The Talented Mr. Maxwell

by Julia Harlow

  Also by Julia Harlow

  Closed Set

  The Talented Mr. Maxwell

  Julia Harlow

  The Talented Mr. Maxwell

  Julia Harlow

  Copyright ©2015 Julia Harlow

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Edited by Theresa Wegand

  Cover design by Pixel Mischief Design

  For my husband, whose love, patience, understanding, and unfailing belief in my abilities kept me from chucking in the keyboard too many times to count.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The man sitting next to Dorrie Applegate in first class smelled heavenly. Which would have been fine—certainly far better than the alternative—if she weren’t trying to concentrate on finishing the biography she was writing. Instead, she was concentrating on how delicious he smelled: a heady mix of apples and jasmine with hints of musk and citron.

  To say that her editor was not happy that the biography wasn’t finished would be an understatement. And now on this October night she was on a flight to London to interview another celebrity, the next in the Celebrities Today series, and the biggest coup the series had ever landed. Normally, Dorrie would have been prepared for the upcoming interview, but this current undertaking had proved to be the assignment from hell. She had been tasked with making a pop star sound like anything but what he was: shallow, silly, and so brainless Dorrie was hard-pressed to figure out how he’d gotten this far. Handlers—that must be it. Trying to change his image was like trying to convince a gourmet that canned tomato soup was lobster bisque.

  Dorrie continued to focus on her laptop. Not only was she struggling to ignore the delectable wafts coming from her seatmate, but he’d just bumped her elbow when he shifted in his seat, causing her body to tingle all over.

  “Oh, sorry,” he uttered in a deep, sexy voice with a strong British accent. Hello. Why did she glance over at him? He was so powerfully handsome that it stung her retinas to look at him. He should have come with a warning like the warnings they give you about staring at an eclipse of the sun. And there he was: smiling a genuine, dimpled smile at her and causing her brain to go as mushy as over-cooked oatmeal.

  “No problem.” She shifted away in her seat and willed her brain back to the boring pop star. But she felt Sex God’s eyes on her. Intense azure eyes on that bronzed face with high, sculpted cheekbones and a strong jaw were surrounded by thick hair so dark it was almost black. She was tempted to glare at him for staring, but he was way too handsome. Besides, she couldn’t keep her own eyes from straying down to his thighs, long and muscled in tight jeans, and to his large feet in brown leather boots, or keep her mind from imagining what it would be like to nuzzle into his irresistible neck.

  “Champagne?” The flight attendant startled her, lowering a tray of flutes full of the golden bubbly in front of her.

  “May I have a cup of coffee, please?”

  “Certainly, miss. And you, sir?”

  The Adonis to her left smiled in amusement. “An old-fashioned, please.”

  Cold air blowing from the vent above her made Dorrie shiver, and she leaned forward to grab the tote from under the seat to retrieve a sweater. The drape of her ivory silk blouse was elegant but offered little in the way of warmth. Because the sweater was stuck under something in the tote, she bent over to loosen it, not realizing that her head was nudging her seatmate’s knee.

  “Need some help?” His rich voice surprised her, and his warm breath puffed against her ear, causing her skin to pebble.

  She caught sight of the dark stubble along his strong jaw. “Just trying to get a sweater out of my bag.” One more tug and the sweater pulled free. She was attempting to drape it around her shoulders in the limited space when a large hand took the edge of it and slipped it around her back.

  “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure. These long flights are usually tedious. It’s a real treat having a challenge sitting next to me.”

  “A challenge?”

  He chuckled deep in his throat and turned toward her. “You seem determined to ignore me.”

  “I’m not ignoring you—just minding my own business.” She stared at the screen, trying to calm her racing heart caused by the potent cloud of testosterone enveloping her.

  She desperately needed to focus. Even if she stayed awake the entire eight-hour flight, the possibility that she still might not make the deadline loomed like an ominous black thundercloud over her head.

  Arianna DuPres held Dorrie’s future in her cold, bony hands, and she knew it. Dorrie had been hired as chief writer for Omni Publishing’s Biography Division because their top biography writer, Sayla Suri, now a celebrity in her own right, had defected to J & E, leaving Omni in the lurch. Dorrie had been given these two assignments at the last minute and knew if she blew them she’d be without a paycheck. Again. Her paycheck barely covered her portion of the rent for the tiny apartment in an iffy neighborhood she shared with two other young women. Both her meager savings and emergency fund had been depleted while she’d applied for jobs. If it hadn’t been for her grandmother’s help at every turn, she never would have made ends meet.

  “Cream or sugar?” The flight attendant arrived with her coffee, having already delivered Adonis’s old-fashioned.

  “Both please.” Dorrie plunked in a sugar cube, added some half and half, and stirred. Wisps of steam curled from the cup, so she blew on it before taking a tentative sip. Strong. But not bad. She hoped it would give her the jolt she needed to finish this idiotic biography. She itched to start the preliminary work for the male model in London because Omni had been wrangling to land the Grant Maxwell biography for over a year. More than one hundred and fifty emails and texts had gone back and forth between Omni and Entertainment Arts to make this happen. Dorrie knew she could do this and do it well, thereby securing her position at Omni. There had been talk of a pay bump if Arianna was pleased with her work. Maybe she could finally get her own apartment. Having just turned twenty-six, she figured it was high time.

