The Thrill of Temptation (The Fontaines Book 4)

by Ember Casey

  We both fall forward against the mirror, his body pressing against mine. The smooth, cool surface feels so nice beneath my cheek, and I watch my hot, quick breaths fog up the glass as I wait for my heart to slow back down.

  I can’t believe what we just did.

  Orlando turns his head, brushing his lips gently against my hair. I can feel his chest rising and falling deeply against my back. His skin is hot and clammy, but not unpleasantly so. My own skin is damp with perspiration.

  After a moment, he pulls away from me.

  “That was fun,” he murmurs, brushing a few loose strands of hair away from the back of my neck where sweat has plastered them to my skin.

  “That was wonderful,” I sigh. I wish we didn’t have to put our clothes back on and go out among other people again, but I suppose we don’t want to spend the rest of the flight in this cramped little lavatory, either. I reach down and pull my pants back up, then fix my bra and shirt. Orlando does the same, and we only elbow each other a couple of times in the process.

  When we’re both dressed, I twist around to face him again. There’s still warmth in his eyes as he stares down at me, but it’s softer now. He places a hand on either side of my face and brushes a kiss against my forehead.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs. As if I were the one who just did him a favor. “You go out first. I’ll join you in a moment.”

  I nod. I should be ashamed of what we just did, but I’m not. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. And then again after that.

  This is why girls like me don’t normally do things like this, I think. Once we start, we can’t stop. We have no sense of self control. After giving myself another glance in the mirror—my bun only looks slightly messier than before—I open the door and slip back out.

  If anyone in the first-class cabin suspects what we were doing, they don’t show it. No one gives me a second glance as I slip back to my seat. Which is good, because I’d probably just grin at them like an idiot if they said anything.

  Orlando slips back into the seat beside me as I’m settling the complimentary fleece blanket around me. I’m still hot all over—and all-too-aware of the beads of sweat dripping slowly down my back—but the blanket makes me feel less exposed. And now that my desire has been sated—at least for the moment—I’m fully aware of how exhausted I am.

  Orlando must see it, too.

  “You can lean on me if you want to nap,” he says softly.

  “Thank you,” I whisper back. I think I might take him up on that.

  Moments later my head is on his shoulder, and sleep is coming on fast. The last thing that runs through my mind as his head leans against mine is that I want this adventure to last forever.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When Orlando asked me to come to L.A., I never stopped to consider any of the logistics. I guess that’s what happens when you think with your body and not your head, when you let yourself get caught up in exciting fantasies rather than reality. Maybe I can blame the grogginess I still feel after my nap on our flight, but it’s not until our cab pulls into a long driveway that I realize where we’re going.

  “This is your house?” I ask, peering out the window. Orlando pushes a button on his keys to open the big, arching gates. Beyond that is a huge white house with fluted columns and an attached carriage house.

  Talk about living the dream.

  There are houses like this in some of the fancier corners of Atlanta, but something about the big California sky and swaying palm trees just completes the picture. There isn’t much of a lawn to speak of—not in the way you see lawns in Atlanta, anyway—but the grounds are still substantial. Rock gardens, flowering cacti, and succulents are arranged beautifully on either side of the driveway.

  The inside is pretty spectacular, too. Ornate glass doors open onto a round foyer with a fountain in the middle and a wall of spiny, pink-tipped succulents behind the stairway. It’s very modern, and it feels very alive. And though I couldn’t have conjured this up in my own imagination, I can’t imagine a creative genius living anywhere else.

  Orlando tries to take my suitcase from me, but I won’t let him. But I do let him lead me up the winding staircase, past all the succulents. He shows me into a huge bedroom decorated in blues and greens.

  “How do you like it?” he asks. “Enough room for you?”

  “More than enough,” I tell him. “This is like a hotel room!” It’s perfectly decorated, and there’s not a bit of clutter anywhere. “How do you keep it like this? Where’s all your stuff? My bedroom looks like a disaster area half the time.”

  “This isn’t my bedroom,” he points out. “It’s a guest room.”

  “Oh.” I stop my inspection of the room and turn back to him. “I guess that makes sense. We’re no longer thirty thousand feet in the air. I suppose we’re back to the old rules.” He might have lost himself in the heat of the moment on the plane, but even though he promised to do me a hundred different ways when we reached L.A., things might be different now that we’re on the ground again.

  He hesitates. “Yes, we should abide by the original rules, at least until you get your final paycheck.” Suddenly, almost uncharacteristically, he jerks a hand through his hair. “But who am I kidding? You’re staying in my house, for fuck’s sake. Now that I’ve had a taste of you, I don’t think I can stay away.” Slowly, his face spreads into a smile. “Still, it might be nice for you to have your own space. After all, until a couple of hours ago we’d never done more than kiss. I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

  I feel myself blush. “I guess that’s a good reason.”

  He walks over to me and pulls me into his arms, that wolfish expression in his eyes.

  “You’re welcome to climb into my bed any night of the week,” he says. “Or invite me into yours.”

  “I don’t know,” I say coyly. “Maybe I shouldn’t be too eager. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me.”

  “And what idea would that be?”

