Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation Book 4)

by Samanthe Beck

  “Okay. Turn to the right.”

  All of a sudden, the idea of standing in her underwear while he took shot after dispassionate shot made her feel oddly vulnerable. She put a hand on her hip. “You know, it would take less than five minutes for me to run back to the villa and change into something that conforms to your idea of workout attire.”

  “That would be my five minutes, and I’m not willing to forfeit them. When you earn a break, if you want to take five minutes of your time to change clothes, that’s up to you. Face right.”

  She turned and rolled her eyes at the far wall. “Okaaaay. When do I get a break?”

  “You don’t ‘get’ a break. You ‘earn’ one. When, depends on you.”

  Jesus, he was a hard-ass. “So this is some kind of…what? Punishment?”

  “It’s a consequence. Face the wall.”

  A consequence that left her stripped down and standing with her nose in the corner like a recalcitrant schoolgirl? Behind her, he clicked away, and she’d never felt more aware of how much skin she had exposed. Her face burned. “Semantics.”

  “Face left.” After she followed his instruction, he continued, “No. A punishment is a penalty inflicted for an offense. A consequence is an outcome resulting from an action. The outcome can be negative, positive, or neutral.” He lowered the phone and scrolled through the shots, making selections. “I’m a big believer in consequences.”

  “People actually pay you for this?”

  He didn’t look up from the screen, but she saw his lips twitch. “Yep. In six weeks we’ll take ‘After’ photos and you’ll understand why, but for now, let’s go over your ‘Before’ photos.”

  She’d seen a zillion pictures of herself, in everything from a three-piece tuxedo to a light dusting of bronzer and strategically crossed limbs. Nothing about her own image would surprise her at this point. Confident in that, she stepped over until she stood beside him, looked down at the screen, and—“Oh my God.”

  “Problem?”

  Hell to the yes, there was a problem. Was the woman in the picture really her? Too shocked to ask for permission, she simply took the phone from his hand and scrolled through the shots. All the shots. From every unforgiving angle. Yes, logically, she’d known she’d rounded out a little, but she hadn’t really seen the difference in the mirror. Aside from enhanced cleavage, her eyes—very unobjective eyes, as it turned out—had seen her old, lean figure staring back at her, and assumed the change was pretty much invisible except to someone like Eddie.

  It was not. Not to Eddie, and not to the empirical glare of the camera.

  “I look so…soft.”

  He took his phone back and tapped the screen. “I’m texting these to you. Save them. Put them somewhere handy. I want you to see them every morning.”

  She never wanted to see those pictures again. “That’s punishment, making me look at my fat ass every day.”

  “It’s motivation. And to be clear, you’re not fat. Your weight and BMI fall within the normal range for your height and age.”

  “No.” She pointed to the picture of her from behind. “That is not normal. This is not how I normally look.”

  “I’m only going to say this once, Trouble. Here’s the truth—you’re at a healthy weight. We can cancel this right now if that’s your goal.”

  “I can’t show up on the set looking like this.” She gestured down her body. “I signed a contract.”

  “Yes, you did. And you might want to rethink participating in a business where you can get fired for something as stupid and inconsequential as a change in appearance—”

  “I love what I do.” She did. He made it sound superficial, summed up in a single contract clause. And some aspects of it were, but crazy demands and relentless scrutiny aside, she loved immersing herself in a role and living in someone else’s world for a little while. She loved the intellectual, emotional, and yes, even the physical challenges of embodying a character. Doing it well exercised both logic and creativity. She knew exactly how lucky she was to get paid for following her passion. She didn’t take it for granted, and she wasn’t going to miss out on the best project to come her way since landing the lead in Pep Rally because she couldn’t get into shape for the role.

  “What you’re hoping to do here—get seriously cut in a short amount of time—is one of the least healthy things you can do. It’s also hard on you. Over the next weeks, we’re going to shock your body into burning fat while simultaneously toning muscles. During that process you’ll cycle through fatigue, mood swings, food cravings, headaches, sleeplessness, and a host of other possible side effects, all in the name of bringing your body back to a state I don’t understand why you slipped out of in the first place. The results of your medical screenings say there’s nothing amiss physically, which means there’s something else going on.”

