by Scott, Inara
Now the tables were turned. She was at his mercy.
He’d been waiting so long.
He slipped one finger into her and was instantly surrounded by slick, wet heat. She cried out at his touch, hips rising and falling as if he was already inside. He slid his finger around the hood of her clitoris, stroked it gently. Soft, breathy sounds came at regular intervals. He could hear the rhythm in her voice, feel it in the thighs that clenched and released. Clenched and released. He kissed the length of her body, paused at the soft skin above her hip, tangled his fingers in the black hair at her mound.
He stopped to survey her, the white skin laid out before him, the abandon in her every move. She was pulsing against his hand, which rested at her navel.
She wanted more.
He leaned forward, spreading her knees, waiting until she had relaxed completely before bending forward. He took in the musky scent as he finally tasted her, tickled the soft flesh with his tongue. She jerked as they made contact, and he grabbed her hips, not letting her move away from his seeking and probing. He traced the edges of her, nibbled her skin with exquisite tenderness. Then he went deeper, taking long, smooth strokes at the edge of her clitoris, before dipping deeper, relishing every smell, every taste.
She thrust against him, muscles flexing spasmodically. He plunged his tongue inside and thrust. Her rhythm increased, and he met it, pausing in between to suck gently on her peak. She moved faster, and he substituted his finger for his mouth, thrusting with his finger and imagining it was something more, imaging him reaching to her very core. Still, he kept his mouth on her, applying pressure as he thrust. She paused, tensed, and he sucked hard, joining every move, every sensation.
She dissolved in a scream. Her body leaped, shuddered, and he pulled deeply with his mouth, taking as much of her as he could while she collapsed around him.
When she lay still and silent on the couch, he drew back and slid both hands beneath her. He stopped at her waist, looped his hands loosely around her, and pulled her limp body into a sitting position.
“That, my dear, is the last time you dismiss me. Understand?”
Mutely, eyes wide, she nodded.
He dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Now you can go. I’ll see you at the party.”
Chapter Eighteen
Alix gave the pot of sweetly fragrant white orchids centered on Gunther’s marble mantel a gentle pat and then moved a collection of silver candles an inch to the left of the flowers. As she stepped back to consider the arrangement, a steely-eyed matron in a white shirt and black pants frowned from the doorway to the kitchen.
“Can I get you something, miss? Another glass of wine?”
“No, thanks,” Alix demurred. She had a strong suspicion the woman with the bun so tight her eyebrows were mere centimeters from her receding hairline would rather drown her in wine than let her disturb the precisely executed party decor. Gunther loved to decorate for a party—or, to be more precise, loved to hire someone to decorate for a party—so a small army of “celebration facilitators” had been at the house ever since Alix arrived at four that afternoon. They bustled around moving furniture, setting up tables of appetizers, and decorating everything from the mantel to the garden with white and silver-themed ornaments. Tiny white lanterns hung around the door to the patio and shot sparkles of light across the moving pools of water. Yards of delicate white organza were artfully draped around silver plates of goat cheese, caviar, bread crisps, and thinly sliced vegetables. Candles sparkled and threw shadows around the softly lit rooms.
Alix’s contribution to the spacing of the candles was clearly not appreciated.
“Well, you just let me know if you need anything.” Tight Bun eyed Alix’s attire of jeans and T-shirt skeptically. “The guests should start arriving soon. Did you want me to keep your wine chilled while you get ready?”
“No. I only need a few minutes to throw on my dress.” Alix raised her nose and sniffed audibly. “Is that something burning?”
“Oh!” The matron’s jaw dropped, and a look of horror crossed her broad, ruddy face. “My quiches!” She ran from the room, black leather shoes squeaking all the way.
Relieved to be alone once again, Alix cocked her head at the candles and moved them back an inch to the right. Bun Lady was right; her instincts sucked. There was a reason why Gunther didn’t ask her to throw his parties. It wasn’t just her lack of decorating skills. He knew how much she hated these gatherings. She dreaded the questions, the laughter, the pointed male glances. She knew when she made her movies that someday she might have to deal with the public, but she hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be.