  “That I can’t control myself around you. That all you have to do is snap your fingers and I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “Hm. Is that so?” He reaches up and weaves his fingers in the hair on either side of my head. His hands are so large, nearly encompassing my face, and I ache to feel those hands on other parts of my body again. Our encounter in the airplane lavatory was far too brief. I’d like to see what he can do with a little more time. And space.

  Judging by the look in his eyes, he feels the same way. His hands slide slowly down my neck, one spread on either side of my throat as if seeing how much skin he can touch at once. His face moves a little closer, and I let my eyes fall shut.

  His breath stirs across my lips, but his kiss never comes. After a brief moment, he sighs. When I open my eyes, he’s already straightened again. His hands drop from my neck, but slowly, as if he’s loath to let go.

  “I need to go visit my family,” he tells me. “See how my father is doing. Will you be all right here for a little while? Or would you rather I dropped you off somewhere? There are some shops nearby. And a coffee place that’s pretty good.”

  I’m too embarrassed to remind him that I don’t exactly have the money for a shopping spree. And I imagine a latte here in L.A. will cost me seven dollars or more.

  “I’ll just wait here,” I tell him.

  “Okay.” He smiles, though the mention of his father seems to have brought his mood down slightly. He looks exhausted again. “Feel free to make yourself at home. My house is yours while you’re staying here.”

  “I will,” I tell him. It’s not every day I’m given free rein of a place like this, and I’m not the sort of girl who turns down an offer like that out of a sense of politeness.

  “Good,” he says, and the way he smiles at me indicates that he’s recognized the mischievous gleam in my eyes. “I should be back in a couple of hours. I’m not sure how much food there is in the kitchen, so feel free to order in if the cabinets are bare.” He leans down and gives me a soft�
��if not exactly chaste—kiss on the cheek before smiling once more and heading back down the stairs.

  I turn around to look at the room again. I guess there’s no better time than now to unpack.

  For the next half hour, I pull everything out of my suitcase and hang it up in the massive closet. In my rush to pack this morning I wasn’t very careful, and most of my clothes are wrinkled and messy, but hopefully a few hours dangling from a hanger will solve most of that. If not, I’d be shocked if Orlando didn’t have some sort of fancy steamer around here somewhere.

  One of the last things I pull out of my suitcase is my swimsuit. You can’t go to California without a bikini, can you? Curious, I walk over to the window, and I’m thrilled to see that there’s a massive pool out back. I know what I’m doing this afternoon.

  In five minutes, I’m in my swimsuit and bounding happily down the stairs. My journal is under one arm—I might as well take advantage of the alone time—and a beach towel I found in the bathroom closet is under the other. I’m going to spend my first day in L.A. living it up in style.

  And it comes as no shock to me that the back patio is the epitome of style. Cushioned patio furniture surrounds a long pool with a hot tub on one end, and both the pool and the hot tub are bordered by beautiful patterned tiles. Spiny plants in blue-painted pottery sit at regular intervals along the edge of the patio, and beyond that, there are palm trees and rows of garden beds filled with succulents and other desert plants. It’s a little slice of paradise.

  I plop into one of the cushioned lounge chairs resting just inside the shade cast by the house. Flipping open my journal, I scribble down a brief update about everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours—blushing when I write about our encounter on the plane, even though I leave out most of the dirty details—then lean back and do a quick sketch of the pool and yard. I don’t think I’ll run out of things to draw while I’m here—I definitely need to draw the front of the house, and my bedroom, and I’d like to at least attempt a doodle of that succulent wall. I could probably fill up an entire journal with notes and sketches about the things that I encounter on this trip.

  It’s not until I’m doodling some of the palm trees that things start to feel real. That what I’ve done begins to sink in. I just picked up and left on a whim, pausing only long enough this morning to email my parents and brother and tell them where I was going. I didn’t even give them all the details, just mentioned that my sudden departure had to do with Death and Deadly Night. I’m not sure I’m ready to explain this whole Orlando Fontaine thing to my parents yet. If I ever do.

  Am I an idiot? Should I have been more responsible? I jumped into midair without pausing to look down, without any idea of where I might land or how far I might fall. I still know very little about Orlando. I don’t even know how long he intends for me to stay with him, or what he expects to happen after that. Is this just a fling, or does he want more? Do I want more? Maybe he just needed someone here for emotional support while he deals with his father’s health—or maybe he simply wants a distraction. At the end of the day, I’m at the whims of his desires.

  I find myself thinking about that motivational speaker again, the one who encouraged his viewers to say “Yes!” to unexpected new experiences. I’ve certainly done that. And I’ve never felt more wild, more alive. A little spontaneity is good for us, right?

  But what happens when real life catches up with me again? What will I do then?

  With a sigh, I toss my journal aside. I’m going to drive myself crazy, thinking myself in circles like this. And I’m going to miss what’s right in front of me.

  Leaping up from the lounge chair, I walk over to the edge of the pool. I’m in California, in Orlando Fontaine’s mansion, and I’m going to enjoy myself. And that means diving into this gorgeous pool.

