Kiss Talent Agency Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Virna DePaul

  “Marissa Woodcrest,” I say softly, feeling his strong, rough, slightly callused but wonderfully warm and pleasant skin against mine.

  To my horror, that fantasy plants itself and starts to grow roots. Now those hands are delving under my skirt. And I thought my skirt couldn’t get any wetter.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” he says, all cordial and stiff, like British royalty, and yet he still manages to put all my thoughts right in the gutter.

  “Since I have no idea what you’re talking about, I’m not sure I can say the same yet. How can you help me? And why would you want to?”

  He grins. “Because, love, my sister nearly lost her job before you spoke up in there.”

  “Oh.” My mom can be such a bitch sometimes. Most times. Really, all the time. I wave in the general direction of the dining room. “That’s June Woodcrest for you. She’s all bark, though. Very little bite. Usually. I’m sorry.”

  Okay, I’m just babbling now. But he still hasn’t gotten to the part about helping me. Though I’m sure those strong hands of his could help me, very, very well, if they were under my skirt right about now. I’d be able to forget about my mom, about Charles, hell, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t even remember my own name.

  I blink and realize he’s staring at me with this amused grin on his face. I’ve seen that grin before. Déjà vu ripples through me a third time. Where do I know him from?

  “Marissa!”

  The gentle clinking of silverware and crystal from the dining room is shattered when the glass-paneled door swings open and my mother appears, her face still pinched with the disappointment I’d put on it. When she steps into the hallway, her eyes land on me, and then Simon, and her expression morphs in an instant.

  “As I was saying,” Simon suddenly says, very loudly, “I just wanted to stop by and make sure you’re okay. I missed you terribly, love.”

  “Er…” What is he…

  “Hello.” My mom says in her charming voice, the one she usually uses when addressing Charles. We both turn to her. She extends her hand to him, knuckles up, like she’s waiting for him to kiss them. “June Woodcrest. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

  He takes her hand gently and bows, exuding a Prince Charming grace. Freaking Benedict Cumberbatch or Colin Firth or Tom Hiddleston couldn’t have done it better. “Simon Richards,” he says. “The pleasure is indeed all mine. Marissa, dear, you never told me what a stunning mother you have.”

  My mother lets out a giggle reserved for a schoolgirl. That’s one thing about my mom. She loves—and hates—hard, based entirely on appearances. Expensive clothes? Check. Exceedingly handsome? Check. Bowing in reverence to her? Check. And BAM, just like that, she’s smitten. For the fifth time since I’ve laid eyes on this guy, my mouth is hanging open.

  He turns to me. “Did you have a lovely lunch with your charming family?”

  Charming? I nearly snort out loud. And lovely? Not exactly the word I would have used to describe that dogfight. “Oh. Yes,” I mumble, still trying to grasp what’s happening before my eyes. Is he…this beautiful angel of a guy….really my saving grace?

  “Marissa was just telling us all about you, Simon,” my mother says with sugared sweetness. “She must have told you about her recent break up with Charles?”

  “Oh, indeed, she did.” He plants a hand on my mother’s shoulder, and the oddest thing is, she lets him. She’s usually weird about strangers messing up her silk dresses with their greasy hands. “That a man would treat your gorgeous daughter in that way is shameful. I believe women should be respected. Appreciated. Adored. Worshipped.”

  Okay, that’s going a little too far. But wait… Is that a bit of drool in the corner of my mom’s mouth? She’s totally falling for it—hook, line and sinker. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out except a dreamy sigh.

  I’m getting wet again, so I guess I’m falling for it, too. Simon wraps an arm around me. He pulls me close so that I feel the hard length of his body pressed against mine, and that aftershave…oh, Lord. I wouldn’t mind being worshipped by him, even for just one night.

  But really, he must have women lining up to be on the receiving end of his adoration, if he’s this good an actor.

  Wait.

  Actor.