Because every time they laughed, it was like they were laughing at her soul. Even if they were just movies, they did reflect her true romantic ideals. Gunther told her she shouldn’t care what they thought. The support she got from her fans—most of them women—should have outweighed a few leering studio executives. But it didn’t seem to work that way. She had learned to live through it, but she never liked it.
She tried to tell herself that tonight would be different. At Gunther’s urging, she’d decided not to disguise herself in one of the frumpy black dresses she’d worn when she was hiding from the press years before. After all, this was Ryker’s movie, not hers. There was no reason for them to think she was working on the film. It was even possible no one would recognize her. She just had to focus on being one of the crowd. Attractive but not gorgeous. Sociable but not memorable.
A tall order but not an impossible one. After all, she’d been blending into crowds for years. This was just one disguise among many. And if they did recognize her, she told herself she could handle it. She’d done it before. Bob and weave, she and Gunther used to joke. Bob and weave.
Alix walked over to the patio and stepped outside. The air caressed her skin, the temperature at the breaking point between warm and cool. As the musky, sensual fragrance of a jasmine plant surrounded her, she realized that this party would provide an additional challenge—this party would include Ryker Valentine.
She sipped from her glass of smoky California chardonnay and allowed her thoughts to take her back to the screening room. Back to Ryker’s grim reaction, his pride bruised, eyes flashing when he realized she intended to walk away and leave him in a pleasure-induced stupor. She hadn’t meant to insult him, but clearly, she had. He didn’t understand—and she couldn’t tell him—that she’d simply needed to regain control of the situation. That she needed to be able to step back from her own desire and experience the pleasure of his.
Her plan had backfired in the most spectacular way. He’d taken every bit of her control and eliminated it. Even more than when they’d been at the beach, he’d broken down her defenses and left her gasping. She wanted him desperately, but was more sure than ever that she couldn’t give in.
Because she was starting to feel something for him.
Not love, perhaps, but something more than friendship. Something more than respect. It was a dangerous emotion, whatever it was, because with a man like Ryker, it was destined to end in disaster.
Which meant she needed to end things. As soon as possible.
She picked a tiny sprig of white flowers and held them to her nose. She couldn’t do it here, at Gunther’s house. She couldn’t risk Gunther finding out. He’d have nothing but questions for her, and Ryker as well. And with the movie in a shambles, and Lena having just quit… Well, she couldn’t add this to the mix. It wouldn’t be fair to Ryker or Gunther.
She thought through her options. Tonight she’d have to play it cool, tell Ryker she had agreed to stay overnight at Gunther’s. He couldn’t argue with that. Gunther was his boss, after all, and Ryker could hardly insist she disappoint him.
It wasn’t much, but it would give her a night of breathing room.
And after tonight?
After tonight, she’d have to be honest. Tell him things were getting too intense, and she couldn’t handle it anymore. She needed room, and t
hey needed to finish the movie. He’d understand.
Wouldn’t he?
#
Ryker watched Alix flit around the room, bestowing her highest-wattage smiles on the men least deserving of them. Tonight his consummate chameleon had turned into a shallow social butterfly. Her tiny green dress and high heels were like the worst sort of costume; in all the time he’d known her, he’d never heard her giggle so loudly or so often.
Meanwhile, her eyes were blank, their green depths masked. She introduced herself merely as “Alix,” and Ryker wondered how many people recognized her for who she was. Gunther hadn’t mentioned her role on the set of Salva’s Revenge. He seemed inclined to leave it to Alix to reveal the nature of her work. She steadfastly avoided questions, giggled some more, and when asked directly what she was doing in LA, adroitly turned the subject back to the questioner.
