Neither one of them acknowledged me.
Was this her house? I had no idea. But I didn’t exactly feel oceans of welcome pouring over me.
I caught the scent of something roasting, both revolting and torturous. I really was hungry as hell, because it smelled like meat and I still wanted to eat it.
Maybe this was a mistake…
The ferry would board in about another hour, and there was a little cafe onboard. Surely I could get a muffin there or something. Meanwhile, I could starve for another hour…
I was just trying to decide if I should backpedal the hell out of here or stay and let myself go carnivore, just this once, when I heard footsteps.
I turned to find an unforgettable redhead strolling down the big staircase toward me. I actually felt my jaw drop in awe, but I was far too distracted to close it.
His faded jeans were zipped up but not buttoned. He was casually pulling a T-shirt over his ridiculously sculpted abs, in no particular hurry to cover his glorious nakedness. And his hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered.
Somehow, out of the context of the commercial shoot, and without all the oil and makeup and hoopla… he was even sexier.
Was this his house?
The blonde bounced up off the couch and strode to meet him, but Dylan Cope greeted me first. Actually, his face kinda lit up when he saw me.
“Amber Paige Malone,” he said, reaching for my elbow.
“Uh… hi.” How did he know my full name?
Did he ask Liv about me?
He leaned in and I did the same… because when a man like that leaned in, you leaned in. He gave me a lingering cheek kiss that made the blood rush to my face. Oh… God… He smelled like spicy man-soap and oranges. I was so fucking hungry, I salivated.
“How’d you sleep?” He was still speaking to me as he greeted the blonde, his eyes on me as he kissed her cheek—and clearly, she didn’t care for that, her smile kinda freezing on her face.
“Great,” I said. “I love waking up to Trooper.”
Dylan’s answering grin was dazzling and sort of crooked, and up close, his green-gold irises were nothing short of mesmerizing; they actually sparkled when he chuckled.
I looked away. I could feel Ashley watching from across the room, his tense, unwelcoming vibe the polar opposite of Dylan’s warm, laid-back manner.
“Whatever it takes,” Dylan said, his voice a low rumble on the end of that chuckle. “I know how hard it is to drag a woman out of Ash’s bed.”
Ash’s bed?
A full-body shiver of revolt rippled through me and my back straightened. I was in Ashley’s guest bed. Alone.
Major fucking difference.
But when Dylan aimed his gorgeous grin at Ashley, I let it slide; he seemed to be ribbing him more than me anyway.
Ashley just scowled and drank his beer.
“Come on,” Dylan said to me, “I’ll show you around.” And the blonde’s pasted-on smile slipped a fraction. Unlike her, he seemed totally unfazed that I’d just turned up in his living room. “Oh, Amber. This is my realtor, Susanna. Susanna, Amber is a photographer.”
As Susanna forced herself to acknowledge me, I was pretty sure we both felt Dylan Cope’s gaze lingering on the curves of my body in my long dress.
“And she’s talented as hell,” he added.
“How nice.” Susanna offered me a limp, cool handshake, as I wondered what he was basing that compliment on. The one photo I’d shown him in his dressing room? Or had Liv described me like that?
Had he looked me up?
“Speaking of photography,” he went on, casually, “would be great to get some shots of the house, now that it’s finished, don’t you think?”
At that, Susanna lit right up. Probably thinking this meant more money for her when she used said photos to advertise the house and make a sale—and help Dylan Cope into yet another extravagant property. “I’ll send you the portfolios of the top three real estate photographers in the Vancouver area,” she told him, steering him away from me, clearly dismissing both me and my camera.
As they headed from the room, Ashley’s gaze crashed into mine. He said nothing.
I followed Dylan and Susanna out.
Ashley didn’t.
