Cherry Bomb: Forbidden Bad Boys

by Clara Leigh

  He pats his companion’s arm, while shooting her a crocodile smile.

  That’s one of the things about events such as this: it’s compulsory to beam at everyone. You never know when some pap is going to be pointing a camera at you, or the hotshot director you’re desperate to work with might glance in your direction. We even smile at the idiots that made our lives hell in drama school.

  “Do you know Everly?” Dare asks.

  “Um, no.”

  “Everly James, this is Felicity Caine.”

  I offer her a curtsey because that’s the polite thing to do, and I don’t want to get close enough to exchange air kisses for fear of sustaining radiation burns. “Lovely to meet you,” I lie. It’s not remotely lovely. She’s completely toppled my apple cart.

  “The pleasure is absolutely mine.”

  Damn her, does she have to sound so sincere?

  “I love your shows. I grew up watching them.”

  I look closely at her again, and realise she’s still impossibly young. Probably younger than I am, which means she’s definitely too green to be dating a scoundrel like Dare Wilde.

  “Is your sister not here tonight?” she asks.

  “No. I’m with Tyler.”

  Shit, I didn’t mean for that to come out as it sounded. Now not only is Dare looking at me with his eyebrow cocked—like he has a right to comment considering how he propositioned me when he’s clearly got something going with Everly—but Tyler’s no doubt convinced he’s in with a chance. Dammit! I only meant that he invited me to be his plus one for the night, nothing more, but there’s no opportunity to explain, because Tyler’s straight in with the handshakes and the kisses. Then he’s wrapping his arm around my shoulders like he’s entitled to that level of intimacy.

  Dare’s brows take another step towards his hairline, while Everly, clearly sensing that this is awkward, blinds us with an even more monumental smile. It’s a blessed relief when a tannoy announcement instructs us to please take our seats as the event is being televised live, and the broadcast will being in five minutes.

  “How do you know Dare Wilde?” Tyler demands the moment we sink into the plush chairs.

  “I don’t exactly.” I resent the accusation in his voice, as if I’ve been holding out on him, or I’ve conned him out of something by not sharing the information.

  “That’s not how it sounded, Felicity.”

  Urgh! I’m not Felicity. I don’t want to be Felicity.

  I’d much rather be Flicka, the woman who dared to steal kisses from Dare Wilde’s lips while he slept, and who gets weak at the knees over the way a particular man sounds the syllables of her name. He makes it sound like a dirty caress—Flick-ah. Oh yeah! And now my panties are damp.

  My nipples go tight like two bullets as I progress from the sounds he makes to the filthy deeds I’d like to see him use his dirty mouth to perform.

  “Jeezus! Are you seeing him?”

  Oops! I’d momentarily blanked Tyler out. In my defence, it’s quite easy to do. He doesn’t have Dare’s presence, nor Everly’s, for that matter.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve only met him once before tonight.”

  “Excuse me if I think it’s odd that you’ve met him at all. Where exactly have your paths crossed? It’s not as if you move in remotely similar circles.”

  “We bumped into one another two minutes ago, didn’t we?”

  Tyler chews over this particular point for several seconds.

  The truth is that award ceremonies are pretty much the only place our paths would cross, short of us ending up working on the same production. It’s not as if we have any mutual friends or there’s any possibility of us attending the same parties.

  There are whole paragraphs in my contract with the studio about what sort of social gatherings I’m permitted to attend. Basically, anything that Dare Wilde isn’t likely to be present at.

  “You’ve been standoffish with me tonight.”

  That has nothing to do with Dare.

  “I’ve heard he’s gay.”

  That is the biggest load of twaddle I’ve ever heard. Dare Wilde is all about the pussy. I know, he offered to stroke mine. “I’ve heard you’re gay,” I retaliate. Tyler sinks deep into his seat, clearly mortified by this revelation.

  “You know that’s not true, right?”

