And he thought he was going to be able to write? No doubt about it. He was crazy.
He stopped halfway up the stairs on the way back to his room, fighting the urge to turn around, throw her over his shoulder like a caveman, and carry her back to his bed. Then he’d spend the rest of the day over her, under her, beside her . . . any which way he could have her.
Still . . . he continued to hesitate, that niggling sensation that he was doing the right thing deep in his gut.
Waiting wasn’t something he had a lot of personal experience with, at least not in his sex life. If he wanted a woman, he asked her out, took her to dinner, took her to bed, and either called her the next day to set up another dinner or had his secretary send her flowers with a note that said, “Thanks for a great night. Best wishes.” Which meant the sex had been great but he wouldn’t be calling.
Damn, he really was a prick, wasn’t he?
What the hell did Sabrina see in him? She had to have guys her own age hitting on her all the time. What did she see in him? Money? Power? Connections?
And why would any of that matter to her? She wasn’t an aspiring actress and didn’t even appear to want anything to do with the film industry. Of course, he was friends with Tyler and—
No, that didn’t track. She was already good friends with Kate and, if Sabrina wanted someone to back her with Tyler then—
No, that wasn’t Sabrina. It just wasn’t. He’d made his fortune in Hollywood being able to read people and he could spot a user at five hundred yards.
Sabrina did not fall in that category.
“Fuck.”
Frustration ate at his guts, but the part of his brain that was constantly churning out ideas screamed at him to get to his laptop and put this angst to good use. Channel it into the screenplay.
He started back up the stairs, this time with no hesitation.
That look on Sabrina’s face had given him a damn good idea about the final scene.
He was sitting on a chair in front of the French doors to the balcony and had only just gotten into the scene when he heard the clink of pottery.
His head shot up and he turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Sabrina’s backside as she left the room. Then the scent of fresh, hot pastry hit his nose. He spied the tray she’d set on the dresser just inside the door.
That smells great. She’d even put a carafe of coffee and a mug on the tray.
If this were a rom-com, she would’ve put the tray on his desk, knocked coffee on his lap, and tried to mop it while getting her hands all over his crotch. Then she would’ve tripped on her way out and landed in his lap.
He’d never been a fan of rom-coms. The conventions were bullshit and outdated. He didn’t have one thing against a good love story if you told it right, and that meant having something new and interesting to say about love or you had characters so special you rooted for them to find their happily-ever-after.
But happily-ever-after wasn’t something he expected in real life. There was always going to be too much bullshit in life to be happy all the time.
Since the tray was out of reach, he had to get up and get it but seconds later he was back in his chair, laptop humming, keys clicking.
The next time he looked up, he had a crick in his neck that made him swear like a sailor, and when he checked the time, he realized he’d spent more than three hours in the same position.
He’d also gotten through that final scene and finished the entire plate of scones and carafe of coffee.
Break time. He wanted to see Sabrina. Wanted to talk to her, tell her about the progress he’d made. Trying not to feel like a teenager with a crush, he stretched until he felt his spine and neck crackle and pop, then he picked up the tray to take it back down to the kitchen.
Good cover story.
Downstairs, he didn’t hear her, and when he checked the kitchen and set the tray near the sink, she wasn’t there. So he proceeded to check every other room on the first floor.
No, he wasn’t obsessing much, was he?
He was on his way back to his room, determined to ignore the need to see her, when he heard his phone ring. He had gotten out of the habit of carrying it around with him everywhere because it continually buzzed and beeped and rang.
For so many years, he’d been tethered to the thing like he needed it to keep his heart beating. He’d answer it at any time of the day or night, whatever he was doing. Hell, he’d even answered it during sex every now and then.
He’d always considered it one of the costs of being in charge.
But over the last few weeks, he’d let his business partner, Fred Jamieson, handle most of the day-to-day stuff he usually took care of.
And that might prove to be your downfall.
Lately, he and Fred had started to butt heads over the company’s direction. Fred wanted to go even bigger. Global.
Greg wanted . . .
Fuck, what the hell did he want?
Shit, he thought when he picked up his cell—he had to answer this one.
“Truly, babe, what’s up?”
Trudeau Morrison sighed as she always did when he called her by his pet name. “I see you’re feeling better than you were the last time we talked. Not that that’s a bad thing . . .”
Greg laughed, picturing the look on his personal assistant’s pretty face. Trudeau had been a kid just like he’d been when she’d fast-talked her way into a job in his production company six years ago.
She had a quick mind and the ability to sweet talk anyone she met, probably because she looked like everyone’s kid sister.
Big blue eyes, pug nose, brown hair, and freckles. The definition of adorable on Wikipedia had her picture next to it. At least it had for her birthday last year, when he’d paid someone at the website to put it there for the day.
“But you just can’t stand when I’m in a decent mood, can you?”
