by Olivia Arran
“Did he select you for the part? Ask for you specifically?”
My fingers tapped out a staccato beat on the wood as I tried to remember. “Maybe? I don’t know. I get sent offers by my agent and I let her know which ones I’m interested in. She deals with negotiations.” A world apart from when I had first started, with cattle calls and go-sees, not to mention the rejections. “Is it important?”
“Probably not, but we’ll look into it.” He shuffled the papers, not bothering to look up.
“What’s it like?” Angel’s question caught me off guard.
“What?”
“Being a famous model. Being able to pick and choose which jobs you want.”
Ah, that question—the one everyone asks expecting the answer to be “fabulous.”
“It’s good.” I didn’t want to disappoint, but I wasn’t in the mood to wax lyrical about a career that I had every intention of leaving behind.
He blinked, disbelief clear in his voice when he replied. “Good? Don’t you like it? The fame, everyone knowing who you are, recognizing you. Getting to go to all the great parties. And don’t get me started on the perks!”
Maybe if I re-directed his enthusiasm… “You could do it, you know.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. You’re handsome enough and you’d look great on camera.” And the women would love him. But, if I had to be honest, if I had to choose a star from this table, it would be Cole. With his dark, brooding smolder and sinuous grace… I stifled a shiver, memories of him naked flashing through my mind.
Angel’s face split in a grin, which he quickly reassembled into a smirk. Cole, on the other hand, was scowling across the table, the paper in his hand twisting into a crumpled mess. He bit off a low growl, all the while looking like he wanted to reach across the table and wipe the smirk off his friend’s face.
“Hey, sorry, man.” Angel held his hands up, then dragged one through his hair, his smirk widening. “I can’t help looking this good. We model types—” he added on a wink, “—have to stick together.”
Cole’s shoulders sagged, tension seeming to drain out of him. “Yes. You do,” he murmured.
What the hell does he mean by that? It was on the tip of my tongue to ask when I found another picture being shoved in front of my nose.
“Who’s this?” Back to being questioned again by Mr. Asshole.
“Jorge McNeil. Hollywood actor.”
“Stats?”
“Late thirties, though he claims to be younger. I think he was engaged a while back, but I don’t know any details. I’m sure if you went online it would all be there in glorious juicy detail.” Like all the juicy details of my life are on display for the public to consume and spit out. I choked back the bitterness that coated my tongue, pushing on. “There’s been rumors of affairs with women on the sets of his movies, but from what I’ve heard, he’s a nice enough guy. Big ego.”
“And you know what they say about big egos…” Greg added, laughing at his own joke.
Scar leaned over the table, planting an elbow next to Greg’s laptop. She fluttered her eyelashes at him, a devious pout to her lips. “No. Can you explain?”
Panic flashed across the poor man’s face, his fingers frozen for once. “Uh...” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“She’s teasing you,” Vin eventually said, taking pity on him.
“I knew that,” Greg muttered, flushing beet red.
“Have you ever worked with him before?” Cole’s quiet questions cut through the good-natured ribbing and brought us back to task.
“No. He’s been dabbling in modeling and advertising for a while now, but I’ve never been requested to work with him before. And the same goes for the couple of cameos I’ve done in movies.” Which was surprising given that when you reached the top in either business, acting or modeling, it was a small world.
Cole must have thought the same thing. “Why not?”
I gave the question some careful consideration. It was a little weird. “Probably because Jorge is known for romantic comedies and his endorsement campaigns have always been for high-street brands—it suits his image, while I’m known for high-end luxury and editorial fashion.”
“And what type is this job?” He was clearly digging for something, picking at a thread of an idea.
I didn’t even have to think about it. “High end, a luxury perfume brand. Lots of action and glamour and shooting on location. It’s big budget stuff, especially since the client has contracted for three commercials and multiple print.”
“And you’re the glamorous femme fatale wearing the perfume? The woman no man can resist?”
I shrugged off the description, one I had grown to hate. People found it difficult to separate the image from the person, and in real life I was as mysterious and seductive as wet lettuce. “It’s the role I usually get cast in these days. Ever since I got picked up by Naughty Whispers and they chose me to be the face of their brand.”
The guys just nodded, their heads bobbing in unison as their eyes glazed over.
More like the cleavage on the billboard, given that Naughty Whispers was a best-selling lingerie brand. Everyone remembered that photo—it was what I was famous for.
Cole cleared his throat while glaring at his team. “So, why’s Jorge doing an ad campaign like this one when it’s so different from what he usually does?” Cole asked, steering the conversation back on track.
I knew the answer to this one. I had to stop myself from bouncing up and down in my seat like a child wanting to please the teacher. “Because he’s short!” I blurted out.
“Short?” Vin echoed in a puzzled voice.
“Yes, short.” I folded my arms across my chest, taking in their cynical looks. “Jorge is very short for an actor these days, and especially short for a model. It bothers him, and the fact that it does limits what parts he will accept. You won’t find many short models out there, but I’m short, so I’m perfect.”