The house was three levels, if you included the walk-out basement—which was empty except for a gym area on one side and a massive drum kit on the other—with four bedrooms, three-and-a-half bathrooms, and three wood-burning fireplaces. As we strolled through, Susanna elucidated on the incredibleness of everything. “The vaulted ceilings!” “The maple hardwood floors!” “The granite countertops!” According to her, the house was designed by one the “premier” architects on the northwest coast. It was new, had only been built this year, and had been customized to Dylan’s—“Brilliant!”—specifications.
Clearly, she’d sold him the property and was bent on kissing his ass for more of his business—and probably, a place in his bed.
But honestly, I was far more curious about her features than the house’s. I’d always been mildly intrigued by women like Susanna/Honey, the same way I was intrigued by exotic creatures from faraway lands that I’d only glimpsed in magazines.
She wore immaculate designer clothes—I recognized the symbol on the gold buckle of her Gucci belt—with (very) high heels, diamond earrings that glittered when she laughed, and heavy but flawless makeup that could’ve been airbrushed on, not a pore in sight. She had extreme highlights in her perfectly round-brush-blow-dried hair (did she come straight from the salon?), blinding-white, perfect teeth, and an industrial-strength gel manicure. Her gym-toned body was overly tanned for October above the 49th parallel. Her lips were collagen-plumped, her forehead unnaturally smoothed in a way that suggested Botox.
And, rather predictably, she had breast implants.
Even the world’s best pushup bra couldn’t give you cleavage like that. Especially when you weren’t wearing one.
By way of contrast—not that I was comparing, per se—everything on my body, other than my underwear, was second-hand, from the cardigan I’d picked up at a thrift store in Montreal to the dress I’d found at a clothing swap, and my sandals couldn’t have been flatter if they were made of paper. I was fairly certain I owned a bottle of foundation purchased maybe seven years ago, before I went on my first overseas trip, which had dried up somewhere, maybe in Liv’s guest bathroom? My hair was air-dried and finger-tussled. My teeth were, you know, teeth-colored, and my eyeteeth were sort of fangy when I smiled. (A couple of guys had told me, over the years, that they were sexy. I chose to believe it.) I hadn’t worn nail polish since I was twelve. I had unsightly tan lines from my bikini. I was also pretty sure I was getting permanent squinty lines from always having one eye closed while looking through a camera, and I’d one day have very lopsided wrinkles.
As for my boobs, I was rocking a naturally conservative B-cup. My breasts were round but kinda flat, so the bra was actually optional depending on the top I was wearing. But no one was ever gonna accuse me of having implants.
In summary, Susanna/Honey belonged in Dylan Cope’s expensive, custom-designed luxury home.
I did not.
I felt weirdly naked standing next to her in the enormous, gleaming kitchen, even though she was showing much more skin than I was in her slit skirt and plunging camisole-that-barely-passed-as-an-actual-shirt.
As we came full-circle to the living room and stood before the huge wall of windows overlooking the back deck, she seemed perturbed by my lack of enthusiasm, as if I was being rude in my silence. There was an awkward pause when she finished babbling about the hardwood deck, as she seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
Finally, I looked at Dylan and managed, “Um… congratulations on all your money?”
It was kind of like saying to a beautiful person, Congratulations on your face. Like what was I supposed to do? Weep with admiration because he was grossly rich?
Dylan grinned.
Susann
a looked revolted, like I’d said something vulgar. But I really wasn’t dissing Dylan Cope or his house. I was pretty sure it would be awesome to be rich, just like it would be awesome to be as staggeringly beautiful as he was.
But here was the thing: I’d just spent the last year traveling around South America, where I’d become sensitized to an altogether different kind of richness, a different kind of beauty. As I looked around Dylan’s home, all I saw was the kind of beauty I had no idea what to do with, other than, maybe, take photos of it.
Surface beauty.
I’d become much more accustomed to seeking out the deeper beauty in things with my camera. Subtler beauty. Meaningful beauty. Beauty that moved you. Beauty that, sometimes, you had to work for. When you looked at my best work, I hoped you’d feel what was going on inside the image, or just beyond the frame. Each photo told a larger story, or hinted at a story. It attempted to engage you.
