I ran to the washrooms. Snide comments followed me out as I turned into the hallway. There was a crowd hovering around the doors. Turning the other way, I went down a poorly lit deserted hall. It wound its way to the back exit. I stopped and leaned against the cool cement wall.
I banged my forehead against the concrete. What was I thinking, acting like a complete idiot? I could never go back in there. What would Serena say? I would never live this down. Maybe I could play it as if I was really drunk and didn’t realize what I was doing. Then the only person who would really think me a fool would be myself.
Oh God, I’d never been so embarrassed in my entire life. I couldn’t believe I’d done that. It was as if something had possessed me. Nudged me into a compromising situation. I had barely even had one drink.
I stiffened as I sensed a presence behind me. Quickly turning my head, all I saw was electric blue, like in a clear summer sky.
“Why did you run away?” His voice was rich and deep, like melted chocolate, with a slight musical lilt. He had an accent. British possibly.
“The show was over.” I kept my back to him, but I shivered at his nearness. He was standing close. Close enough to smell him, a sweet tantalizing mixture of sweat, expensive cologne and something indescribable. He stepped closer, his intensity pressing intimately into my back, pinning me to the wall.
“I was hoping for a sequel.”
“Then get the movie.”
He laughed. The vibrations crept up my spine, and caressed my throat like lover’s fingers. A flash of heat rushed down my body.
“You smell incredible.” Leaning closer, he sniffed at my hair.
My eyes fluttered shut as a rush of shivers zigzagged over my back. Even with my three inch heeled boots, the top of my head only came to his nose. He was a big man with broad shoulders and wide hands. One of those powerful hands could dominate me with ease. My knees nearly gave out at the thought.
“Why don’t you turn around?” He teased, his accent thickening with arousal.
“I don’t want to.” I was enjoying this game. Cat and mouse. But who was the cat and who was the mouse?
He moved closer to me. I could feel him pressed against my body, his erection pushing against the small of my back. I took in a ragged breath as he bent down and kissed the side of my neck, his teeth scraping against my skin. His lips lingered at the exact spot where my heartbeat thumped erratically.
My body quivered with each soft touch of his mouth. I moaned deep in my throat at the gentle contact. The dominant way he had me pressed against the cold wall, and the gentle soft kisses at my neck drove me to the edge, making me want to scream at the contrasts. I wanted to urge him for more, and beg him to stop at the same time. I craved this more than anything.
“I don’t do this.”
“Do what?” he asked, his breath puffing against my skin, sending another wave of shivers down my spine.
“Make out with strangers.”
“Me either,” he said, “I’m not sure why I followed you, but when I saw you here, alone, I couldn’t resist.”
I knew I should’ve been cautious, afraid even. He was right. We were alone. He could do anything to me, and there was no one around to stop him. Even if I screamed I wasn’t sure anyone would hear me. I was being stupid and careless, but still that didn’t stop my thighs from clenching in anticipation of him.
With a burning need, I turned and sought his mouth with mine. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. Our tongues mated in a frantic dance. I nipped at his lips, eager for more.
As he fisted his hands in my hair, he savaged my mouth, licking and biting. I could taste mint, alcohol, and man. I desired to inhale him, to suck him inside, to feast on his flavor.
When I came up for air, I said, “This is crazy. You could be a serial killer.”
“So could you,” he said, as he nibbled on my chin and made his way down my neck to my shoulder.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really.” And I arched my back, and let him nibble his way over my cleavage. Again his teeth rasped against my flesh. I had the distinct impression that he wanted to bite into me. That sent a delicious shiver across my flesh.
I’d let him, in a heartbeat. A little pain mixed with pleasure. Just the thought of that from him, this mysterious man, made me wet.
Someone cleared their throat, but my lust-filled mind ignored it. I was so wrapped up in him.
“Jonathan?”
Our heads whipped up. A stocky man with glasses stood at the end of the hall. Jonathan dropped his hands.