  She stretched her legs out and wiggled her toes inside her new Ferragamo heels, part of the interview outfit her grandmother Blanche had purchased for her. A wool gabardine pencil skirt, silk blouse, cashmere cardigan, and pearl stud earrings completed the ensemble. Thanks to Blanche
, Dorrie had a quality, if small, wardrobe that she would be comfortable wearing in any professional setting.

  After finishing his second old-fashioned, Sex God adjusted his seat back several inches, and Dorrie could hear his steady breathing over the low hum of the jet engines. When she surreptitiously glanced over, she was relieved to find that his eyes were closed. But the full impact of his rugged manliness hit her like a thwack upside the head.

  Raw sexuality pulsed from his solid just-this-side-of body-builder physique. A white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and rolled up to his elbows clung to his ripped torso and muscular arms. Except for that full suckable lower lip, he had no soft edges, no feminine roundness anywhere. Just one hundred percent undiluted manly man.

  She drank in his virile perfection and thought of sex, out-of-control, growling, screaming-in-ecstasy sex. Well, it had been a long time since she’d had sex. She squirmed in her seat. A really, really long time. What would it be like to have his body stretched over hers?

  “Decided not to ignore me, then?” The low, gravelly voice made her jump, the seat belt painfully pinning her in place. He hadn’t even opened his eyes!

  “I thought you were asleep.” Her cheeks flushed with heat.

  “Just resting my eyes.”

  Dorrie adjusted the laptop on the tray table, drank the last of her coffee, and set her mind once again to making the dimwit pop star’s predictable, shallow life sound exciting.

  “Traveling to London for work?” Adonis’s head turned in her direction, and she felt the full force of his blazing gaze on her.

  “Yes.”

  “Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”

  Okay, now he was going to get the full-on, no-holds-barred Dorrie Applegate WTF special. She drew in a deep breath, angled toward him, and promptly forgot what she was about to say. Instead of looking arrogant and judgmental, his expression was genuine, and he seemed bashful. Could that be?

  “I have to finish this project before . . . well . . . Yesterday would have been good. It was sprung on me at the last minute. So, no, entertaining repartee is not in the cards tonight.”

  He laughed and stretched out his long legs, crossing his ankles. “I’ll go back to resting my eyes, then. Let me know if you change your mind about that entertaining repartee.”

  Three hours later Dorrie had finished Pop Star Doofus’s biography and sent it off to Arianna with a dramatic press of the send button. Yawning, she closed her eyes for a moment before starting to review the prep work for Grant Maxwell. But her mind was still racing like crazy even though she was exhausted.

  So she thought of something inane to take her mind off work. The sex god next to her singlehandedly made the one-to-ten hotness scale obsolete. Ten wasn’t anywhere near high enough. If ten were the hottest/handsomest someone had been in the past, Sex God was what? Twenty? Not high enough. It would have to be a level never before or after achieved.

