Irresistible Lines (Blurred Lines Volume 5)

by Breena Wilde

  “Mr. Zane,” Lincoln says, his voice muffled by the closed door between us.

  I growl. “What the fuck, Lincoln?”

  Cadence ruffles my hair, playfully. The gesture throws me off even more. There’s still so much I don’t know about her.

  “I need to speak with you. It’s urgent, sir,” Lincoln says.

  I let my forehead rest on her pelvis, kiss her clit. “We’ll pick this up later?” I ask, pulling on my pants.

  “Sure,” she says. The disappointment is etched across her face.

  “Are you hungry? Rita is an excellent cook. She’ll whip you up whatever you like.”

  A smile curls her lips. “I’m fucking starving.”

  I chuckle. “Get dressed, sweet Cadence.”

  She stands and picks up her dress, but I pull it from her grasp. “Wear these. You’ll be more comfortable.” I walk over to the dresser, open it, and pull out a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt.

  “Awesome.”

  Chapter 5

  Cadence

  I have so many questions for Zane. They’re so loud in my head I wonder if he can here them. Obviously not. That doesn’t stop the questions from continually running through my mind. Questions like: Where the fuck am I? Why did you bring me here? Where exactly is here? Where’s my brother? Can I see him? Why stay at a hotel if you have a house? Why are rich people so fucking extravagant? Why are there guys in suits outside every window? Am I a prisoner? Is my brother a prisoner? What the fuck do you want? Besides twisted fucking pleasure-and-pain sex.

  And on and on.

  I don’t put a voice to my questions, but hold them inside. Instead I smile. Pull on the sweatpants and t-shirt that smells like Zane and force myself to play it cool, because I am hungry but, more than that, I’m anxious to get some answers. One thing I’ve learned is the best way to find shit out is to keep quiet. Listen.

  Okay, that’s bullshit, but I’m going to try it since no other option seems to be presenting itself.

  Zane waits, only slightly impatient.

  “Ready,” I say and swallow.

  Lincoln is back to stoic.

  Zane glances at Lincoln. “Meet me in my office.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lincoln rushes away.

  Zane places his hand on the small on my back and we walk down a hall, down a set of adobe steps that curve with the wall, through the front entryway, and into the kitchen.

  An older woman pulls something delicious smelling from the oven. She sets the pan on a cooling rack and glances up. Sharp, dark eyes take in both Zane and me at once.

  “You must be Cadence,” she says. Her words are clipped, her voice low.

  Zane answers for me. “Rita, this is Cadence, the woman I’ve been telling you about.”

  She sniffs and pulls a frying pan from the copper rack above an island. “I figured,” she says. She places the pan on the stove and turns a black knob. The stove clicks a second and a blue flame appears under the pan.

  “I told Cadence you’d make her whatever she wanted.” I mentally make note of the hesitation in Zane’s voice. This woman intimidates him. That surprises me. I didn’t think anyone could intimidate the forceful John Zane.

  “Well, as you can see, I’m already cooking.” She turns away from the pan and scrutinizes Zane. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  I feel his body tense next to mine.

  “Take good care of her, Rita,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

  She waves him away. “She’ll be fine. Right, Cadence dear?”

  “Right,” I agree, though the knot in the pit of my stomach tells me that, of the two, I should fear Rita more than Zane.

  Zane walks out of the kitchen and I sit on one of the leather stools with an iron rod back. Rita opens the refrigerator and busies herself pulling out ingredients. I can’t help but study her. She’s slightly overweight. Her white hair is in a bun at the nape of her neck. She’s wearing a tan skirt, smart, functional shoes that match, nylons, and a lavender button up shirt. Three sets of pearls circle her neck at different lengths. Her earrings are pearl and clip on. Over the top of her clothes is a chocolate brown apron. It’s crisp, like she seems to be.

  The kitchen is warm and earthy, totally not what I expected. From the HGTV shows I occasionally watch with Jessica, I know the style of this house would be considered Traditional while I thought Zane’s tastes were more Contemporary. The hotel we stayed at was Contemporary in style, anyway.