The crowd was composed primarily of Gunther’s friends—the men who ruled Hollywood with a combination of money and style. They were attorneys and bankers; they owned exclusive restaurants and nightclubs or managed studios like Gunther. They sported heads of pure white or perfectly dyed black, but little in between. Each carried a wife or girlfriend on his arm like a tall, blonde trophy.
Ryker had never liked this crowd.
He watched as Anthony Sloane collared Alix by the caviar. He was a short man with a round belly and thick jowls. A gold chain rested on a smooth, darkly tanned chest. No one was entirely sure how Anthony had made his money, but few believed it had been by following all the rules.
Something about the gleam in his eye didn’t sit right with Ryker. He put one hand on the elbow of the silvery blonde chattering into his ear and edged her toward the table of food Anthony had been hovering around all evening. She continued without interruption, seeming not to notice when Ryker positioned himself only a few feet from Alix and Anthony.
“Alix, you look familiar.” Anthony covered a cucumber slice with caviar and slipped it between his lips as he talked. “Where have I seen you before? Have I met you at one of Gunther’s parties?”
Alix sipped from her glass of wine, a smile plastered across her full lips. She held a napkin with a half-eaten appetizer but made no move to bring it to her lips. If Ryker wasn’t mistaken, she had done little beside drink this evening.
“I lived in LA a few years ago,” she said. “Perhaps we met then.”
“A few years ago? Hmm.” He stared at her another minute, then snapped two fleshy fingers together. “Wait! I’ve got it. I never forget a face. Gunther introduced us years ago. You’re Alix Z, aren’t you?” He chortled and motioned to a group of men standing nearby. “It’s Alix Z, boys. You remember Alix, don’t you? She directed Candy Fever and Through the Window. Remember those little beauties?”
The heads whipped around, and appreciative smiles slowly crossed their faces. They circled around Alix. Ryker gritted his teeth. Something in the eyes of those men reminded him of the way a hungry man approached a steak.
“I remember the films, but how could I have missed the woman behind them?” Terrance Fillmore, a tall man with a crown of thinning white hair, spoke appreciatively from behind his glass of wine.
“If I recall correctly, Alix prefers to stay clear of the spotlight,” Anthony said, his gaze remarkably shrewd as he studied her. “Which was no easy feat when her movies came out. When we heard Gunther had a woman directing those films, we all thought he’d found the Holy Grail. Everyone wants to find a new market for sex, and you had it—other women. I’m surprised you made it out of LA alive.”
“Are you shooting something new?” Terrace asked. “You left behind a lot of fans hungry for more, you know.” He flashed a smile. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
Alix shifted her weight, her gaze darting around the circle before landing on Ryker, who had given up all pretense of listening to his companion. “I’m…well…”
“She’s working with me,” Ryker broke in. “She’s going to put a little more romance in Salva’s Revenge.”
“Romance?” Anthony shifted his attention to Ryker. “Is that what they call it these days?”
“If that’s the case, then Candy Fever was one of the most romantic movies I’ve ever seen.” A dark-skinned man at the other end of the circle smirked. “I guess now when my date asks for a little romance, I’ll know what to give her.”
Alix’s expression did not change. Ryker waited for her to say something to defend her work, but she only smiled along with the men.
“It isn’t just about sex,” Ryker said. “Alix has a real gift for the emotional side of a love scene. It’s all very important to the film, right, Alix?”
Alix flipped her hair over one shoulder. “Sure, what could be more important than sex?” she said lightly. “We’ve got to make sure we get the moans right, you know, and cue the jazz music at the perfect time. It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.”
Ryker flinched at the nonchalant tone of her voice. He’d gotten so used to hearing her defend her work it was impossible to imagine she could dismiss it in one sentence.
“I thought you didn’t care for that sort of thing,” Anthony said to Ryker, looking back and forth between him and Alix.
“What sort of thing?” Ryker asked.
Anthony waved his short, stubby fingers. “The softer side of sex. Mood music, soft lighting, all that. We didn’t see much of it in Garden of Eden, that’s for sure.”