What it didn’t do was smack you in the face with its walk-through closets and floor-to-ceiling windows and exorbitant fireplaces… Or its washboard abs and dazzling chestnut-red-gold hair.
Well, unless it was a photo of Dylan Cope.
I followed them outside, onto the giant deck that wrapped around the back of the house. We were above the ground, maybe a dozen feet. One of those swimming pools that looked like a giant rectangular hot tub, used for swimming laps in place, was sunk right into the wooden deck. Cushy lounge furniture was arranged around the pool and the outdoor fireplace.
So make that four fireplaces.
Yeah. It would be pretty awesome to be rich.
Then I looked up… and for the first time, I actually saw the view.
As I attempted to start to process it, my jaw dropped, the same way it had at the sight of Dylan’s naked abs.
It was like I’d just stepped into the middle of a photo spread in National Geographic.
The house looked out through an opening in the trees, over a rocky point that jetted out into the water. The water lapped at the rocks, birds chirped, a heron floated on the water. And then… nothing but water and the humps of islands, misty in the distance. And the mainland, erupting in hazy mountainous splendor, all blue-gray and majestic along the horizon.
It was a nature-lover’s porn.
And I started to get it.
I leaned up against the deck railing, gazing out, breathing in the fresh coastal air. Right here… this was deep, profound, resonant beauty.
I glanced over at Dylan. He was standing a few feet away, watching me.
Behind him, Ashley had stepped out onto the deck, beer in hand, and stood half-listening as Susanna elucidated about the size of the property and the seventeen types of trees that could be found on it. If she’d just stop talking, it would really improve things. But even so…
This was why Dylan lived here? For this feeling…?
I looked out again, over the water, and I could feel it. Like you were standing on the edge of the world, and the rules no longer applied to you.
It was a sensation akin to total freedom.
I’d experienced this same feeling a few times in my life; always on my travels. I understood the pull and the power of it. And I understood, deeply, the lure to feel it again.
The need to pursue it, across the globe and back if you had to… again and again.
“You probably think I’m crazy,” Dylan said. He spoke in a low voice that only I could hear, and when I looked at him, I found he’d shifted closer to me. His green-gold eyes locked on mine. “Just another crazy-rich rock star with too much money to burn while people go hungry elsewhere in the world?” He leaned on the rail and looked out over the water.
“People go hungry right here, where you live,” I informed him.
“And believe me, I do what I can to change that.” He glanced at me again. “And maybe I am crazy. But there’s a method in my madness.”
A method?
He was saying… there was a purpose in all of this? Beyond just living large?
“Hey boss, I’m heading out.”
I turned at the sound of a man’s voice, to find Connor stepping out onto the deck.
“Gonna catch the six o’clock…” he said. Then he saw me and lifted his chin in my direction with a cute, white-toothed grin. “Amber Paige Malone. How’d you slip past me?”
I shrugged, but I smiled, too. It was kinda nice to see a friendly face. In the brief time it had taken for him to let me into the Underlayer shoot and then escort me out of it, I’d come to like Connor the security biker, grudgingly. “What can I say? You let your guard down, Con.”
He raised an eyebrow at Dylan. “Should I pat her down?” Then he looked me over, but he wasn’t serious.
At least, I was pretty sure he wasn’t.
“You could try,” Dylan said, seemingly amused as they both stared at me.
I glanced at Ashley, suddenly feeling his eyes on me. Next to him, Susanna had stopped talking, and she was staring at me, too.
Ashley turned away, heading over to the farthest point of the V-shaped deck, where it overlooked the rocky promontory below. He leaned on the railing and drank his beer while Dylan and Connor gave each other a dude hug.
“Let Jude know when you need me, brother,” Connor said.
“Yup.”
Then, with a little salute to me, Connor took off.
“‘Pat her down’?” I said, when Dylan turned back to me. “Do I look that dangerous?” I swirled my long, flowery dress around my legs for effect.
