“The Count Of Monte Cristo, actually,” I say tersely. Because you’ve taken my thoughts hostage and I still don’t know why. “You may have won this particular battle, Mr. Dalton, but no one says I have to be happy about it.”
His gaze skims across my face again before he inclines his head toward the waiting car. “We don’t fight battles, Charlie—we brawl, at best.” I struggle to catch his parting words as he spins away from me. “It’s never warfare until we’ve shown our true colors.”
Chapter Thirteen
“It says here that each ticket for tonight is worth ten thousand dollars. Is that a literal amount or Monopoly money?”
Jake’s right. L.A. traffic sucks. The car grinds to a halt for the third time today as I’m Googling a profile of the charity event to distract me from my nerves.
Jake shrugs like it’s no big deal, as if he owns this town and was born clutching an Oscar. Which is probably true. “If I confirm the former I’ll only be accused of male tyranny again.”
“By using your wealth to intimidate me?”
“Are we back to Mr. Darcy so soon? What else does it say?” He sounds like he couldn’t care less, though. He keeps messaging someone on his iPhone. He’s barely said two words to me the whole journey.
“That Jake Dalton is a fully paid-up member of the super-rich club for shrugging off a ten-K price tag like it’s a crumpled twenty.”
He lifts his head with a scowl. Our eyes lock together for a second longer than is comfortable.
“Okay, fine,” I say, blinking first. “That it’s a loaded, pretentious affair held every year in one of the most exclusive hotels in Beverly Hills.”
“Are you paraphrasing again?”
“Perhaps.” I grin. “Am I wrong?”
To my surprise, he gives a bark of laughter.
I’m mesmerized.
That mouth…
“How many of these events do you attend?” I ask, drinking in his profile. It’s so like Max’s, yet stronger somehow. Leaner and more rapacious. The sheer force of his masculinity is dominating the car again, and cedarwood and citrus are all I can smell.
“More than I’d like.” He slides his phone into his inside jacket pocket and starts adjusting his silver cufflinks.
“Then why are you going tonig…?” I trail off as he turns to glare at me.
“Are you trying to stand me up again?”
Who’s he kidding? He’s never been stood up in his life.
“That’s not what I meant. You look like you’re on the way to a funeral. I never knew my company could be so…affecting.”
His jaw tenses and he glances out of the window. “I prefer to keep a low profile. I have a tendency to lose my shit whenever paparazzi lenses start flashing at me.”
“Shades of a goldfish bowl?” I mock. “If you don’t like the limelight, I guess you shouldn’t be so good at your job. Why are you a producer instead of an actor, anyway?”
Jake frowns. “Why the hell would I be an actor?”
“Well, because you’re so good-loo—” I stop myself just in time, but Jake’s already caught the gist.
There’s a glimmer in his dark eyes and his smugness is palpable. “You think I’m good-looking, Books?” he enquires slyly, relishing my discomfort, confusing me all over again with his mixed signals. He’s the one who is always warning me not to go there. Not that I would, if I had a single thread of sanity left.
Thankfully the doorman rescues me, and I exit the car in a rush, spilling out onto an acre of red carpet and diamonds. Many of L.A.’s most desirable residents are in attendance tonight, and they’re all clamoring to speak to Jake as soon as we step inside the venue.
“Jake, baby, how are you?” croons a tall, predatory blonde, whose gaze shifts to me momentarily.
“Julia, good to see you,” he says, kissing her proffered cheek. “This is Charlie, Max’s assistant. She’s helping me out while my own is indisposed.”
His lies are almost as smooth as he is.
“What fun,” says the blonde with a titter. “A staff outing for you, honey? Jake, you must meet my therapist,” she adds, turning her back on me now that I’m of no further interest. “She’s such a fan of your movies.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn to leave but there’s a wall of gorgeous women blocking my exit—a dozen perfect, heart-shaped faces with supermodel figures to match.