All of the men laughed, and Ryker felt his fingers curl into fists. Deliberately, he imagined Emilio standing at his shoulder, and he forced himself to take a deep breath and let go of his temper. “That’s what Alix is for,” he said evenly.
“Ryker has more important things to worry about,” Alix said, looking down at her nails as if the conversation bored her. “He does the real work—I’m like the fashion police. You can’t imagine some of the positions actors get into.” She shuddered. “Very unattractive.”
“Alix, you can start a whole new trend in the industry,” Anthony said approvingly. “We’ll all start hiring sex designers the way we do costume and makeup. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself. Now tell me, when are you finished with Salva’s Revenge? I’ve got a little serial-killer flick I need to have sexed up. Any chance you’re available?”
Ryker gave Alix a hard, searching look but saw only the barest flash of something real in her eyes. It was dark and sad, and he took her hand to pull her away from the group.
“Back off, boys,” he said with a grim smile. “This sex designer is mine.”
There were a few hoots and catcalls. “You can’t keep her all to yourself,” Anthony said.
“She’s doing important work for me,” Ryker said. “It isn’t just about the sex. There’s more to it than that. She’s got a real gift for working with the actors. I’m learning a lot from her, actually.”
Anthony squinted at him and then passed a quick look at Alix. His eyes dropped to her cleavage. “Son, you don’t have to say another word. I think I have an idea of just what you’re learning.”
Ryker had actually drawn his arm back, hand forming a fist before he could stop himself, when he felt Gunther grab his elbow. In a heartbeat, the white-haired man stepped into the circle, neatly positioning himself between Ryker and Anthony.
“Ryker, why don’t you take Alix to freshen up her drink?” Gunther said quietly. “Tony, I think perhaps it’s time for you to leave.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Lena!”
Jake pounded impatiently on the door to Lena’s trailer. He still couldn’t believe she had quit. Things were tough on the set, sure, but quit? She couldn’t be serious. It would ruin her career. What director would cast an actor that had quit in the middle of a movie? Gunther Hartcourt would sue her for every penny she had, and then some. Not to mention the rumors that would circulate about why she was quitting. It would get ugly fast and stay that way for a long time to come.
“Lena, come out here.”
“
Go away.” A tired, choked voice filtered through the thin aluminum doorframe.
Jake rattled the handle. “Lena, be reasonable. Talk to me. You can’t do this.”
“You aren’t the boss of me, Jake.”
He sighed. “What are we, six? Don’t make me do this in the parking lot.”
“I’m not going to talk to you.”
Jake began to methodically pound on the door with his fist. “I can keep this up all night,” he called. “Do you really want that kind of publicity?”
There was a pause, and then the door opened a crack. “I don’t care,” Lena hissed through the narrow opening. “This is going to destroy my career anyway. Why should I be bothered by a little bad publicity?”
In an instant, Jake shoved his shoulder into the tiny space and leaned his weight on the door. Lena stumbled, knocked off-balance by the sudden pressure of his body, and Jake stumbled forward into the cluttered trailer. He caught himself just before he hit the floor, taking in the mess around him with dismay. Tiny, snack-size bags of potato chips littered the coffee table, and empty diet soda cans had been thrown with abandon across the floor. A half-full bag of miniature chocolate bars and dozens of tiny foil wrappers covered the sofa.
“You really know how to party, babe.” He turned to Lena, the smile fading as he took in her bedraggled appearance. He couldn’t restrain a sharp exhalation of breath. “Damn it, Lena, what’s going on?”
Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red, and swollen. The tip of her nose glowed like Rudolph on Christmas Eve. She wore a fleecy white sweatshirt and pants, and all he could think of was wrapping her in his arms and kissing away every single one of the tears she had so obviously shed. All the rational things he’d come to say disappeared in an instant, and all that was left was a bone-deep feeling of desperation.
“Oh stop,” she said, her nose clogged and voice thick. “I don’t need your pity. I know you’re just here to save your movie. I’m not a fool, Jake.”