“What are you doing?” The man asked, a quizzical look on his face. “We’re waiting for you back at the table.”
“Nothing,” Jonathan said with a sigh, taking a step away from me, distancing himself.
The stocky man walked closer to us. “Who you got there?”
“No one you need to worry about, David.”
I glanced up at Jonathan then. He was avoiding my stare, looking like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, embarrassed almost.
“You’re an asshole.” I snapped.
He glanced down at me. The look in his eyes spoke volumes. They screamed of dismissal and embarrassment. Angry tears welled in my eyes. How dare he make me cry. I snarled at him, and punched him in the stomach. He doubled over, but I swear he was laughing. I stormed back down the hall passing the stocky man with his hands in his pockets. He gave me an innocent look as I passed, quickly moving out of my way. Smart boy.
Fuming, I made my way back to where Serena still sat.
“I saw him follow you to the bathrooms. Did you get his number?”
Without a word, I grabbed my jacket and purse, and stomped out of the club, Serena trailing behind me.
“Oh yeah, I got his number all right. 1-800-asshole.”
Chapter Two
Unrolling the magazine I’d purchased first thing this morning when I’d gotten my Timmie’s coffee, I stared down at Jonathan Devane’s chiseled features. His vivid blue eyes taunted me. I dare you not to want me.
Shitty thing was, I did want him. Badly.
I slumped into my duct-taped chair at my cubicle desk and slapped the magazine down on my desk. Jonathan Devane, on the cover of Newsweek, heralded as the champion of Canadian artists.
Devane Communications owned two television stations, a radio station, and a movie studio. They made Canadian shows with Canadian actors, writers, and directors. The man was also known to be a ruthless businessman rumored to have taken the company from his own father in a bitter shareholder dispute. But the most glaring thing about Jonathan, and the thing that pricked my ass the most, was the fact that he was a notorious playboy.
I know I shouldn’t have gotten angry. It was just another magazine. Just another story about one of the richest, sexiest men in Canada. So what if just a mere eighteen months ago I’d locked lips with him in a downtown Toronto nightclub where he made me melt with his luscious lips and lean svelte body pressing against mine. It didn’t matter to me one bit. I was over it. Not that there was anything to get over. An alcohol induced kiss was nothing to obsess about.
Too bad, I couldn’t write a story about him. He definitely wouldn’t be heralded as anything but a womanizing, patronizing ass.
I turned my attention to the computer screen. I opened my latest file and scanned the contents. A story on J. Lo filming her latest movie in a nearby small town, I had been down there, trying to get an interview. It had been impossible. So I talked to the townsfolk and some of the extras in the movie. The majority of them had nothing but pleasant things to say about the star.
Naturally, Carmen Van Gelder, as the senior editor of Hot Gossip, didn’t want to hear all the nice things people had to say. She wanted the dirt.
Hot Gossip entertainment magazine, a two-bit Calgary rag very much like Britain’s Hello, was famous for their dirt. That was what I was being paid to write. Carmen reminded me
of that every time I finished a piece. The story on J. Lo had been no different.
Three days earlier, I had stood in Carmen’s office being reminded of that very pertinent part of working at the magazine.
“This story sucks, Makayla. No one cares how ‘nice’ she is. They want to know how mean and nasty she is. That’s what sells magazines.” Carmen crossed out the entire page with a big, fat, red felt marker and then handed it back to me with a smug smile on her Botox-injected face.
I looked down at it, a lump forming in my throat. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“Find someone who hates her. I’m sure she dissed someone out there. It’s a small town. They hate big city people anyway. Someone will talk.”
“And what if I can’t find anyone?”
Carmen looked at me with severely arched eyebrows. “Then be creative. How many times do I have to tell you that creative writing is the first step to being a great journalist?”
I had taken my marked up paper and headed back to the small town where I’d succeeded in finding some “dirt”. Carmen had been ecstatic with the few tidbits I’d managed to uncover.
