The Talented Mr. Maxwell

by Julia Harlow

  Her phone chirped with an incoming text.

  ~~~

  Dorrie couldn’t deny the déjà vu she sensed when she once again hung up her clothes in the closet of her room at The Westbury and arranged her toiletry items in the bathroom. The red phone light was blinking. Again.

  When she listened to his message, the sound of Grant’s voice had an unsettling effect on her. She knew he wasn’t trying to sound sexy or alluring, but that’s exactly how he sounded to her, causing her heart to race and her breasts to tingle. She had to put a stop to that right the fuck now. She’d been handed a second chance on a proverbial gold platter, and she wasn’t going to blow it by not being a by-the-book professional.

  That he was going to be a difficult subject was a given. He was too shy, too modest, to be forthcoming about anything important, but she bubbled over with excitement at the challenge of it—drawing him out little by little, discovering the elements that made him the enigmatic man he was. He was the perfect subject for her to cut her writing-career teeth on, but she’d have to conduct herself as if they’d never met. As if he didn’t melt her insides. As if his proximity didn’t make her tremble and ache for his touch.

  The message said he would meet her at nine the next morning for breakfast at Fortnum and Mason and that he wanted to apologize in person.

  With more preparation to be done, Dorrie didn’t waste any time worrying about how uncomfortable the breakfast alone with him would be. Instead, she spent the hours after her arrival in London researching the agencies that represented him in New York, London, Paris, and Barcelona, and cataloguing the hundreds of magazines from GQ to Details, Men’s Health, Vanity Fair, Vogue, Spectrum, and on and on. It might be easier to list the top-tier magazines that hadn’t featured him on the cover.

  Then she checked out his competition: hordes of up-and-coming models at least ten years younger than Grant Maxwell. That can’t be easy for him: constantly peering over his thirty-four-year-old shoulder. The fact was Grant looked older than thirty-four. It didn’t detract at all from his drop-dead gorgeousness, but in the male modeling sphere, Dorrie had to wonder if that wasn’t a detriment. If he looked to be in his late thirties now, how old would he appear to be in five years?

  The bedside clock read eleven thirty p.m. London time, but she had more to do, so after stretching and yawning, she started to investigate Grant’s charities. Before too long, though, her lids drooped, and she sank back against the headboard, her head lolling on the pillows.

  The shrill beep of the travel alarm at eight the next morning sent Dorrie’s hand flailing to find the off button. It had been a splurge purchase at Heathrow’s magazine shop. She knew she could use the hotel wake-up service, but after the debacle of the last trip, she wasn’t taking any chances whatsoever.

  Warm water from the shower sluicing over her sensitive skin felt so good she wanted to stay longer but couldn’t. Before blow-drying her hair, she called room service for coffee, knowing she needed to bring her A-game. She’d just finished styling her golden-brown waves into a tidy French twist when a knock sounded on the door, signaling the arrival of much-needed caffeine. After thanking and tipping the server, she applied a light coat of mascara and a little blusher in between sips of coffee.

  A black, straight, gabardine skirt and tailored white blouse would set the professional air of the morning breakfast meeting nicely. Dorrie realized that with this outfit Grant would have seen the extent of her entire working wardrobe. Oh, well.

  After a last sip of coffee, she slid into black heels, added small pearl earrings and her plain watch, and slipped on a knock-off Burberry trench coat.

  She stopped at the concierge desk and was pleased to see Ian. “Welcome back, Miss Applegate. It’s so nice to have you with us again.” His smile crinkled his eyes in that way that caused warmth to trickle through her.

  “Glad to be back, Ian. Would you please give me directions to Fortnum and Mason?”

  “Certainly, Miss Applegate. But it may be a bit far to walk. Would you like me to arrange for a cab to take you?” She glanced down at her watch. Eight forty. No way was she going to be late.

  “Yes, please.”