  I flinch and look up at him. Holy shitballs. Larissa always makes fun of me because I love trashy television shows. And it suddenly dawns on me that Simon Richards looks a lot like the male lead in Alien Love. The heroine, Candace Porter, played by the gorgeous Ava Brice, is just a normal waitress who meets an alien from the planet BORG-18 who has been abandoned, à la ET, and her whole job is to get him home while government officials chase after them. But while she’s helping him, they fall in love. It’s steamy and sexy, and hot…also cheesy as hell, but whatever.

  No, this Simon’s skin isn’t tinted green, he has a scar uncovered by makeup, he’s speaking in an English accent rather than an alien one, and he’s wearing way more clothing than he usually does, but it’s him. He’s Borg, the hot alien with the rippling biceps from the planet BORG-18.

  No wonder he’s so good at this. He’s a fucking actor.

  Only I’ve seen the end credits rolling down the screen, and the name of the actor who plays Borg is Simon Dale not Simon Richards.

  He probably just uses a stage name. A lot of actors do.

  It’s hard to be sure, though, because the only pictures I’ve seen of Simon Dale have been blurry photos in tabloid magazines, or photos where he’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. He’s either exceptionally good at avoiding the paparazzi or the world just doesn’t share my fascination with him. Hell, I’ve fantasized about having my own close encounters with Borg for quite some time now.

  Despite managing to avoid being photographed a lot, I vaguely remember hearing that Simon Dale has dated (and dumped) every single one of his leading ladies—of which Ava Brice is the only one with any amount of name recognition.

  Could this high-brow British hunk actually be the same man?

  I peer closer at him and I’m convinced I’m right.

  Holy Mother of all that is Mercy.

  “That’s wonderful, Mr. Richards. Our Marissa is the apple of our eye and deserves a good man,” my mom finally says.

  I almost roll my eyes, because the last time I looked, my mom thought I deserved to be raked over hot coals. But I’m too busy freaking out—I’m standing next to Simon Fucking Dale! Apparently my gift for attracting—and being attracted to—bad boys, even when I’m trying not to be, is still extremely powerful.

  “What is it you do for a living?” Mom asks.

  Oh, no. Oh no no no.

  Most people might be excited to meet an actor, but not my mom. My dad has several business connections with Hollywood players, but my mom’s been disdainful of even that. Maybe if she met Leonardo diCaprio, it would be a different story. But not the hunky alien actor of some B-rated show who is known more for his rippling ab muscles and serial dating than Oscar potential. I stare at him, trying to transmit this telepathically, but he doesn’t even look at me.

  “I’m in business for myself. Rather dry, honestly.”

  My heart has stopped beating, as if it’s waiting for this house of cards he’s constructing to come tumbling down. But it doesn’t. He turns to me and lays those eyes on me. How can sea blue eyes be smoldering? “Don’t deny me again, love. I want you with me tonight.”

  My entire body ripples with sensation. I want you. Even if he is a B-Actor, he’s convincing as hell because my nipples are tingling and my whole body is buzzing for him.

  My mother lets out another dreamy sigh. It’s written all over her face: Charles Who? She puts an arm around both of us and nudges us closer together. “Well, we’re all done here. Why don’t you take Marissa off our hands right now?”

  I love how somehow I sound like a pet schnauzer in this scenario. “Wait. What?”

  “Excellent. I’ll drive you home,” he says.

  “You will?” I
blurt out at the exact same time my mom says, “That would be lovely.”

  As if sensing my tension, he takes my arm and murmurs in my ear, “It’s just a ride.”

  Right. A ride with the hot alien Borg. Could this day get any more bizarre?

  Simon nods at my mother. “I’ll just have the valet bring around my Porsche.”

  He jogs off, and my mother’s just grinning after him like a fool. She squeezes my side, and suddenly I’m her favorite daughter again. Kenny and Larissa come into the hallway. “Who was that?” Larissa asks.