  I wonder if Rita is Zane’s mother. Is that why he stays in a hotel? This house isn’t his, but his mother’s. She can’t be, right?

  “Do you know how to use a knife, Cadence?”

  I’m startled by the sound of her voice.

  “Yes… well, kind of.” Cooking meals isn’t something I’m great at, but I can get by. Jessica is totally into that stuff. She occasionally talks about getting married and taking care of a family, cooking for them. I want to make my house a home, turn it into a sanctuary where my husband and kids feel safe and loved, she would say.

  I always thought that sounded nice—like an unattainable fantasy, sure. But nice.

  Thinking of Jessica makes me sad. I haven’t talked to her in a while. I need to change that, and I make an immediate internal promise to call her as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

  Rita pulls a knife from a drawer and points the sharp end at me. Fear slices through my belly, but only for a second.

  “Here. Would you cut up the onion and mushrooms?” She sets the knife on the marbled countertop and pulls out a cutting board.

  “Of course.” I get off the stool and wash my hands in the large stainless steel sink. Then I step in front of the waiting vegetables.

  Rita watches me make the first cut, nods silently, and goes back over to the stove.

  The smell of garlic fills the air and my mouth waters. I chop faster.

  The onion is already peeled and cuts up easily. “Would you like these in the pan?” I ask when I’m finished.

  “Yes, please.”

  Rita steps out of the way and I scoop most of the onion onto the flat part of the knife and toss them in. She already has red and yellow peppers mixed with oil and garlic sautéing.

  I step back over to my cutting board and cut up the mushrooms.

  “Throw those in when you’re finished, dear.”

  “Okay,” I say, but don’t stop working.

  I hear her whipping something up behind me and wonder what it is. When I’m done I toss in the mushrooms. “Anything else?”

  “Grab some wine, would you? A nice red.”

  I’m about to ask her where the bottles are when she points to the other end of the island. I walk over and, sure enough, there’s a wine rack. Bending down, I look through them, but I’m a little overwhelmed. I don’t really drink wine. The cheap stuff isn’t great. Still I pretend like I know what I’m doing. I pull out bottle after bottle, reading the labels, hoping a sign will appear on one that says, “this is the one.”

  After several minutes I still haven’t decided and I hear Rita walk over. “The one in the center will be perfect,” she says.

  “Okay.” I slide the bottle I’d been looking at back in its hole and wish I could climb in there with it. I grab the center bottle and stand.

  “The glasses are over there.” She points in the direction of a set of cupboards near the dining table. After placing the wine on the counter I open the cupboard and pull out two wine glasses. They’re simple and elegant, like this house. Like Rita. Not like me.

  And for the first time in my life I feel like a whore, and the feeling doesn’t settle right. It churns and bubbles. In fact it fucking pisses me off.

  How dare she, I think, even though she hasn’t said or done anything that should make me feel insecure. Gah. I push down those feelings and walk over to the island. Rita has pulled two white plates from somewhere and food is piled on each. There are thick chunks of ham, rice, scrambled egg, and all the vegetables mixed together. It l
ooks delicious and smells even better.

  Rita moves one plate over to the stool I’d been sitting on, opens the wine, and pours two glasses. She sets one in front of my plate and the other in front of what I’m guessing is hers, grabs two linen napkins from a drawer along with two forks.

  “Eat up.”

  I do as she says and revel in the delicious flavors. There’s soy sauce and red pepper flakes melded within the other flavors. I chew, swallow and take a second bite.

  We eat in silence a few minutes. Then Rita sets down her fork and says, “Let’s talk, Cadence dear.”

  “Um, sure.” I don’t want to stop eating, but I follow her lead and set down my fork too.

  She shakes her head. “We can eat and talk.”

  So I pick back up my fork and shovel another bite of ham-fried rice in my mouth.