  ~*~

  Stepping into Fortnum and Mason was like stepping into a by-gone era. The finest traditions of British retail trade had remained largely unchanged for over a hundred years. Staff attired in Edwardian-era day coats still greeted customers and, with quiet efficiency, tended to their purchases.

  Grant’s eyes scanned the entrance to The Fountain, Fortnum’s most famous restaurant. It didn’t take him long to spot Dorrie at the top of the steps. He stood up the moment he saw her. As the hostess led her to the table, he felt his breath catch and his heart speed up.

  He reached down and took her hands in his. “Dorrie, let me tell you how very sorry I am for everything that happened. It was my fault for not giving you my real name.”

  When she let go of his grasp and slipped out of her trench coat, he noticed her taking a deep breath and momentarily closing her eyes. Did she despise him for what had happened? Or was she as affected by him as he was by her? Was she simply trying to recapture her poise?

  “Yes, I wish you’d told me who you really are. But that’s all in the past now, so let’s move ahead. No hard feelings.” She carefully draped her coat over the back of her chair and took a seat.

  But Grant noticed the coldness in her eyes. He would bet anything that she was harboring hard feelings. He waited until she was seated and then sat beside her, realizing she was even more attractive than he’d remembered. That straight skirt and tailored blouse hid nothing of her generous curves from his practiced eye, and those sweet golden-brown tendrils framing her oval face made him want to reach out and touch the softness. Her expressive brown eyes were flecked with gold, and her mouth was beyond inviting. Every sensation of their erotic encounter came back to him.

  “So, Henry, um, I mean, Grant.” He knew perfectly well that little jab was intended to gouge him. He just smiled at her.

  She pulled a black binder from her bag. “I’d like to outline the process for your biography, if that’s all right with you, of course.”

  “Well, I thought we’d enjoy breakfast first, but if you want to start on business right away, then certainly.” Apparently, the feelings he had about their unparalleled evening together were not mutual.

  She set the folder down. “No, no. You’re right. This is an exquisite restaurant, and I’d love to have breakfast here.”

  But not necessarily with you, he read between the lines of her remark.

  “I thought you’d like it here.” He grinned at her. “Their scrambled eggs are my favorite, and the scones are some of the best in London.” He motioned for the server. “Would you like to start with a mimosa?”

  “For a breakfast meeting?” She raised an arched brow.

  “Come on, Dorrie, you have the job. Now how about enjoying yourself.” He couldn’t help frowning at her stubbornness, and she blanched. Then he noticed a subtle change, as though she realized she was being a bit unreasonable. A little grin curved the edges of that sensual mouth.

  Smiling up at the server, she said, “I understand your scrambled eggs and scones are beyond compare, so I’d love to try them. And I’ll have a mimosa, please.”

  “The same for me, please.” After he handed his menu to the server, Grant glanced at Dorrie and was pleased that she seemed to have relaxed sitting back in her chair.

  When the server brought their pale orange and bubbly mimosas, Grant lifted his glass and clinked it lightly against hers. “Here’s to our collaboration.”

  She smiled and took a sip, licking a drop off her lip.

  “Oh, that’s so good.” Her eyes met Grant’s but not before he realized he’d been staring at her mouth. She quickly lifted her napkin to dab at her lips.

  He watched her eyes stray a moment to take in the table settings and found himself wanting to hear her thoughts.

  “So what do you think of
The Fountain?”

  At first seeming somewhat startled, she settled her gaze back on the table. “Well, its sheer beauty takes my breath away. The robin’s-egg-blue fine china with gold leaf details is gorgeous, and the tablecloths are the whitest I’ve ever seen, not to mention the vibrant yellow daffodils in crystal vases, and the gleaming silver cutlery and tea strainers. I’m so fortunate to be able to experience such old world elegance. Blanche would love it here.

  “Thank you for suggesting we have breakfast here. I’m sure I wouldn’t have discovered it on my own.”