Now, as I cut and pasted those juicy tidbits into my story, I glanced back down at the magazine cover and Jonathan Devane’s comely face. Oh how I’d like to do a cut and paste on him. I just imagined all the choice goodies I could dig up.
He was just begging to be exposed, with all his gallivanting around with supermodels and actresses. Every time I looked, a new woman emerged. Always a front-page spread of them together but apart. No kissing or hugging for this boy. He was a stickler for public displays of affection. He almost seemed like a cold fish, but I knew better.
Opening my desk drawer, I tossed the magazine in with all the others I’d collected over time. Ever since his image had started showing up on various magazines a year ago, I’d been buying them up like a crackwhore. It was as if I had to. An uncontrollable urge. A compulsion.
I slammed the drawer shut. Damn him. He’d gotten under my skin. I had desperately tried to forget him. To forget the dark shock of silky hair that fell sexily over his forehead and the way his dimples winked at the corner of his wide sensuous mouth when he smiled. The way his laugh sent delicious shivers up and down my spine. The way his full lips had felt on mine.Damn. I had to stop this…this obsessing. It was so unhealthy. I’d almost gone to see my doctor about getting sleeping pills, so I could have one night without him seducing me in my dreams. Almost every morning I woke up sweaty and unsatisfied. I’d been going through a lot of batteries lately.
Our encounter had been a long time ago. I hadn’t even known him at the time. And he certainly hadn’t known who I was. Still didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember me at all.
The nightclub had been dark and the music loud. Our intimate moment had been short. So what if it turned out to be the most erotic experience of my life thus far? And I couldn’t help but think about that night all over again.
To this day, I never told Serena what happened. At least not in any kind of detail. Serena seemed to understand that I didn’t want to discuss it, so she never made it an issue.
The intercom beeped into my thoughts and I pressed the button.
“My office.” Carmen clicked off.
Carmen was always abrupt, so I wasn’t too worried about the summons. After flicking on my screen saver, I walked the short distance to Carmen’s office and knocked on the door.
“Come.”
I entered and shut the door. I slunk into one of Carmen’s high-backed leather visitor chairs. One of my only perks working for Carmen was on the rare occasion when I was allowed to sit in one of these glorious chairs.
Furnished in high-end fixtures with warm flowery paintings adorning the walls, Carmen’s office screamed opulence. I basked in elegance while the rest of the agency was just one big floor space separated by tiny, white cubicle walls. One big push and they would all come tumbling down. I had the urge on more than one occasion to do the pushing.
“You’ll never guess who’s in town,” Carmen stated, pointing a long red fingernail in my direction.
“Um, Norman Reedus?”
Her arched eyebrow got even more arched, which I never thought possible.
“You know, from the Walking Dead? He’s hot right now.”
“You’re an idiot.”
Shutting my mouth, I leaned back in the chair.
“Jonathan Devane.”
I shot forward as if leaning on a pin. “What? You’re kidding? Why?”
Carmen arched an eyebrow. “What’s with you?”
Chewing on my lip, I slowly sunk back into the chair and crossed my legs. “Too much caffeine.”
“Right. Well anyway, he’s in town, no one knows why, and I want a story.” Carmen got out of her chair and rounded her desk to sit on the edge. I leaned toward me. “I want to know why he’s here. I want to know whom he’s doing while he’s here. I want to know everything, Makayla. Everything.”
“Okay.” Looking at Carmen’s eager face made me cringe inside.
“If you get me this story, Mak, you will be well on your way.”
“Well on my way to where?”
“Anywhere you want to go. I know people at Entertainment Weekly. I think you’d fit right into their family of writers.” Carmen smiled.
I hated when Carmen smiled. It meant that evil was afoot. Satan was offering a contract. Except the offer was very tempting. Do a cut and paste on Jonathan Devane, and get a better job at a better magazine. Sold.
“Where’s he staying?”
“At the Palliser. That’s all I know. His publicist is being a real ass. He’s not releasing anything.”
I stood up, straightened my suit jacket, and squared away my shoulders. I lifted my chin and smiled.