  As the cool water closes over me, all my worries seem to evaporate. I swim under the water, kicking down until I can graze the tiled bottom of the pool with my fingers. The sunlight makes beautiful shimmering patterns on the glossy tiles. When I finally run out of breath and break the surface of the water again, I feel like a new person. And I’m bursting with energy.

  Laughing, I float on my back, just letting the water hold me. The sky is a beautiful blue overhead, and there are only a handful of white clouds, pushed along at a steady pace by a cheerful wind. I hope I have the chance to go to the beach while I’m here. I haven’t seen the Pacific since I was six, which hardly counts.

  In the meantime, this pool suits me just fine. I’m in California, simply enjoying myself, and this morning I had sex with Orlando Fontaine. In an airplane bathroom! What more could a girl want?

  I don’t even realize I’m still laughing until a voice reaches me, slightly muffled by the water around my ears.

  “Is there something funny about breaking into someone’s house?”

  Awkwardly flapping my arms, I manage to twist around and get my feet under me again. When I turn, there’s a man standing on the edge of the pool. A man I recognize.

  “You’re Dante Fontaine,” I say.

  He looks exactly like he does in the tabloids—tall, dark, and handsome, with a perfect square jaw and eyes that remind me so much of Orlando’s. He’s always had a reputation for being serious, even brooding, and at a glance I can tell that the rumors are true. He looks like a man who means business, and he shares something of Orlando’s intensity. But while Orlando’s fierce nature is born of a deep passion for what he does, Dante strikes me more as a man whose intensity comes from a need to be in control of every situation—or perhaps I’m just projecting my ideas of how an oldest sibling must think and behave. He certainly looks like he’s ready to do anything on behalf of his youngest brother.

  “You’ll leave this property at once,” he says, not even bothering to confirm his identity. “Or I’ll have the police escort you out.”

  “Wait a minute. This is a misunderstanding.” I try to sound like I have every right to be here—which I do—but I’m not sure if I’m succeeding. “Orlando invited me to stay here.”

  “Orlando isn’t even here,” he points out. “And he doesn’t invite strange women to move in with him.”

  “I’m not a strange woman!” I insist. I start moving to the pool ladder, thinking I’ll feel more confident if I don’t have to look up at him, but there’s also a certain amount of emotional security in having the water nearly up to my shoulders. “Orlando and I met in Atlanta. I was an extra in Death and Deadly Night.”

  “For a stalker, you aren’t even a particularly good one,” he comments. “Or you would have known that Orlando doesn’t cross personal and professional lines. He’d never bring home a woman from one of his movies.”

  “My part in the movie is over,” I insist. “And he did invite me here. Call him up and ask him yourself. Or go upstairs and look in the guest room—all my things are there.”

  He doesn’t look the least bit convinced. And when he pulls out his phone, I suspect it’s not Orlando he intends to call.

  I hurry up the pool ladder, splashing water everywhere. “Please. Don’t call the police. My name is Maggie Blankenship. Orlando invited me here. He got a call last night that your father isn’t doing well and asked me to come out here with him.”

  If anything, that seems to make Dante even more suspicious. His eyes narrow at me.

  “You have one more chance to leave.” He raises his hand with the phone, his thumb hovering over what I assume is the call button.

  “Call Orlando,” I beg him again. “He’ll tell you everything.”

  But I can see it’s a lost cause. So I do the only thing I can think to do. As Dante’s thumb moves down toward the call button, I lunge at him, trying to grab the phone out of his hand.

  Instead, I end up accidentally pushing both him and the phone toward the pool.

  For a split second, it’s like everything happens in slow motion. Dante teeters on the edge of the pool, looking briefly like he might manage to regain his b
alance, but then he tips forward, falling into the water with a huge splash.

  And I stand there frozen on the edge of the pool, staring after him with horror.

  My first instinct is to run. If Dante didn’t trust me when he found me floating peacefully in the pool, he’s definitely not going to trust me now. If he thinks I’m some sort of stalker who broke onto Orlando’s property, I’ve done nothing to convince him otherwise and everything to convince him that I have something to hide. I’m afraid running will only make me look guiltier, though.

  But I’m not sure exactly what I should do, especially when Dante regains his feet and stares up at me. Water sloughs off of him, and his drenched clothes cling to his body. He pushes his wet hair out of his eyes and glares up at me as if I pushed him in on purpose.

  Yeah, I definitely should have run. I should have darted upstairs and grabbed my phone and called Orlando myself. He would have set everything straight. Now I’m probably going to be hauled off in handcuffs, or at least drop-kicked unceremoniously out onto the street in just my swimsuit.

  “That was an accident,” I say. Not that it’ll do me any good.

  Dante looks ready to tear me a new one, but as he opens his mouth, the sound of laughter carries from the door leading back inside.

  We both turn our heads. Another one of Orlando’s brothers stands there—another man I recognize immediately on sight.

  Luca Fontaine is one of the biggest celebrities in the world. And I suspect he would have been one of the biggest celebrities even if he hadn’t been born into a Hollywood dynasty. He’s probably the most objectively attractive person I’ve ever seen, with his golden hair and Adonis-like face. He’s just one of those people who draws your eye, who makes you feel like you’re in the presence of someone spectacular. It’s almost unsettling.