  “Didn’t think for a second it was. Not that it would have been a problem. I’m just saying we all have stuff printed about us that isn’t necessarily accurate.”

  “Who said it? Where did you hear that rumour about me?”

  I don’t know whether to be relieved or to laugh at the fact he’s more worried about his image than my connection—more like lack of—to Dare Wilde.

  However, it’s only after the lights have gone down that I realise I’ve wasted an opportunity to insinuate a connection between myself and Dare. Tyler’s a gossip. The rumour would have gone twice around the theatre before the night was through. A picture wouldn’t even have been necessary.

  Except, for as long as Dare has Ms. James on his arm, the columnists are going to be far more interested in them gazing adoringly at one another than some spurious rumour that Dare and I are seeing one another.

  Guess that makes it a good thing that it’s a missed opportunity.

  ***

  The next few hours drag by. Tyler loses out to Dare, who takes to the stage no less than five times. Dare snogs everyone he accepts an award from or hands one to. Yes, I get a teeny bit jealous. By the time we leave our seats, I’m so ready for a drink I’m ready to rugby tackle my way through to the bar. We’re still several yards away when Tyler’s agent grabs him and steers him in the opposite direction for some targeted smoozing of various industry sponsors, directors, and studio owners. The after awards party is basically a concerted crusade on the part of the wannabes to convince the right people they’re bankable. Chinchilla owns me, so it’s not even worth my time to smile at the bigwigs.

  The vibrating of my phone provides me with the perfect opportunity to linger on the periphery after I lose track of Tyler in the crowd.

  Flo: I’ve just seen you on TV. You look amazing.

  My sister is such a sweetie.

  Flo: I’m so jealous. How’s things with T? He looks hot. Such a shame he didn’t win.

  Flicka: T’s talking shop. Totally wish you were here.

  Flo: Me too. I’m so jelly.

  Poor thing’s stuck at home gargling hot lemon and honey water because her throat is so hoarse after spending yesterday and today in a north London recording studio. I almost envy her. Leastways, I envy the opportunity to slouch around in PJs and a dressing gown. These heels are killing me. Normally I’m a boots and hoodies kind of girl.

  Flicka: I bumped into DW.

  Flo: And? Are you OK? Did he say something to you?

  I swipe across the phone blanking the screen rather than replying. If I mention the stalking remark, she’ll only worry.

  I wonder what Dare’s up to right now? He probably has his hand up Everly’s skirt.

  “Miss Caine, you seem to be without a drink.”

  This man moves far too bloody quietly. If he wasn’t a film star, I’m sure he could have made an excellent living as a cat burglar. I look up at Dare, and fix on the same slightly pinched smile everyone around here is sporting.

  “Did you mislay your date?” he asks, handing me something with an olive in it. Dirty, wet martini, very smooth. But then he looks every inch as if he’s auditioning for the role of a secret agent.

  “Tyler went ahead. He needed to talk to someone.” I sweep my gaze across Dare’s form, from the tips of his shiny shoes, to the light shadow of stubble on his jaw. He has an award clutched in his hand.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  For some unfathomable reason, a lump forms in my throat. I don’t know what the hell to say to him. I asked. He shot me down. I’m not sure where we go next, not when Everly’s in the picture.

 
“Got something you need to say?” he asks.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about—”

  “Us?” He gives his head a tiny shake. “Did you change yours?”

  I also shake my head. That’s not to say that I haven’t totally considered the possibility from every angle. Having an all-out kinky love affair with this man would be… Well, it’d be wild…

  It’d also be akin to lighting a candle with a stick of dynamite.

  “You know bad girls are bankable,” he says with a wink.

  “Yeah,” I drawl in reply. I try, just for a moment as I drink down the sharper lines of his face and those chocolate swirl eyes of his, to convince myself that handing over my V-card to him wouldn’t be career suicide. That maybe being wicked could work out well. Chinchilla wouldn’t like it, but other studios might come calling. Sadly, the more likely reality is that I’d alienate my core audience. Not sure how much they’d like my metamorphosis from sweetly-nerdy teen to toxic tearaway.