“Yes, you are.”
I nearly missed Cole’s low mutter, and probably would have if I hadn’t had been looking directly at him and had read it off his lips.
Ignoring the warm glow his words ignited, I jabbed the table to get their attention. “So, Jorge can be crossed off the list of suspects. He’s doing a high-end perfume brand because he wants to work opposite me. Also, I’m bigger than him, which will be good for his image.” Okay, that didn’t come out right.
“Bigger than him? I thought you just said you were shorter.”
Scar cut Greg’s bewildered ramble off by plonking her ass down on the table directly in front of him. “What my lovely, modest sister is trying to say is that she has a higher rating than him.” A dramatic sigh erupted from her at the blank looks. “She’s more popular, and therefore she gets paid more.”
The blank looks were replaced with ones of understanding.
“I still think it’s a stalker,” I mused.
“I hope not,” Cole muttered.
“Why?”
“Because if it is, then we’ve got our work cut out for us.” He indicated a thick stack of paper. “Threatening letters.”
“Okay—”
“From this month alone.”
Ah. “My agency deals with all this stuff. It’s no big deal. It comes with the job.”
This time the growl was directed at me. “It’s no big deal if someone threatens your life?” He fired the words over the table, his face taut with anger.
Chairs scraped back, hands gathering the papers together into large wads. “Uh, I think we’ll—”
“Yeah, we can go check some of these out.”
“Catch you guys later.”
They all spoke at once, already on their way out of the room.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Cole’s eyes were pinning me to the chair.
A kiss brushed against my cheek. “Good luck,” Scar whispered before she ran after them.
Then we were alone.
Again.
Chapter Eighteen
Cole
“I need to go to bed.” Her voice was a soft murmur.
Down boy, I told my wolf. It wasn’t an invite.
I gripped the edge of the table, my fingers digging grooves into the soft wood. Martha was going to kill me when she saw it. She was the part-time housekeeper, though she liked to think of herself as the mother hen to our little wolf pack. She’d taken a couple of days off to visit her grandkids—thank fuck. I could just imagine what she’d say if she were here. Something along the lines of me acting like a fool and didn’t I know how to treat a lady? And then she’d smack me up the side of my head and tell me to make it right.
If only I knew how.
Tasha was already halfway across the kitchen before I snapped out of my little daydream. “Tasha—”
“What?” She sounded bitter, and I couldn’t blame her. She paused with her hand on the door, her head down, shading her eyes from me.
Being a greedy son of a bitch, I let the question hang in the air as I drank her in, committing every detail to memory. The way her cheek curved down to her jaw, the richness of her hair streaming down her back, the dusting of freckles across her shoulders. I should have kissed every single one when I’d had the chance.
She was still waiting, her chest rising and falling in ragged breaths as she struggled to remain outwardly calm.
“Your life is important and no one should be allowed the threaten it,” I eventually said.
She straightened, turning to look at me. “Is that it?”
I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to nod.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why is my life important?”
The bond tugged at me, hurt filtering through and hitting me square in the chest. I couldn’t help myself. She looked so fragile, sounded so lost. I shot out of my seat and strode over to her.
She flung up a hand. “Stop. Please.”
Inches separated us but it felt like a chasm. “Tasha…” It sounded like a plea, but I wasn’t sure. It couldn’t be.
“My life is no more important than any other—”
“I disagree.” I couldn’t imagine a world without her in it, not anymore. Not now that I knew her.
“It’s my own fault. I put myself out there, made my life public.”
I closed the gap between us, her words igniting fury. “No one has the right to threaten you.” I pressed against her, savoring the weight against my chest, the tug as her fingers curled against my shirt and scraping lightly against skin. “You are who you are.”
“Who am I, Cole?” She looked up at me, daring me to answer.
My mate. “A wonderful, kind, warmhearted, talented woman,” I answered out loud, fighting the need to gather her into my arms. “You’re also funny and stubborn and the strongest woman I’ve ever met. Not to mention sexy as hell.”
She blushed, her lashes grazing her cheeks.
“No one has the right to tell you how to live your life. No one should influence your decisions, or your dreams.”
Her eyes flew open, pinning me in place. “Does that include you too?”
Natasha
I can’t believe I actually said that! Cole had frozen beneath my hand. He had a habit of doing that when he was cornered or undecided. It was an unfortunate tell for a man in his profession. Or maybe it was just with me.
As the silence between us lengthened, I tugged the last of my courage forward. “Do you think you should have any say in how I run my life? Can you give me any reason?” He either admitted I was his mate, or he forfeited all rights.
Why am I giving him a second chance after what he just did? The voice inside my head screamed at me, telling me to walk away, but I couldn’t. I had to hear it from him.
“I don’t know what you’re asking,” he eventually said.
I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know he was lying.
Fine. I was done. Giving him a shove, I grabbed the door handle, ready to wrench the sucker open and hopefully smack him in the face. I’d never been one for violence, but at this moment, all bets were off.
“Tasha—”
“Don’t.”
