she was struck with the sudden desire to taste it. In Garden of Eden, he’d been bare-chested for a significant portion of the film, even bare-assed for one glorious moment, and she pictured that skin now, exposed in all its rigid, masculine beauty. The light caressed him, rippled across the shadows left by the hard muscles of his chest, the curve of his buttock, the ridge of his thigh…
Lord, he would look pretty through the lens of her camera.
Alix shook her head. She was not going to film him. Just talk to him.
“What did Gunther have to say?” he asked as she smashed the door open with her shoulder. The warped wood tended to stick on humid days like today, when the wind was unusually still and passing rain showers hung on the horizon like a gray curtain floating in the breeze.
“Only that I’m going to want to say no, but I should hear you out. So I’ll hear you out.”
“Gunther can be persuasive.”
“That’s putting it kindly. Can I get you something to drink?” Alix carefully laid her binoculars on an end table. The cottage was tiny, a one-bedroom retreat with an open living-dining-kitchen area and a huge stone hearth that provided the only heat on cool nights. The wooden floor creaked under her feet as she walked to the broad soapstone sink and pulled down two chipped mugs. Rex followed half a pace behind, keeping his body safely between Ryker and his mistress.
She swiveled her face toward Ryker. “Water? Iced tea?”
“Tea, please.”
He stood in the doorway, blocking the slanting afternoon light. Alix rested for a moment and pictured him as a photograph, a rough black silhouette framed in a soft yellow glow. She still had on her sunglasses, so the image was washed in gray, giving it a moody, pensive air.
“Is something wrong?” He quirked a black eyebrow.
Heat flushed her cheeks, and she spun around, mortified. “No…sorry. I was just thinking about, er, something else.”
His knowing look suggested he could imagine exactly what that something else might be. Righteous indignation replaced her embarrassment. Where did he get off assuming she was thinking about him? Maybe she was lost in thought worrying about her sick grandmother or her boyfriend! Roughly, she jerked open the refrigerator and pulled out the pitcher of tea.
Rex, closely attuned to her feelings, whined softly and thumped his stubby tail against the floor.
“Lie down, Rex.”
He gave her a mournful look, then stretched out his body in the middle of the floor between the front door and the kitchen, head neatly cradled in his paws so he could continue to watch diligently for any sign of trouble.
Ryker chuckled, though she noticed he did not reach out a friendly hand toward Rex. “Your dog doesn’t trust me.” Giving Rex a wide berth, he ambled into the living area, where a wicker coffee table held an assortment of photography magazines and a tattere
d book of Anne Lebowitz’s portraits.
“My dog is a good judge of character.” For the first time in years, Alix found herself noticing the worn fabric covering the sofa, and the crocheted blanket over the back suddenly looked tacky rather than homey. She made an effort not to glance at the piles of photographs on the dining table by the sink. The last thing she needed was Mr. Hot Pants looking through the prints she’d made of her session last week with Paulina and Gregory.
She spilled tea into a glass, her gaze arrested when he ran his fingers through his thick, blue-black hair. Fascinated by the simple movement, she didn’t notice the glass had filled until tea dripped down her hand. She jumped and set down the pitcher, wiping her arm across her body and hoping he didn’t notice her clumsiness.
He settled onto the sofa, stretching out long legs on the coffee table. Black eyes swept from her weather-beaten running shoes to windblown hair. “They say dogs resemble their owners, but I’m afraid you don’t look a bit like a Doberman. Did you inherit the creature, by any chance?”
“Rescued,” she said, handing him the tea. “And what do you mean by that, anyway? How should a Doberman owner look?”
“German, for one.” He grinned, exposing bright, Hollywood-perfect teeth. “Tall. Blonde. Aggressive. Like Gunther. You strike me as more of the Labrador retriever type.”
Alix fought the urge to bare her teeth and snarl, just to prove how aggressive she could be. Normally, she didn’t mind the fact that men didn’t give her a second look. She’d made sure of that, actually. But for some reason, coming from this man, it stung. “I see. How flattering. Now, perhaps you could tell me what you’re here for? Of course, you had me at ‘Labrador,’ but why don’t we go through the motions anyway.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I wasn’t trying to insult you. I may not like dogs, but even I can appreciate a Lab. My sister had one, and he was gentle as a kitten, loyal—”