  Once again Grant noticed the difference between Dorrie and the other women he’d dated. They would never have been impressed with Fortnum’s, or if they were, they’d never let anyone know about it. It was as if he were seeing it through fresh eyes as he appraised the table settings the way he’d seen her doing. The jaded feeling that had been seeping unchecked into his life receded a bit. It was exceptionally beautiful here, made even more so by sharing the experience with this particular dining companion.

  When their breakfast had been served, Grant once again was so entranced by watching Dorrie that he forgot to eat his own meal. He’d never seen anyone appreciate food as much as Dorrie, who ate slowly and deliberately. She plucked a small bite of scrambled eggs on her fork and paused before bringing it to her mouth. Then her rosy lips surrounded the tip of the fork, her eyelids fluttered shut, and she slid the empty fork back through her lips. His cock twitched.

  “These are without a doubt the most delicious eggs I’ve ever eaten, so creamy and tasting of really fresh eggs. I could eat here every day.” Before taking another small forkful, she sipped her mimosa and gazed at the lovely surroundings again, her eyes lingering on a specific detail here and there. He was certain she was memorizing it so she could describe it to Blanche.

  “You should eat your eggs before they get cold,” she coaxed him. He shrugged and took a forkful, realizing they, indeed, did taste like fresh eggs and much better than he remembered. He needed to slow down and try to enjoy the fruits of his success for once. But he’d had the monkey on his back for so long now to always get to the next level—to achieve the next big thing—that he’d almost forgotten how.

  When the server stopped back to check on them, Grant ordered a pot of coffee with cream and sugar, knowing how much Dorrie enjoyed her coffee.

  Over coffee, he told her about some things she must see while she was in London and told her he’d be more than happy to be her guide.

  Finally, Dorrie took a deep breath and told him they needed to talk about his biography.

  “Omni has a formula for their Celebrities Today series: Early Life, Education, Achieving Success, and A Look Toward the Future. Pretty basic. Text interspersed with photographs. But we’ve decided to break from that with a special edition for your biography, something Omni’s never done before. We want to expand on those sections with more personal background and your thoughts and views on various topics related to your field, such as exercise, diet, fashion, personal grooming, and the fashion business itself. We’re planning to increase the page count from the usual one hundred to double that and include more photos, of course.

  “I understand that you requested final say about the photographs we use, and that’s fine, but I’d like to work with you on selecting them, because certain photographs will enhance the content and style of the writing.

  “As we work together, I’ll record our sessions, take written notes, and type on a laptop at various times. I hope that won’t interfere with our process or inhibit you from being candid.”

  Grant watched her while she reviewed the details efficiently and thoroughly, smooth and confident for such a young woman on her first big assignment. He knew most of the information already because he never entered into any project he hadn’t first vetted thoroughly. He poured them both more coffee and settled back in the upholstered dining chair, crossing his legs.

  “All right. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, we need to discuss some particulars of our arrangement. I’ve spoken to Mr. Everhard, and we’ve agreed that you will need to work around bookings I’d previously committed to. So this will take longer than anticipated. Also, many of my photo shoots are out of the country; therefore, in order for you to continue the work, you’ll need to accompany me on location.”

  Dorrie sat speechless. She twirled the handle of the teaspoon between her fingers as her face turned almost ashen.

  “You look a bit pale. Is anything wrong?”

  She twirled the spoon handle once more and then gently replaced it on the delicate blue saucer before meeting his eyes. “No one at Omni mentioned any of this to me, and, well, I can’t imagine them increasing the travel allowance to cover these sorts of expenses.”

  Grant brushed the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Omni is taking care of it. Don’t worry. I had them over a barrel when they fired you. They were willing to agree to quite a bit to make me happy.” He couldn’t help his smug smile, remembering the almost apoplectic Arianna DuPres bowing and scraping to his every demand.