“I’ll get you your story and more. I guarantee a very dirty piece.”
Carmen stood up and offered her hand. We shook, sealing the bargain.
“Fantastic. I knew you were the right girl for the job, Mak. Other people may think you spineless and meek, but I say, Makayla Bradley’s got balls as big as a bull’s.”
I nodded and marched out of Carmen’s office. I felt strong. I felt invincible. I would be victorious. Glancing around the crowded office watching my colleagues typing on their keyboards and talking into their Bluetooth’s, my bravado slowly leaked from my pores. Who thought I was spineless?
My balls quickly shriveled up into sun-dried raisins.
Chapter Three
As I doodled on my desktop blotter, I picked up the phone and dialed the number to Jonathan’s hotel. My first and second attempts to speak with him had been rudely blocked by his annoying and obnoxious publicist, David Beckett. So I’d just have to try once more, just for fun. Persistence paid off. That was my motto.
The hotel operator answered. “Fairmont Palliser. How may I help you?”
“Jonathan Devane, please.”
“One moment.”
While the hold music tinkled in my ear, I added glasses to the little happy face I had drawn on my paper.
David answered on the second ring. “Who is this?”
His annoyance made me smile. With one bold swipe of my pen, the little smiley guy with glasses was destroyed.
“Julie Smith from the Calgary Sun,” I said pinching my nose.
“So if I called the Sun they’d know who you were?”
“Of course.”
“Listen, Ms. Smith, Ms. Doe, Ms. Bradley, whoever you are today, Mr. Devane is not doing interviews. He has no comment, and he’s really not interested in anything you have to say.”
“But if I could have five minutes—,”
“Thank you, and have a nice day.”
I was used to people hanging up on me. It was the nature of my business. But David Beckett’s snub really pricked my butt. He was a rude, condescending little ass. It would not surprise me to discover him to be the snide cocky guy from the Toronto club. He fit the pompous egotistical profile.
After picking lint off my three-seasons-ago designer suit that I picked up from a used clothing store, I walked through the doors, after the cute doorman opened them, and paused in the entrance. Putting my cell phone to my ear, I pretended to have a conversation as I surveyed the lobby, figuring out my strategy.
I needed a plan. I couldn’t ask for Jonathan at the front desk. They would certainly phone up to the room to announce my arrival. David Beckett would never allow my admittance. He would probably call security. Somehow, I had to get up to Jonathan’s room.
I would knock on his door and when he answered, I would politely ask him for a few minutes. If he declined, I would pounce on him with a multitude of questions. He couldn’t ignore all of them. Well, he could slam the door in my face. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened. Then I could claim he was hostile and rude and obviously hiding something.
As I carried on the fake conversation, I slowly moved toward the elevators. To the casual observer I would seem like a businesswoman on an important call. When I reached the wall, I pressed the up button. The hotel security guard smiled at me as I passed him. I smiled back pleasantly, maybe a little flirty.
The doors opened. With a sigh, I entered, and the doors closed without incident. Grinning like a fool, I glanced at the floor buttons. Damn! I didn’t know in what room he was staying. Panicking, I pressed the top button. He was most likely in a penthouse suite. I’d check there first.
The elevator stopped at the top floor. I peeked around the wall. The hallway was empty. With caution, I stepped out and looked one way, then the other. I’d knock on all the doors if I had to.
I turned left and knocked on the first door. No answer. Putting my ear against it, I listened but heard nothing. I went to the next one. No one home. As I was about to knock on the next door, the elevator slid open.
I dug in my purse and produced a credit card, pretending to slide it in the locking mechanism. I glanced briefly down the hall to see who had stepped off on the floor. I was pleasantly shocked to see a tall, sleek woman with black sunglasses on and a cap of raven black hair under a head scarf strutting down the hallway in blood-red three-inch mules.
Love's First Bite: Bad Boys and Alpha Vampires Boxed Set (6 book bundle) Page 21