“You’d be surprised,” he said, looking me over with a smirk. “I’ve been mobbed and molested by girls much more innocent-looking than you.” Then he winked at me and my toes fucking curled. The guy was charming as hell, and effortlessly so.
And if I wasn’t mistaken… he was flirting with me?
“Sounds rough,” I said, doing my best to flirt back. It was kinda funny, actually, that such a big dude needed security. Dylan Cope was well over six feet, with muscles for miles. But then again, a mob was a mob…
“Tough job, but someone’s gotta do it?” he said.
“Yo, Dylan.” Ashley called over, and Dylan gave me another lingering look before heading over to join him at the railing.
In the distance, Connor’s Harley rumbled to life. I heard it ease out of the driveway before roaring away, and unfortunately, it was so loud I couldn’t overhear what Dylan and Ashley were talking about.
“So what’s your story?”
I jumped a little; Susanna had popped up beside me. I didn’t even hear her high heels coming.
“No story.” I turned to look out over the water, keeping the guys in the corner of my eye. I wondered if Ashley was telling Dylan what a bitch I was. “I’m just a photographer.”
“Mm-hmm. And I’m just his realtor.”
I didn’t even want to know what that meant. But she had my attention; I was curious what she might know about Dylan Cope. “You sold him this place? His dream home?”
“Oh, it’s not Dylan’s dream home,” she said, as she touched up her lipstick in a mirrored compact she’d whipped out of somewhere.
I looked over at the guys. The motorcycle had faded away, but Ashley was speaking too low for me to hear. Dylan was grinning. Somehow, he didn’t seem to find Ashley quite the asshole that I did. And even though I didn’t know them, it was easy enough to interpret that look. They were close. Best bros, maybe.
“It’s Ashley’s dream home?” I ventured.
“Dylan bought it because he could afford the land on the point,” Susanna said simply, snapping her compact shut.
Which implied… that Ashley couldn’t?
“So.” Susanna rolled her lips together, blending her lipstick as she looked me over—kind of the way I’d first looked at her. Like she couldn’t quite fathom my fashion or grooming choices. But she seemed to conclude that I was no threat to her; I could practically hear her claws retracting as she sized me up. “You’re probably wondering where you fit into all of this. The shor
t answer is, you don’t.” She laid her hand on my arm. “That’s free advice, hon,” she added, like she’d done me a favor. “Though Con seems to like you. Maybe you have a chance there. You know, he’s a little more…” She gave me and my camera another once-over. “… Working class.”
Then she turned and strode over to Dylan and Ashley in her high heels—as both anger and embarrassment curdled in my stomach.
Because she was wrong about me… but also, kind of right.
I just watched as she laughed at whatever Ashley was saying, shaking her blonde hair down her back, and fused herself to Dylan’s elbow again.
Chapter Six
Ash
I knew she was trouble from the first fucking instant I laid eyes on her. Even when I thought she was just some fangirl, outside the studio gate, I knew.
You’d better believe I knew trouble in the form of a cute, stuck-up hippie chick when I saw it.
But this one was tenacious.
When I saw her up close, camera in hand, trying to get into Dylan’s dressing room—I could see how right I’d been.
She was far too fucking cute.
She was also far too much Dylan’s type, not nearly enough of mine, and she had an attitude problem to boot. I wasn’t gonna claim that I didn’t have attitude of my own, but I wasn’t the one who was the problem here.
The fact that she was a photographer only made her more of a problem. And the more I’d seen her in action, the more of a problem she was becoming.
This girl had to go.
For some reason, though, everywhere I turned, there the fuck she was. In Dylan’s dressing room. In Dylan’s house. In my fucking bathtub.
I swiped another beer from Dylan’s fridge and went to stand in his front doorway, looking out.
So what’s your problem with her? he’d asked me, last night, when I came back to his place and told him I’d just found her in my bathroom.
Dirty Like Dylan: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 4) Page 6