  “Marissa’s new beau,” my mother says, her voice still dreamy as she stares off to where he’s speaking with the valet. She looks at me. “Do bring him by to meet your father this week, okay, dear?”

  Great. Now she has a British accent, too. I wonder what she’ll think if she ever sees him speaking Alien, his rippling abs on full display.

  Not going to happen. It can’t.

  Shit. I need to get a real boyfriend to replace my fake boyfriend who replaced my real boyfriend, stat.

  Mom, Larissa, and Kenny return to the dining room, and for some reason, instead of hightailing it out of there, I’m still standing there when Simon jogs back to me. He takes my hand and then before I realize it, we’re outside, waiting for his car.

  I let go of his hand and cross my arms, my heart pounding, anxiety filling me. What was I thinking, going along with this? I’m completely insane! I don’t do things like this, take risks like this, not anymore. I keep looking up at Simon, then back to the ground, and I’m fidgeting so badly he probably thinks I have to pee or something.

  A fire-engine red Porsche 911 Turbo pulls up, and he opens the door before the valet can get around to it. I can’t help it. A thrill runs up my spine and I vaguely recognize the sensation as excitement. I’m excited by the risk of the little charade Simon and I have started. By the fact I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Easy, Marissa. Don’t let this get away from you.

  “I know who you are,” I murmur as I slide into the buttery leather seat.

  “Congratulations,” he says without much interest. He jogs around to the driver’s side, tips the valet, removes his jacket, and throws it behind the seat as he slides in next to me. I know he’s not looking at my legs, but I pull my skirt down lower, trying to get it closer to my knees. He fixes a pair of Top Gun sunglasses over his eyes. “And who am I?”

  “Simon Dale. Or rather, Borg. From Alien Love. Right?”

  He grins, upshifts, then balances the steering wheel with his elbow as he snaps off one cufflink, then the other. “Now, that’s surprising.” Though he doesn’t seem very surprised; he’s the calm one while my heart is beating so hard it’s in danger of pumping its way right out of my chest. “I didn’t peg you for a trashy soap opera type.”

  I search the ends of my brain for something to say. Who would’ve thought this would be my life right now—sitting in a sports car with Borg, who just freaking knocked the socks off my mom with a performance for the ages? “What did you peg me as? The hoity-toity country club type?”

  Now he’s rolling up the sleeves of that crisp white shirt. He’s obviously not the type of guy who lives in suits, not like my father, who can go from morning to night buttoned up to the nines without even his tie askew. Simon lets out a low, sexy laugh. “Not in the least. Of anyone who didn’t belong in that room, I could tell right away it was you.”

  I blink. That’s funny. From his appearance, with his three-piece gray suit and slicked back hair, he looked like he fit in there perfectly. But I guess that’s what actors are…chameleons. “What does that mean?”

  He grins. “I knew you had—what do you Americans say—spunk. You’re not like them. Not obsessed with wealth and privilege and status and all that nonsense. Which, quite frankly, bore me to tears.”

  I have to laugh. “I could tell. This car is so very understated.”

  He chuckles and presses hard on the gas, and we rush forth onto the freeway, picking up speed. “Marissa, I’m in a bit of a bind.”

  Ah, right. This is the part where I pay him back for his assistance just now. “Which you? Simon Richards or Simon Dale?”

  “We’re one and the same. Dale was my mother’s maiden name.”

  “And you think I can help you out of your bind?”

  “I know you can help. You see, circumstances are such that I’ve been caught in a white lie.”

  I frown, thinking of Charles. He probably thought his lie was of the white variety, too, so small it didn’t really count, until it became a big, glaring, huge ball of deception. “I don’t believe in white lies. All lies count.”

  “Normally I’d agree with you. But sometimes, well, we just can’t help ourselves. You understand, right? About those inconsequential lies you tell until you can decide how to tackle a problem?”

  I blush even harder now, remembering how I’d lied to get my mom off my back. He is so on to me. Even though I’m in danger of wilting and falling under his every command, I force strength into my voice.