  Chapter 6

  Cruze

  When Cadence first figured out I wasn’t the John she was supposed to fuck, she mentioned someone by the name of Fileze. Apparently the guy is her pimp. If he set up the date between John Zane and Cadence, maybe he would have some dirt on the asshole. Plenty of guys in Hollywood fuck hookers, but until Cadence I hadn’t been one of them. And finding out where Fileze lived, or worked, or who knew him, was a lot more difficult than I expected.

  Until I call Nigel. It turns out I should’ve called him first.

  “Johnny, how’s it going?” Hearing Nigel’s voice makes me immediately regret my decision to call. “Johnny, ya there?”

  I grit my teeth. “Yeah, Nigel. I have a question. It’s kind of a sensitive matter, though.”

  “Your secret is safe with me. What’s going on? You’d rather fuck Cadence than the bitch, Scarlett?”

  I suck in my breath. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh. I figured you heard Scarlett decided to do her own sex scenes. Her agent called and demanded we not use any of the footage of Cadence and reshoot the scenes with her. That cunt can’t decide what the fuck she wants, but I agreed. I guess your manager hasn’t called you yet.”

  There’s a beep-beep in my ear and I check my phone. It’s Denise, my manager on the other line.

  “Yeah, whatever, that’s fine.” In a way I’m relieved. Sure, Scarlett is hot but, like Nigel said, she’s a bitch and a self-centered one at that. Pretend-fucking her will be easy. No feelings involved. Just acting.

  “Anything else? I get the sense that isn’t why you called.” Nigel seems distracted so I make it fast.

  “Have you heard of a pimp by the name of Fileze?” I hold my breath, waiting. Hoping.

  “Why?” he asks after a long pause.

  “Why do you think? I hear he has the best girls.” Better to let Nigel believe I want his number for a hooker, not because I want to pay him for any information he might have on John Zane.

  “Serious? You didn’t learn your lesson with the tabloids and paparazzi the first time around?”

  “Do you have the number or not?” I ask, trying not to lose my temper. He’s a sleazy asshole, but he’s also the director.

  Nigel chuckles. “Sure, let me pull up his number and I’ll text it to you.”

  I immediately relax. “Thanks, man.”

  “Sure. Oh, and for your information, we’re filming the scene with Scarlett tomorrow. Call time is six in the morning. So,” he clears his throat and continues, “Make plans accordingly.”

  “Good to know.” There’s a ping in my ear. I check my phone and see Nigel has already sent the text. “Got the text. Thanks again.” I hang up before Nigel has a chance to say anything else and quickly dial the number Nigel sent over.

  “Who the fuck is this?” the man on the other end answers.

  “Hey, uh, this is John Cruze. I was—”

  “No fucking way. You shitting me, man?” He starts to speak another language and several others chime in. Fileze is obviously not alone. And he’s probably just told everyone that I called. One call to the paparazzi, that’s all it’ll take, and I’ll be fucked from here til Tuesday in those bullshit magazines. It’s too late to turn back now though.

  Fuck, I suck at this James Bond shit.

  “Look, is there someplace we could meet and talk in private? I’ve got some questions. I could pay you for the information.” I force myself to sound confident. I don’t get paid ten million a film for no reason.

  “Sure. Sure, man. Meet at Divian’s. You heard of it?”

  “Yes.” Hadn’t everyone heard of it? The restaurant was known for serving specialty items, rare dishes no one else could or would serve.

  “Be there in an hour.”

  Fileze ends the call. I stare at it a second, asking myself if I want to go through with it. For Cadence I’ll do anything. I look at the time.

  “Fucking great.” I breathe deeply. If I leave now I might make it in an hour. It depends on how messed up traffic is.

  Chapter 7

  Zane

  “What’s the big fucking emergency, Lincoln?” I ask, sitting behind my desk and pouring another glass of bourbon. I glance at him over the top of my glass and notice he’s totally stressed out. Twitchy. “What?” I prod, setting down the glass.

  “It’s Sokolov. He’s…” Lincoln stops and wipes a hand across his face. I’ve never seen him act like this.