  “So what’s the story with you and Tyler? Is he plan B?”

  Plan T—not that it’s any of Dare’s business.

  “He’s not really what you’re looking for is he, Flicka?”

  Tyler’s fine. “Not everyone wants wild and dangerous.”

  “Not everyone,” he agrees. “But you do.”

  I’m not sure that I like that he recognises that fact.

  “Sometimes a girl has to settle. You turned me down.”

  “No. I refused to be your mistake. I’m absolutely ready to take you for a ride. Just tell me when and where.”

  Here and now.

  I don’t say it, but I swear I think it loud enough that he hears me.

  He takes the phone I still have clutched in my hand from me, and types something in.

  Damn—he can’t go giving me his number!

  Shit! He gave me his number.

  “Call me, Flicka.”

  My heart judders at the thought of sitting curled in bed later and ringing his number. Of jamming the phone against my ear and doing dirty things to myself while he listens in.

  I guess my thoughts show on my face, because his nostrils flare as if he’s scenting excitement.

  I scroll to the number he’s just added and go back and forth over whether to delete it. “What about your date? Isn’t she going to be pissed to learn you’re handing out your number to other women?”

  “My date?” he says, like he hasn’t a clue what I’m talking about. His brows furrow, forming a slight V in their centre.

  “Ms. James.”

  “Everly!” The bastard starts laughing. “She’s not my date.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “Flicka, she’s my sister.”

  I blink at him, wondering if we’ve magically been transported to some script read through session. Of course the gorgeous woman with him is his sister. Who else would she be?

  “She’s not your current bed mate?”

  He makes disgusted choking noises.

  “But she’s one of the Woodrows.”

  Tyler made sure to tell me that.

  “That’s right. Just like me. I’m Alasdair Woodrow.” He gawps at me. “And I can’t believe you didn’t know that.”

  I stare at him, mouth flapping open. How could I have failed to realise that Dare Wilde is a stage name. It’s so obvious. And of course he’s a Woodrow. The family resemblance is written right there in his face.

  “The whole clan’s here tonight, mum, dad, sibs, grandad. Only the Borrower is missing. It’s past her bedtime.”

  I have no idea who the Borrower is. I’m assuming a younger sibling, but the rest of them, hell yeah. Leonard Woodrow and Lillianna James are Hollywood royalty. Grandad is Albert Woodrow. That guy’s a living legend. He’s been making films since the golden era. Everly, of course, I’ve met, and that leaves Charles “Chase” Woodrow. One of the few actors that could give Dare a run for his money.

  “We can do introductions if you like?”

  “No… No, I’m fine.”

  “Happy hiding in the corner… from your date.”

  “That’s ri— I’m not hiding.”

  He straightens up and adjusts his jacket cuff, whereupon, I catch a swift glimpse of ink inside the snow-white linen. He’s wearing cufflinks. Who the hell does that outside of the Bond franchise and presidential dinners?

  “Let’s mingle. It draws too much attention if we’re standing still.”

  Mingle? I can’t be seen with him.

  What am I saying? This is my plan, be seen with him. Imply something exists that doesn’t. Sow doubts in the minds of the Chinchilla suits.

  Dare’s hand lands in the small of my back and I don’t stop him as he steers me through the ranks of the rich and famous. I recognise so many faces, but the only one I want to study in greater depth is Dare’s.

  We stop right out in the open, well away from any walls or convenient hiding spots.

  “Do you realise that you forgot the most important aspect when you propositioned me the other night?” He touches my hair as he speaks, tucks a stray strand behind my ear. “You never explained what was in it for me—to be seen with you—if it’s not the chance to fuck you.”

  I heat. Tendrils of fire snake across my breasts and throat. “For god’s sakes keep your voice down.” We’re surrounded.