  “Okay, Mr. Richards-Dale, how exactly can I help you out of your inconsequential lie?”

  3

  Marissa

  Simon glances over and studies me intently before he takes a breath and shrugs. “You said yourself, you know who I am. So you’re probably aware I have a bit of a reputation as a…playboy?”

  I shift in my seat and murmur, “I’m aware.”

  The mention of his bad boy reputation reminds me just how much I’ve wandered from my “play things safe” resolve. I take a deep breath and remind myself to be some version of the lady my mother would want me to be, so the next time I speak, my voice is much more in control. “I don’t see how I can help you with your reputation, Simon.”

  “Just bear with me, please. I was at the club to meet with producers. You may have heard of them. Arnold Noble and Edward Spires? Of Noble and Spires?”

  Of course. They’re only the most successful Hollywood producing duo that ever existed, and have produced half of the Oscar-winning pictures of the past decade. “They were at the club?”

  “Yes they were.”

  That’s not actually terribly surprising. Even though I’ve never met the men, my father has, and plenty of famous people go to the club. But like Simon, I recognize Noble and Spires by their names, not their faces.

  “They’re focusing on their latest project. It’s an epic romance that’s to take place during the Civil War, between a union soldier and the daughter of a southern general.”

  I’m nodding along with this. Perfect Union, I think it’s called. I’d heard it was going to have a bigger budget than any movie ever made.

  “I’m up for the lead role.”

  “Really?” My fangirl self takes over and I squeal the word before I realize what a teenager I sound like. “I mean, congrats.”

  “Congratulations are premature at this point. They’re under pressure from the casting director to put Liam Hyatt in the role because a big name will be a box office draw. But they’ve previously said that if they found the right untested actor, with a strong screen presence and intense chemistry with Dakota, they’d make an exception.”

  My mouth is just sucking air now, like a goldfish out of water. “Dakota?”

  “Dakota Drake? Sweet kid. You know of her?”

  I nod, dazed. Who the hell hasn’t heard of her? I look down at the bare skin of my forearm, wondering if now would be a good time to pinch myself, but then decide against it. If this is a dream and beautiful Borg from Alien Love really isn’t driving me home, why would I want to wake up? “Um. Okay. What do you need my help with?”

  “My agent has been working them. I got an audition. Impressed them and the casting director enough to be seriously considered for the part. But my meeting today was a verifiable disaster. They expressed concerns about my reputation—are deathly afraid I’ll somehow tarnish the project—and I panicked. Told them I had a girlfriend and all my playboy tendencies have been tamed. The
y of course asked to meet my girlfriend, and when I hesitated...”

  Realization washes over me. He’s not saying what I think he’s saying, is he?

  He loosens that distinctive purple tie around his neck, then slides it off his neck and throws it behind the seats. “So I’m in need of a girlfriend, and based on what my sister told me, you’re in need of a boyfriend. My proposition is this: we play each other’s significant others until we both receive what we need. In my case, getting this part. In yours, getting your lovely mum off your hide.”

  Oh, hell. He is saying what I think he’s saying.

  “What do you think?” he asks, his voice soft and magnetic. “Are you interested, Marissa?”

  Oh yeah, I’m interested, I think. I’m interested in you for real kissing me, for real touching me, for real screwing me in your for real bed…

  I don’t respond. I don’t know if I even can respond. I don’t know if I should, because there’s a good chance I might say out loud what I was just thinking and that would really send me straight into an early grave.

  “You’ve overestimated me,” I tell him. “I can’t pretend half as well as you can. Plus, my father has connections in Hollywood and he knows Noble and Spires.”

  “How well? Enough to discuss his daughter’s love life with them?”

  “Probably not. But—”

  “Then chances are, our little ‘relationship’ would never come up with your father. And given how you handled your mum back at the club, I have faith in your acting skills.”

  “Really?” I say drily. “If you were listening, then you know exactly how unable I am to manage my mom.”