Elbowing a path through all the D&G and Balmain, I grab two champagne flutes from a passing server and go in search of my mother and stepfather. I soon locate them holding noisy court over a couple of new money contemporaries. As usual, my mother doesn’t look a day over thirty. Nervy and slim to the point of painful, her figure suits her tight cerise cocktail dress to perfection, and she attracts plenty of admiring glances from all the octogenarian billionaires milling about.
She and David are deep in conversation with a Texas oil type and his Stepford wife. I don’t like the look of either of them, so I down my drinks and grab another. Only then do I make my way over.
“Darling, you came!” she cries, throwing her arms around my neck—carefully though, so as not to smudge her immaculate body contour makeup, the dutiful mother as always. In public, anyway. “I knew you’d choose the Chanel, and you look so stunning in it. Doesn’t she look gorgeous, David?”
My stepfather grunts in agreement and obediently kisses my cheek. “Beautiful as always, Charlie,” he says with a smile.
“Ta very much.”
I don’t mind David. He looks as bland as his personality, but he’s harmless enough. He’s always been very kind to me, and has shown a painstaking level of patience after everything that happened with my father. He was there in the immediate aftermath, and it wasn’t pretty. He also loves my mother to distraction, and keeps her in the filthy rich manner to which she’s worked so hard to become accustomed.
Next, I’m introduced to Mr. Texas and his fourth trophy wife, Courtney, who are just as grim as I suspected. I wish Lucy were here. She and her forked tongue would have ripped these two to shreds.
“Where’s Jake?” asks my mother, looking over my shoulder. “I’m so looking forward to meeting your new man, Charlotte. He sounds so suave and debonair on the telephone. I hear he’s quite the catch.”
I groan inwardly. Three Oscars, five Golden Globes, eight BAFTAs, and a Studio Empire don’t make Jake a catch—they make him a Hollywood deity…albeit a bad-tempered and unpredictable one.
“He’s not my new anything, Mum,” I clarify quickly. “He’s my boss’s brother.”
“Don’t let that little detail stand in your way, honey,” Courtney says with a wink, nearly dislodging a false eyelash in the process. “When I met Harold, here, I was his PA’s stepdaughter.”
Yuck.
I smile vacantly at her and then glance around the room. There must be an escape route lurking somewhere beneath those sparkling, crystal chandeliers. Then I spot Jake sandwiched between two pop princesses and not looking remotely sorry about it, either. As I watch, one of them whispers something to him and he throws his handsome head back and laughs. That’s galling. He never laughs like that with me. We spend most of our time stuttering and false-starting as we struggle along in this messed-up work relationship of ours.
The second pop princess puts a manicured hand on his arm and I make myself look away. I knew tonight would be a mistake. Why? Because Jake and I share about as much social standing as a lion and his prey do. I’m so far out of my comfort zone it’s unreal. I’m being forced to stand here and be polite to my mother while he’s happily getting felt up by a couple of Britney clones.
“Mascara emergency,” I yelp, cupping my left eye and backing away from the group of doom, speaking the only language my mother understands.
Heading straight for the front lobby, I feel someone touch my hand. Spinning around, I find myself gazing up at a
familiar face.
“Twice in one day,” drawls Brad, smiling in appreciation. “I’m a lucky guy.”
The luck must be catching, because Brad’s another man who looks divine in a dress suit. He’s ditched the baseball cap tonight and his long, blond hair is slicked back off his face. He looks older somehow, but his indigo eyes are still sparking with mischief.
“How did you know it was me?” I say, genuinely happy to see him. “Did my lack of silicone give me away?”
Brad grins. “Welcome to Hollywood, baby.”
His words send a delicious shiver down my spine. There’s no way he can be the Machiavellian monster that Jake makes him out to be.
“Have you seen Lord Voldemort yet?” I ask, grabbing another passing flute and taking a sip. “I believe he’s on a mission to seduce the whole of the Billboard top ten.”