  He leans closer, so that his whisper soft breath brushes against my cheek. Oh, sweet baby Jesus! It’s hard to know which is worse, him starting rumours by leaning too close or giving the game away by speaking too loudly.

  “Back off,” I plead, while longing for him to do the exact opposite. “People will talk.”

  Several of those around us are already staring.

  “I thought getting them to talk was the whole idea.”

  Two days ago it definitely was. Now, I’m beginning to see Flo’s point about the risks involved and the potential for it all backfiring. Dare Wilde isn’t going to let me stand up and tell the world it was all a big misunderstanding. But nor will he allow me to claim any sort of attachment that isn’t real.

  I’m too big a chicken to make it real.

  Or am I?

  The risks are huge.

  “Take my hand, Flicka.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can dance, obviously.”

  Dance? Why would we dance? Yet I take his hand and we do just that, as if we are Fred and Ginger in that biography they did about Vernon and Irene Castle, dancing while everything is on the brink of collapse.

  Someone takes our picture.

  Several someones take our picture.

  I suspect several recordings are also being made and uploaded.

  Dare’s started something now, despite his insistence that he wouldn’t be used. I guess that means he’s going to insist I cough up.

  “I don’t take anyone to bed with me who doesn’t want to be there,” he says, causing my eyes to widen. “Don’t think I can’t see what’s in your head, Flicka Caine.”

  “You’ve no idea what’s in my head.”

  “Don’t I?” He leans in close again so that his lips are only just shy of my cheek. “Call me later and we’ll talk about it.”

  We develop a telepathic bond in that moment. I can see into his head and he can see into mine.

  Oh, hell, his fantasies are dirty, way dirtier than mine, filthy enough to make every square inch of my skin heat.

  Shit! What have I started? My teeth rake across my lower lip, probably wrecking the perfectly applied gloss, but what the heck! That doesn’t seem important right now, not when Dare Wilde is offering to smear lipstick right across my face for the whole world to see.

  And I actually want him to.

  I need to get away from him fast.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Don’t be silly. You want to negotiate, don’t you?”

  I don’t think my image of that negotiating process should involve him in a pair of leather pants and me kneeling b
efore him wearing nothing but heels, handcuffs, and a pair of nipple tassels.

  Jeezus, somebody save me from him. Save me from myself.

  My phone bleeps, alerting me to yet another text message from Flo. Shit! Is someone live streaming us? Is she witnessing this madness between myself and Dare?

  I push him away. Or rather, I try to. He doesn’t move a frickin” inch.

  “Call me, Flicka.”

  “No.”

  He smiles that lopsided smile of his due to his silvered scar.

  “You started this.”

  “And now I’m finishing it.”

  He laughs hard. “We’ll talk later, Flicka. I’ll look forward to it. Text me. I should be home by four.”

  “Ain’t happening.” I still have half an alphabet to go before I have to resort to plan seX.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t want to do bad things with me.”

  What I’d like to do with him and what I’m actually prepared to do are two entirely separate things. “Doesn’t matter what I want.”

  “It should,” he mouths, leaning in. “Don’t doubt that I very much want you, Flicka Caine.”

  “Only because I said no.”

  He holds me in thrall with his gaze. “Can’t deny it makes things interesting.” He cups my cheek with his hand, and I realise what he’s going to do. He’s going to kiss me, right now, right here, where the world’s press can see us. I realise it, and the only thing I do is part my lips, because as much as I know I ought to stop him, I don’t actually want to.

  Dare Wilde is right. I do want him. I want to do very bad, very dirty things with him. Things that good girls with Chinchilla contracts very definitely aren’t supposed to do, or even think about wanting to do.

  I wonder how dirty he really is.

  How dirty am I prepared to be?

  I don’t even know if I like sex yet.

  “Tell me you want it, Flicka.”

  “I want this,” I confess, sealing my pact with this devil.

  “Good girl.” He kisses me, and I nearly die on the spot.

  His lips are strong and soft, the taste of him is everything I remember, only better.