  He focused on her and grinned. “My next shoot is on the Amalfi Coast, and we leave early tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter 5

  The southern coast of Salerno was one of the most magnificent sights Dorrie had ever seen. Until she set eyes on it, she’d been fretting over having nothing to wear at an opulent hotel in the Mediterranean. But after they’d landed at the Naples Airport and taken a cab along the Strada Statale to the hotel Il San Pietro di Positano, she was so overwhelmed with the natural beauty of the unique landscape—the whitewashed villas, houses painted in warm pastels, and the sparkling sea—she no longer worried about her lack of appropriate attire.

  Grant had explained that the site of the photo shoot was at this hotel, and while others in his party were staying at a smaller hotel, he and Dorrie would be staying here in separate rooms. He had followed that tidbit up by saying that she could always stay in his room if she wanted and reminded her that they had unfinished business. “Option two, remember?”

  She had responded decisively with “There is no way I am going to jeopardize this project by engaging in, um, intimate behavior with you again.” He’d held his palms up and chuckled.

  Grant suggested she get settled in her room and meet him on the terrace in thirty minutes where they’d go over the schedule for the next few days. Dorrie already knew she’d never make it several days with a wardrobe appropriate for London in October when it was a balmy seventy degrees here. She’d noticed several designer resort-wear shops in the lobby, but knew she couldn’t afford even a scarf from one of those shops. She wondered if her bra and panties would pass as a bikini.

  But she shook her head, telling herself to focus on the task at hand. She’d have to get some sort of timetable set up with Grant, or this project would never see the light of day. When she slid the credit-card style key in the slot and opened the door, she lost her breath at the stunningly beautiful accommodations. Royal blue upholstered furniture with white piping was arranged on the tiled floors. Oranges, limes, and lemons filled a large ceramic bowl on the coffee table. A silk-shaded chandelier hung over a dining table surrounded by four chairs. Greens spilled over the tops of blue and white ceramic urns. The space was both glamorous and inviting. Just then she spied several shopping bags on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.

  The red light was blinking on the hotel phone. They have blinking red lights on hotel phones in southern Italy, too? So she checked the message—from Grant, of course: “I regret what happened and a simple verbal apology doesn’t cover it. I handpicked a few items so you’d be comfortable in this lovely climate. Be sure to change before you meet me on the terrace.”

  Dorrie began to unpack the shopping bags, wondering when Grant had gone shopping and made the arrangements for the purchases to be waiting for her in Italy. He must have some serious connections.

  Before opening the first bag, she stopped to slip off her heels and swe
ater and open one of the small bottles of Pellegrino from the bar. Hot and thirsty, she swiped her forehead with the back of her hand, took a long drink of the crisp, sparkling water, and opened the window overlooking the Gulf of Salerno. Fifteen minutes went by before she could tear her eyes away from the magnificent view. She breathed in the salty sea air while the breeze whipped her hair back, cooling her off.

  She carefully unpacked each bag, arranging the contents on the king-size bed. Everything smelled like the merchandise in those pricey boutiques in which she could only browse. She gazed at the lemon yellow sundress, mocha Capri pants with matching cropped top, chartreuse bikini with coordinating sarong, and a cream-colored silk cocktail dress. A pair of khaki slacks and a tailored Audrey Hepburn white blouse were the last to be unpacked. Everything had a designer label and must have cost Grant a small fortune. All of a sudden, her eyes brimmed with tears. She was so out of her element, and now this man she hardly knew was buying her clothes because she was too poor to dress appropriately in this posh resort? She reached for the last bag she hadn’t opened. It had boxes in it. Three boxes. Three designer shoeboxes. Tears slid down her cheeks. She couldn’t even open the boxes. She slumped down on the bed and buried her head in her hands, weeping.

  And that’s what she was still doing when Grant knocked on her door ten minutes later. “Dorrie? Are you in there?” His voice sounded a little panicky.

  She unlocked the door and opened it. He took in her tear-streaked face and reached for her. She stepped back.