Brad chuckles. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“Did you know he’d be here?”
“Sure. Jake’s on the board. It would be pretty weird being a no-show at your own event.”
“He is?” I’m stunned. Why the hell didn’t he tell me?
“He likes to throw a couple of mil at charity once in a while. It makes him look less of an ass.”
“You two don’t seem to like each other very much,” I venture cautiously.
“There’s not a lot to like about Jake Dalton.”
My skin starts tingling again. I glance over to find the man in question glaring at me from all the way across the room. The next thing I know he’s taking my arm and ushering me away from Brad.
“What the hell are you doing?” I exclaim as I’m swept along by his white-hot rage.
“Reprimanding my brother’s assistant. Again.” Jake’s expression is like stone. Pausing briefly to consult the seating plan, and then to exchange passing pleasantries with Steven Spielberg, he strong-arms me over to our table and yanks out a chair. “Sit.”
I do as I’m told but only because my legs are close to giving out. Jake’s voice is deceptively calm, but I can tell that horrible temper of his is simmering just below the surface.
He snaps open the front button of his jacket and glides into the seat next to me. “How many time to I have to say it? Stay away from Brad Wilson. Your contract is with Global. Therefore, you’re a representative of me and my interests, of which he doesn’t even warrant a fucking footnote.”
“This is bullshit,” I say between clenched teeth. “You can’t dictate the rules to me outside of business hours. You don’t see me going around ordering you to stop feeling up pop stars. Why? Because it’s not appropriate.”
“Don’t test me on this, Books. You won’t like the consequences.”
The banquet hall is filling up all around us and most of the chairs are occupied. I smile tightly at my mother as she and David take their places at the adjacent table. There’s the most exquisite arrangement of white roses in front of me, but all I want to do is hurl it in Jake’s face. No job in the world could pay me enough to put up with this. Screw it, I’ll fly home and find another. He doesn’t own me. No one does. I’ve done a pretty good job of taking care of myself since the age of six.
Rising to my feet, I snatch my hand away as he tries to grab it, and stalk with purpose toward the exit. There are sounds of a polite scuffle behind me, and I know he’s trying to follow. By some miracle I make it all the way to the lobby unchallenged. I march straight up to the concierge desk and request a taxi.
“Cancel that order,” says Jake, arriving at my side and barely out of breath. One look at his expression has the concierge replacing the phone receiver and beating a hasty retreat. “You’re not leaving. They’ve just started bringing out the amuse-bouche.” He goes to take my arm again.
“I’d prefer to see something else flying at your mouth,” I mutter, yanking it out of reach. “Go back and cop another feel of the Britney twins. They don’t strike me as caviar kinds of girls, though. Bit highbrow for them. Not to worry, I saw a Pizza Hut on the way in.”
I’m never this bitchy, but this man is making me think and say things that are so far out in left field they’re in another country.
“What are you talking about?” He drives his hands into the pockets of his dress pants so violently I’m surprised he doesn’t split the seams. “Fine, I’ll take you home.”
“I’d rather leave with Mr. Texas.”
“Who?”
“Your aspiration, thirty years from now. Six marriages down, and a bimbo named Courtney warming your bed.”
“You’re a fucking fantasist, Books,” he says, shaking his head at me. “Never has a nickname been so appropriate.”
We stand there glaring at each other in the hotel lobby. We’re moving in ever-decreasing circles in opposite directions, and any minute now we’re going to collide in the worst possible way.
“Christ, ever since I met you you’ve been a pain in my ass.” His handsome face looks drawn and pale in the harsh light.
“I thought that’s what you wanted. You said you hated people fawning all over you.”
“Not to this extreme, I don’t.”
“Fine. I’ll do us both a favor and go back to London, shall I?”
But even as I say it, I know it’s not what I want. Not really. Not deep down in my soul. In the last week, I’ve become as much a part of the movie industry as it’s become a part of me, and Jake Dalton is the catalyst for all of it.