  “There’s nothing going on.” Jesus. Why did every conversation have to turn into a psychological evaluation?

  “I don’t buy that. According to Eddie, you’re disciplined and focused when it comes to your career, and yet, on the brink of a major opportunity, you slack off. Maybe you’re sabotaging yourself out of a fear of success? Maybe you’re rebelling against someone’s expectations? I really don’t know, and six weeks isn’t enough time to figure it out. If anyone except Eddie had asked me to take you on, I would have said no, because I don’t believe in this. Enabling a binge and purge mentality is not what I do.”

  Every word that came out of his mouth offended her. She hadn’t binged. Not really. She hadn’t slacked. Not willfully. Her current situation wasn’t the result of some subconscious self-sabotage, or passive-aggressive rebellion. She’d been forced to park her ass on a couch for the better part of eight weeks, doing only the approved physical therapy while her knee healed. But mentioning the knee injury pried the top off a can of worms she didn’t want to open in front of anyone—particularly not a man who already considered her trouble. Confiding painful details of her family life to Luke McLean wasn’t part of the deal. She wanted to tell him that if he was so damn conflicted about taking her on, he could just leave her a few workout routines, a manageable diet, and go back to California. But she didn’t dare, now that she’d gotten a true gander at herself. Attaining the physique to play Lena Xavier was going to take more than thirty minutes on the elliptical machine every morning. She needed his help.

  “You know what? Let’s leave my head out of this. I get that you have better things to do and more worthy people to do them with, but you signed a contract, too. A generous one, I think you’d agree, since you dictated the terms. You committed to help me get back in shape, quickly and safely. That’s all we need to concentrate on. I need you and your expertise to be ready for this role.”

  He regarded her for a long moment, brows knitted in the default scowl he always seemed to wear when he looked at her, but defining the cause of this particular scowl presented a challenge. Was he pissed at her for telling him she expected him to do what he’d signed on to do? The silence stretched so long, she heard the trilling call of some tropical bird outside, and the answering call from its buddy, or possibly its mate. At least some creatures were communicating well.

  Finally, he cupped his hand behind his ear. “Say the last bit again, Trouble, a little louder.”

  What the…? She reran her words in her mind. “I…uh…I need you and your expertise—”

  “There.” He pointed at her. “That first part. Louder, please.”

  Now she saw it. The trace of a self-satisfied smile on his lips. Dammit, he’d manipulated her again. While she thought she’d been putting him in his place, he’d been leading her exactly to this admission, and it was too late to take it back. She rolled her eyes, but gave him his due. “I need you.”

  “Louder.” He raised his voice to demonstrate. The birds outside abandoned the courtyard in a frenzy of squawks and the flap of wings.

  God save her, she had to do it. And he knew it. She closed her eyes to block ou
t his smug, unfairly handsome face, drew in a deep breath to fill her lungs, and let it rip like a cadet at book camp. “I. Need. You.”

  The words echoed off the walls and reverberated in her head for several heartbeats. Silence eventually washed in, uncomfortably loud in the wake of her outburst, and made her aware of other details. She was breathing fast, panting as if she’d sprinted up a flight of stairs instead of just yelled three little words. Sweat coated her upper lip. Her knuckles ached from clenching her fists so tightly.

  The silence drew out, forcing her to acknowledge more of her body’s reactions. Her breasts felt heavy, swollen, and unbearably constrained by her workout bra. Her nipples stung from standing at attention, and muscles deep inside her contracted so hard, her thighs trembled.

  Her forehead and cheeks burned.

  If he was still wearing the shit-eating grin when she opened her eyes, she was going to have to sucker punch him, even though he was twice her size and she’d probably break her hand if she landed the shot. But when she opened her eyes there was no hint of the smile. Or the scowl. His expression was neutral, and yet…there was a trace of something in his eyes. Some mesmerizing intensity that told her he knew exactly what effect submitting to his demands and admitting her need had on her, and warned her he wasn’t unscathed, either.