  She yawned and relaxed into the seat, reflecting on her own appearance. On her best day, when she’d gotten enough sleep and when her hair cooperated and the moon and stars were aligned, she might squeak out a seven. But mostly she was a six.

  ~~~

  She sighed. It was such a pleasant dream. She nestled her head and shoulder further into the warm, firm pillow and stretched her arm over someone’s very hard abdomen? No! She was not going to open her eyes because she was asleep in her own bed and her hand was not exploring a stranger’s six-pack.

  Dorrie squinted through one eye and saw to her horror that her arm was across Adonis’s body and her fingers had slipped about an inch beneath his belt. He was grinning down at her, close enough for her to see his gleaming white teeth.

  “Comfy?” He gave a throaty chuckle.

  She yanked her arm away, sat bolt upright in her seat, and yelped, “Oh, God, I’m so sorry! Why didn’t you nudge me back to my own seat? Now I’m one of those people who fall asleep and snore and drool all over their seatmate.” Too mortified to peek at him, she buried her strawberry red face in her hands.

  “Calm down. You didn’t snore or drool. At least not that much. You might have talked a bit in your sleep about how you wanted to jump the guy sitting next to you.”

  ~*~

  The truth was he had held very still, practically not breathing, so as not to disturb the lovely young woman when her head slipped onto his shoulder. He’d gazed down on her golden-brown hair, finely arched brows, and sensual rosy mouth and felt a surge of lust in his groin, for sure, but also something else. Something stronger. The urge to protect her nearly overwhelmed him. He breathed in her scent: so clean and fresh it reminded him of the crisp air on a balmy morning in May.

  In fact, he’d watched her from the first moment she’d slid into the seat next to him, watched her brow furrow as she concentrated on whatever she was working on, watched when she crossed and uncrossed those shapely legs, and watched her chest rise and fall under that little silk blouse. Actually, he noticed quite a bit about her: no rings on her pretty fingers, so apparently not engaged or married; no alcohol, he assumed because she was working. She kept quietly to herself, was organized and tidy, and was well-mannered and polite to the attendants. But he somehow had the feeling that she wasn’t a frequent first-class flyer.

  The jet was on final approach before he spoke again. “So where are you staying in London?”

  Those finely arched brows inched up as she stared at him.

  “I’m not a stalker, I promise. My name is Henry Charles.” He held out a large, tanned hand. When she made no move to shake it, he laughed. “Oh, come on. You slept on my shoulder and groped my abdomen. The least you could do is tell me your name.”

  He seemed so natural and, well, decent that she tentatively held out her hand. “Dorrie Applegate. Nice to meet you.” Her smaller hand disappeared in his warm, firm grasp, and a charge of awareness made her whole body prickle.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dorrie Applegate.” He released her hand as the plane touched down and bumped along the tarmac at Heathrow. “So where are you staying?” he repeated, now leaning toward her.

  “Um, I don’t actually know. The arrangements were last-minute.” She opened her bag and pulled out a card, peering at it. “The Westbury. I have no idea where that is.”

  As the jet lurched to a stop at the gate, Henry said, “Oh, that’s near me.” But Dorrie had already collected her tote, stowed her laptop inside, and stood up to disembark. He unfolded his six-foot-three-inch-frame and caught up to her on the jet way. Somehow he couldn’t stand to let her leave like this. Who knew what might happen to her on her own in London. She had “ripe for the picking” written all over her.

  “A driver is collecting me, and the Westbury is on the way to my flat. Would you like a ride?”

  Her stiff posture told him she still didn’t trust him. Well, good for her. A young woman arriving alone in a big city should be cautious. He could always help her find a cab with a driver that he deemed could be trusted.

  Assessing brown eyes stared up at him. He must have passed muster because she replied, “Yes, thank you.”

  ~*~

  By the time Henry Charles’s limo dropped her at the Westbury, it was late afternoon. Dorrie’s eyes had been glued to the car window, absorbing every detail of the landscape and scenery, especially all the iconic sights once they neared London. Now all she wanted to do was shower off the grime of travel, scrub her teeth clean, and take a long nap. Not the best thing to do to adjust to the time difference, but she just couldn’t stay awake any longer.

  The Westbury was without a doubt the most opulent hotel she’d ever stayed in. It was then that she remembered hearing someone say that Omni Publishing had some sort of deal with the Westbury group and Omni’s employees stayed at its hotels exclusively.

  Dorrie’s eyes widened as she stood inside the doorway of the single room. All this luxury just for her? The corn silk yellow walls and bed linens, richly mellowed wood furniture, and plush sage carpeting were so
elegant she almost felt as if she were royalty. It was too much to be believed: little Dorrie from small town Kentucky staying all by herself in a room at the Mayfair Westbury. She wished with all her heart that Blanche could be here to see it. She’d have to call her as soon as she got some rest and stopped feeling as if a cement truck had run over her. Twice. She also needed to take some pictures of the hotel to send her.

  She unpacked her small tote and hung up the few items of clothing she’d brought. Dark-veined white marble covered the walls and vanity top and lined the bowl in the lavish bathroom. She carefully arranged her toiletries and felt a spike of pleasure when she placed her tiny bottle of perfume on the pristine counter.

  After a warm shower in the fanciest shower stall ever, Dorrie stretched out on the queen bed, ran her fingers over the cool, smooth sheets, let her head sink into the goose-down pillow, and promptly fell asleep with the sensation that she was still flying.

  A red light blinking on the hotel phone next to the bed caught her attention the moment she opened her eyes. She could see from the open draperies that it was dark outside. Her head felt as if a band of leprechauns was banging hammers on it, so she dragged herself into the bathroom and took two ibuprofen tablets from the bottle she’d packed.

  Turning on the lamps in the room helped to brighten her spirits, but she was hungry: stomach-rumbling hungry. It was eight thirty London time. Because she’d worked through most of the flight, she hadn’t eaten anything. Then she remembered she had a granola bar and pineapple juice in her bag and quickly downed them.

  When Dorrie checked the hotel phone, there was a message from Henry Charles: “Hello, Miss Applegate. If you feel up to going out later, there’s a little club just down the street from the Westbury called Bumble’s. I’ll be there at nine, and I hope you’ll join me.”

  Dorrie knew she should start the prep work on her next assignment. Definitely. No doubt about it. She pulled the binder from her bag. Her fingernails tap-tapped on the black cover. But then again, here she was in London, for cripe’s sake, and she’d probably never, ever, be asked out by the likes of Henry Charles again in her whole life. Actually, that was a dead certainty. So what choice did she have? Fluffing her hair in the designer-appointed bathroom, she decided she’d work on Grant Maxwell when she got back later this evening and then get up extra early tomorrow to finish preparing.