Exhaling loudly, he takes a step back and shoves his hands in his pockets again. As for me, I’m losing momentum. Jet lag hasn’t helped. I haven’t slept properly in over twenty-four hours.
“Why do you have to be such a miserable megalomaniac?” I ask him. “Why do you feel the need to trample all over me?”
“Charlie.” He looks wary all of a sudden. “Don’t.”
“There’s that word again. Don’t flirt with Max. Don’t speak to Brad. You can’t keep telling people what to do, Jake. You can’t dictate my life to me.”
“I can, and I make no apology for it. We’re going back to my place to talk about this.” He gives a curt nod to the hovering valet. “Tell my driver to bring the car around.”
“I’m not going back to yours, Jake. I’ll find a hotel.”
“Like hell you are. We’re going back to my place, and that’s final.”
The journey back to Bel Air is every shade of torture. My emotions keep switching between mutiny and panic. Jake is sitting as far away from me as possible, and gazing out of the window. It feels like we’re hovering on the edge of a giant precipice, a yawning black abyss of uncertainty. Once again, the air between us is charged with something thick and indefinable.
We make it all the way home without uttering a single word to one another. Exiting the limo, I stand silently behind him as he taps keys to unlock the front door. Shoulders rigid, free hand clenched into a fist. I hear him curse softly before he stops and turns, and then, without warning, he’s pulling me into his arms and burying his face into my neck.
What the…?
“Why the fuck can’t you behave yourself?” he growls, his hot breath rippling vibrations across my skin.
“Why the hell should I?” I gasp out, my body responding like we’re fuel and flame, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to have this beautiful man wrapped around me.
He presses his mouth to my jaw, studding it with urgent kisses, stinging me with his stubble. Now his lips are crushing mine and holding me spellbound, his tongue demanding entry, thrusting between my teeth with the kind of authority that makes me whimper into his mouth. I throw my arms around his shoulders before I collapse on the steps of his zillion-dollar mansion, with his scent hemorrhaging into my senses.
Then, just like that, he’s pushing me away again.
“I can’t do this.”
Wait. What?
I st
agger backward, gasping, seeing stars. Trying to catch my breath and make sense of what just happened. He’s standing a few meters away. His palms are resting against the front door, his head lowered, eyes shut tight, his breathing ragged.
“I’m not the right man for you,” he says harshly. He turns to face me and his expression is bleak. Haunted. “I’ll get you a hotel room for tonight. I have a suite at the—”
“I don’t want a hotel room, Jake.”
There’s so much about him that makes me want to run away, but it’s too late now. I’ve had a glimpse. I’ve had a taste.
“You don’t know what you’re consenting to,” he warns, but there’s a fire slowly reigniting in his eyes. He stares at me for a moment, assessing his next move, and then he’s coming in fast.
Too fast.
My breath hitches and I brace myself for impact. Cupping my face, he pulls me against the length of his body and we smash together like two comets colliding, his rock-hard erection grinding into the soft curve of my stomach. Our lips hover within touching distance before he loses control again and slams his mouth down onto mine.
His kisses are deeper this time, his tongue darting expertly into my mouth, ruining me, devastating me. With one hand clutching the back of my head, he trails the other down my spine, my bare skin burning like red-hot cinders at his touch.
“Put your arms around me,” he orders, somehow wrenching the front door open and steering me backward into his mansion. “We’re taking this inside.”
Oh, God. This is real. This is happening.
He pins me against the nearest wall, his cock as unforgiving as the look in his eyes, talking to me constantly as his fingers trace the front of my dress.
“The things I want to do to you tonight, Books… I’m going to corrupt those pretty pages of your imagination with my kind of filth.”
Any earlier conflict is forgotten. He’s firmly in the moment now.
“What’s inside might shock even you,” I murmur as the lobby starts to spin above my head.
Hot Nights in Morocco Page 7