  His lips parted.

  She held her breath.

  “Okay, Trouble. Let’s get started.”

  …

  He might have told Quinn working out in her underwear was a consequence rather than a punishment, but it qualified as pure punishment for him. Watching her breasts bounce and her ass jiggle as she pounded out a three mile warm-up on the treadmill tortured his cock as effectively as if she’d been trying to make him hurt.

  God help him if she ever actually tried. He’d have her over the console of that treadmill so fast, she’d never even manage a cry of surprise. He’d leave her clinging there, legs dangling, feet scrambling for toeholds along the motor cover while he dragged the panties aside and sank into her heat. Then she’d cry out—another wall-rattling I need you, as long as he was fantasizing—and take him in deeper as her grip on the console wavered and her body slid down onto his. He’d fold his hands over hers and fuck her back up to her original position, let her slide down, and repeat the whole thing until her arms shook from the strain. Until her spine arched, her glutes tightened, and she screamed I need you at the top of her lungs, squeezing his soul out of him through his cock while she bucked and trembled her way through yet another consequence.

  Client. Actress. Smart-ass. Three strikes, McLean. You’re out. He turned away and adjusted himself as discretely as a guy could in a room where mirrors dominated the walls. A small, glass-fronted refrigerator tucked under a counter at the other end of the room caught his eye. He headed over and took out a bottle of water. She’d be desperate for hydration by the end of the warm-up. As he made his way back to her, however, he had to give credit where credit was due. She’d ranked running as one of her least favorite activities in the preferences questionnaire she’d completed prior to arrival. On top of that, champagne produced a gnarly hangover, and the energy from the refined sugars she’d consumed last night was long gone by now. But she hadn’t uttered a word of complaint. She gutted it out.

  She also favored her left leg. Just a little, but she’d been doing it from the start. It was no better, or worse, now that she was—he drew up alongside the machine and checked the readout—2.87 miles into the warm-up. Still, the detail merited some follow-up, because she hadn’t divulged any injuries in her health questionnaires. He twisted the cap on the water bottle and placed it in the holder built into the treadmill’s console. She cast the water a longing look, but didn’t reach for the bottle.

  Okay. They’d talk first. “Last night you mentioned you’d gotten derailed a couple months ago and had to take a break from your normal workouts.” He raised his voice to be heard over the hum of the machine. “Tell me about that.”

  “Nothing to tell. I was just making conversation.”

  He found her eyes in the mirror and stared her down. “Last night I mentioned a very important requirement of our deal. Do you remember?”

  “Did you?” She frowned, but he thought she might be feigning the confusion.

  “It had to do with honesty.”

  She reached for the water now, and took a long swallow. Buying time. She’d rather show that little weakness of accepting something from him than reveal whatever had derailed her. The treadmill wasn’t cooperating, though. It beeped, signaling the end of the warm-up he’d programmed. Her eyes darted to the readout panel, and then up to him—face-to-face this time rather than via the mirror. “You told me not to lie to you again or…” She paused for breath. “…no deal.”

  The pace of the running belt slowed to the point she could walk. The beauty of the treadmill was no matter how fast or slow she moved, she couldn’t outrun this conversation. He had her hemmed in. “Good to know it’s not all a blur. Here’s the thing, Trouble. When I ask you a question, I need an honest answer because it all factors into how I’m going to accomplish your goals, safely. If I can’t rely on you to be straight with me, then I can’t be certain what we’re doing here is safe for you. And I won’t work under those conditions. So, let’s try this again.” The treadmill stopped. He unclipped the shutoff key from the waist of her underwear and ordered his fingers not to linger on her smooth, damp skin. “Something derailed you a couple months ago?”

  She held his gaze for another second, then sighed and slumped against the rail on the other side of the machine—as far from him as she could get without doing something drastic—and rubbed the back of her neck. “I hurt my knee. It’s not a big deal, but I had to take it easy for awhile.”