“But—”
“I…said…don’t,” I ground out, doing my best impression of a growl I’d ever heard.
“It’s for the best.”
If he’d kept quiet then maybe he’d have stood a chance of escaping unscathed. I whirled around, my hair whipping across my cheek. “What did you say?” I punctuated each word with a poke to his chest, driving him backward through pure force of will. “You just forfeited all claim to me. You can’t tell me how to live my life. And you tell me it’s for the best? For me? You’re making decisions for me?” My voice rose to a shriek as I prodded him halfway across the kitchen until he stumbled over a chair, landing heavy in the seat with a thud.
His arms closed around me. It had to be in self-defense. “Tasha, listen to me. I’m not good enough for you—”
“Why do you get to decide that?”
He faltered, indecision on his face.
I pounced, not giving him time to recover. “You’re telling me you’re not good enough for me, but isn’t that up to me to decide? That is…if I’m your mate?” There. I’d said it. No take backs, no do-overs allowed. He had to answer.
He paled, his mouth opening and closing in a very good impression of a fish. He didn’t deny it.
I tapped his jaw closed with my finger. “What are you so scared of?” Part of me wanted to understand, but that was a small part hiding behind a whole heap of insecurity and rejection. I didn’t know if I could take it, or if I was strong enough.
But something told me Cole was worth the risk.
Reaching up, he carefully traced the line of my jaw, gently, like I was made of glass. “Of hurting you,” he whispered, his other hand tugging me even closer until I nestled between his legs.
“You already have.” Breathing him in, feeling him strong and warm against me, a wave of calm washed over me. The eye of the storm.
“I didn’t mean to. Didn’t want to.”
“I believe you.” And I did. I could feel he meant it. Somehow.
“You don’t know what kind of man I am.”
“Because every time I get close you push me away. How can I know you?”
His hand brushed down my back in a sweet caress. “You’ll understand. One day.”
“What? That my mate didn’t want me?”
He scowled, shaking his head. “You know that isn’t true.”
Gotcha! I couldn’t stop the grin even though I was close to tears. “So I am your mate.”
His scowl deepened, then twisted into a wry smile. “Trust me to be matched with a woman who has smarts as well as beauty.”
I fluttered my eyelashes at his backhanded compliment, trying to hide the fact that my heart was hammering and threatening to tear its way out of my chest.
His voice thick with barely concealed emotion, he continued, “And talented too. A supermodel. Trust me, you’re a hard woman to resist.”
The smile froze on my lips as his words sunk in, a churning starting in the pit of my stomach. What about me? The real me? I wanted to scream and cry but there wasn’t any point. If he didn’t want me as his mate while I was rich and famous, what chance did I stand when I left it all behind?
“Tasha, I want to ask you what’s the matter, but I think I already know.”
“You do?” I croaked out, stunned that I could still speak.
He nodded, his mouth set in a firm line. “I am sorry. I wish it could be different. That I was different.”
Digging deep I mustered up a backbone. Or a sliver of one anyway. “So do I,” I whispered, pulling away and racing out of the room.
I didn’t look back.
Chapter Nineteen
Natasha
One week later…
“You guys could be so cute together.”
I glanced over at Scar w
here she slouched in a chair, her eyes screwed up against the bright sunlight, her legs swinging over the side.
“Scar…”
“What? You could! That’s if you two ever managed to speak two words to each other without biting each other’s heads off.”
My head whipped around, drawing a low curse from the makeup girl who was trying to do a quick fix between scenes. “I do not bite his head off! He’s the one who—”
“Yadda yadda.” She faked a loud yawn, rolling her eyes. “Whatever, Sis. You guys are—” she lowered her voice to a hiss, “—true mates. You should be together. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, following you around with those big puppy dog eyes.”
I nearly choked on the sip of juice I had just gulped, my eyes burning and watering furiously. Cole—puppy dog eyes?
“The man burns with barely restrained lust.” She fanned herself, her head lolling back, chest heaving in an exaggerated sigh. “Wow, what would it be like to have a man so worked up about you? I’m sure if you tried you could make him lose control…” Her voice was teasing, but the look she shot me was one of pure concern.
“That’s you done, Ms. Silk.”
I turned my attention back to my makeup artist. “Thank you, Angela. Hopefully I won’t need another touch-up and that’ll be you done for the day.”
“Oh, I don’t mind.” She gathered together her brushes, a grateful smile playing on her lips.
Rising from the chair, I forced myself to make my way over to the lake. Now that the rain had paused for twenty-four hours, we were re-shooting the scene from last week. Goody. On the plus side, I’d managed to convince the director, Michael, to shoot me back to back over the last week, and this was my final one. Then I was free. One week early. I’d already packed a bag and made arrangements with my agency and realtor.
I just had to get through this one scene.
A man dressed in black approached me, his eyes focused firmly above my head.
“Vin!”
“Hey, Natasha,” he mumbled, finally meeting my eyes. “Before you ask, we had a vote and Cole will be taking the outer perimeter on this one.”