  I clasp my hands together. “Is the meeting still on?” I ask, keeping my voice composed.

  “No, sir. Sokolov has been arrested.” Lincoln closes his eyes and then quickly opens them. They’re clear, unflinching.

  The news is not what I expected. Not even close. News like: Sokolov is dead. Sokolov put a hit out on you. Sokolov has left the country.

  Any of those scenarios would make more sense.

  “Please tell me that for the first time in your life you’re kidding.” I lean forward and clasp my hands together more tightly. I need to reign in my emotions.

  “No, sir. I’m not joking. Our informant on the police force just called not ten minutes ago. It’s true. And the informant says Sokolov is going to talk in exchange for immunity and a promise that they won’t extradite him back to his country.”

  I stand. I can’t help it. “This changes everything.” My throat is in my stomach because I know what has to be done and I don’t want to do it. “Did you draw up the paperwork I asked you to?”

  Lincoln nods. “Yes sir. It’s in that folder there.” He points at the manila envelope next to the keyboard.

  I pick it up and flip it open. Everything looks in order. “Good. You know what needs to be done?”

  “Yes sir. I was just waiting for the go ahead from you.”

  “The sooner it’s done, the better. We leave at four.”

  Lincoln stands. “All will be in order by then.”

  ***

  I finish my drink, take a shot straight from the bottle, and go find Cadence. She’s in the kitchen having sort of a stand off with Rita. I can’t hear what’s being said, but I can tell by the way Rita is standing that she likes Cadence.

  Cadence, on the other hand, reminds me of a flustered chick. Her feathers are ruffled. Rita has a way of doing that.

  A sense of nostalgia consumes me. This could’ve been great, Cadence as a permanent part of this family. But “could’ve been” is the story of my life.

  Clenching my fists together, I steel myself. The last night I spend with Cadence is going to fucking rock.

  “Hey ladies. How’s it going?”

  Rita glances at me. “Jonathon. We’re good. Just giving Cadence the third degree.” She smiles wide, showing all of her teeth.

  Cadence visibly relaxes. She takes another bite of her food. Chews. I’m mesmerized by her mouth, the sensual way it moves regardless of what she’s doing.

  “So, what else do you have planned for me?” Rita asks, putting her plate in the sink. She turns on the water. I walk over and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “That’s all for today. Take the rest of the night off.”

  A very unladylike noise leaves her
lips. Rita pulls off the apron and walks out of the kitchen.

  Chapter 8

  Cadence

  Something is wrong with Zane. I can sense it rolling off him like waves on the sand. He seems upset and is trying too hard not to let it show. That worries me. The first place my mind goes is to Travis, and it’s all I can do not to shake him and ask him what’s the matter.

  I don’t say anything though. Instead I walk my plate to the sink and wait for Rita and Zane to move.

  Rita turns. “I’ll take that, dear. You run along with Jonathon. I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure.” She gives Zane a strange look, one I can’t understand.

  I nod, and a look crosses her face. The same look Zane gives me when I don’t speak my answer. Shit. She must be his mother. “Thanks so much for dinner, Rita.”

  “Of course,” she responds in her clipped voice, then turns back to her work.

  Zane weaves his fingers in mine. We walk out of the kitchen and back up the stairs to the same bedroom I’d fallen asleep in. I take the time to really notice the room, get a feel for it.

  It doesn’t match the rest of the house. The walls are a cool gray. There’s a large chandelier above the bed. The comforter is a shiny gray on the inside and a navy blue around the edges. It almost looks like it’s wet. There’s a shiny black desk with a laptop sitting atop it on the far side of the room. To the left is the entrance to what I’m guessing is the bathroom. On the other side of the bathroom is a large walk in closet. There’s a sitting area in front of a large set of glass doors. The furniture is black leather with pillows propped against the cushions. In the center of the chaise, loveseat, and chair is a small round coffee table; the base is shiny black, the same as the computer desk, and the top is glass. Across from the extra large bed is a dresser, and on other side of the bed are nightstands, which hold sleek black lamps.