  “Elaborate on ‘hurt.’”

  Her eyes narrowed a little at his tone, but he didn’t really care. He asked clients to complete the health questionnaires for a reason.

  “I sprained it, but it’s completely—”

  “ACL?”

  She shook her head. “MCL.”

  “Grade?”

  “Grade 3, but it’s completely healed. I swear.” She leaned forward now, hands wrapped around the rail between them, talking fast. “I got the MRI. I wore the brace. I kept it elevated, and completed weeks of PT. I have no pain, and full range of motion. My orthopedist cleared me to return to my regular routine. I didn’t lie on your precious questionnaire. I have no medical conditions that would prevent me from doing any type of physical exercise.”

  Unfortunately, by her own account, that wasn’t what her orthopedist said. “According to your doc, you have no medical condition that would prevent you from returning to your regular routine. Did your regular routine include running between six and ten miles a day, kickboxing, power yoga, and weight training?”

  “Six to ten miles of running a day? Are you serious?”

  Not surprisingly, the mention of the non-preferred activity got a reaction out of her, but he was serious about all of it. “Few things melt fat faster. Your role requires you be lean and muscular. When it comes right down to it, you need your dancer’s body back, but fast. You don’t have months to spend regaining the strength and flexibility, so along with the cardio, I’ll layer in weight training to add definition and some fight training to get you moving like an ass kicker, which will make your director happy. Basically, Quinn, I designed these next six weeks as a high-intensity, keep-your-body guessing, tour-de-force, and now I’m concerned you can’t handle it.”

  “I can handle anything. Dancing is like all that stuff rolled into one, and my knee is fine.” She wrapped one hand high around the vertical support bar of the functional trainer, balanced on her left foot, and wrapped the other hand around her right ankle. Then she proceeded to lift her right leg up. Sweet Jesus, all the way up…into a standing split. Graceful as a ballerina, she pointed her toes to the ceiling. With one brow cocked, she looked at him. “See?”

  All he could see wa
s her assuming the same pose, naked, while clinging to his bedpost.

  “Impressive,” he managed to say, and kicked the wandering part of his brain back into line. Yes, he could take some comfort from the fact that her “regular routine” was pretty physical, but still. This added uncertainty, and he hated uncertainty. “But forgive me if I don’t rely on the Quinn Sheridan School of Health Management. Come here.” He walked to the weight bench she’d almost tripped over earlier. “Take a seat.” Once she settled herself on the padded bench, he knelt in front of her and gently palpated around her kneecap with this thumbs, using his fingers to feel along the back of her joint where the medial collateral ligament attached. “Any pain?” He watched her face as he asked.

  “None. I told you, I’m fine.”

  Her expression backed up her words. He saw no twinges of discomfort. He straightened her leg, then took hold of her shin just above her ankle and spanned his other hand across her thigh. The muscles there jumped at his touch. He froze. “Does that hurt?”

  “No.” The word came out softly, a little breathlessly, and made him instantly aware of the warm, smooth skin beneath his palm. His hand looked huge, tan and rugged against the pale silk of her thigh. His fingers had only a short journey to reach softer, warmer flesh protected by a flimsy layer of Lycra. She released a shuddery breath and relaxed her body. Her legs splayed open slightly in what his dick wanted to read as an invitation.

  One you can’t accept.

  He cleared his throat and yanked his mind out of her panties. “Resist me.” He applied careful pressure, slowly pushing her leg down against the opposition of her quads. The joint held. Encouraged, he slid his hand a few inches higher on her shin and loosened his arm a degree. “Extend.” This time he provided the resistance while she flexed her knee until her leg was once again parallel to the floor. “No pain?”

  “No pain.”

  “Okay.” He guided her leg back to its natural position. “Your quads aren’t protesting. That’s a good sign.”

  “It’s the sign of a perfectly healthy knee.” She crossed her arms as she spoke, unintentionally—or hell, maybe intentionally—taunting him with the sight of her breasts all but spilling out of her top.