“It’s not that I can’t stand you. It’s just that I’ve learned to be wary. Sometimes when you smile, you still cut people off at the knees. Sir.”
Smiling like he hadn’t in days, he settled into the chair overlooking the forest. “So why are you disturbing my peace today, Tru?”
A slight pause and he had the fleeting thought that he should hang up before she opened her mouth again. “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to make sure you were aware that the contracts still haven’t been signed. The deadline passed this morning and I tried to contact Vince but—”
“Vince is avoiding your calls, and Daisy and Neal have fallen off the grid again.” He sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He knew the fact that his phone hadn’t rung in several hours was a bad thing. “Shit.”
Those contracts needed to be signed within the next couple of days if filming was going to start on time. Casting Daisy and Neal had been a no-brainer, at least for him. They were perfect for the roles, but Neal had burned a few too many people in the industry who’d thought a handshake over dinner constituted an ironclad deal.
Greg knew once Neal signed a legal contract, though, the guy would live up to it. Which was why he’d given them a deadline to sign. He honestly hadn’t expected this to be a problem.
And maybe he should’ve listened to Fred and probably every other legitimate production company in the industry that’d blackballed Neal for good reasons, not the least of which was his cocaine addiction.
“What do you want me to do?” Tru asked. “I can drive over to the house and knock on the door if you want.”
And what if they weren’t there?
“No.” Maybe he was sticking his head in the sand, but he didn’t want to have to worry about whether or not Daisy and Neal had fallen off the rails. Again. At least not yet. “Give them until tomorrow. If you don’t hear from either of them, then go to the house.”
“Okay. So . . . how goes it?”<
br />
He paused and he was pretty sure he heard Trudeau suck in a sharp breath and hold it. His assistant wasn’t normally easy to rattle. Then again, the way he’d been acting lately, he shouldn’t be surprised she was worried.
“Actually, it’s going pretty well. I think I’m finished.”
She released her breath on an audible sigh of relief. “Great. That’s great.” She didn’t even try to hide her relieved enthusiasm.
Damn, he must have been worse than he’d thought these past few months. He made a mental note to get her set up with his masseuse for regular sessions. She deserved it for putting up with him. He’d add an unlimited account at M.A.C., too. Trudeau liked her cosmetics.
“Is that it?”
“Well . . .”
Aw hell, he hated when she said that. “Just spit it out. What else?”
“Mark’s been awfully quiet the past few days and I’ve learned to be wary of that.”
Mark Schumacher was his company’s chief financial officer. Greg trusted him implicitly, but everyone knew when he went quiet, he was doing numbers in his head. And that meant numbers weren’t adding up somewhere else.
“He only went silent two days ago but, well, you know what that means.”
“Yeah, I do.” It meant they had a film threatening to go over budget and that meant Greg would need to get involved.
“Shit.” The curse came out a little harder than he’d intended. “Steven or Amanda?”
He couldn’t imagine it was Amanda. Amanda Maitland was only twenty-two and out in the middle of nowhere Iowa filming a quirky, character-driven script she’d also written. Her last film had earned her Drama Desk and Directors Guild nominations and enough Oscar buzz to make Greg throw some money into a promotional push for the independent film he’d picked up at Sundance.
Steven Lawler’s adaptation of a popular young-adult bestseller had blockbuster written all over it. If the famously temperamental director could keep a lid on himself. Greg typically managed to keep the guy on track, but he’d been out of touch lately, hadn’t he?
So when Trudeau said, “Amanda,” his brain hit a roadblock.
The girl had one hell of a brilliant brain, but she was young and this was her first studio film.
“Do I need to catch a flight?” Meaning, had Trudeau already booked him a flight? Sometimes his assistant was ten steps ahead of him, which was exactly why he’d tried to put a “’til death do us part” clause in her contract.
“Not yet. I’ll corner Mark. See what’s going on.”
They rang off a few seconds later, after she’d promised to be in touch soon.
With the phone still in his hand, Greg considered calling Mark himself, but he knew if he made that call, his time here was over. And that’s exactly why he’d tried not to have his phone close at hand all the time.
Okay, now he needed to get out of this room and leave his phone behind. He wasn’t going to get any work done.
And he wanted to talk to someone—
No, not true.
He wanted to talk to Sabrina.
Usually, he had no problem controlling his cravings. Not so much today.
He checked downstairs first but didn’t see her anywhere. Back upstairs, he checked her room. She didn’t answer when he knocked and he debated just walking in. Good sense prevented him, knowing it’d be a huge breach of privacy. The other half of him wanted to kick in the door, maybe rifle through her underwear for a souvenir.
Yeah, maybe he should just go back to his room and lock himself in.
A faint thumping from somewhere above caught his attention and he followed it like a beacon.
The door to the suite at the top of the building hung open and he forced himself to stop and seriously consider his next move.
He’d been upstairs. He knew what the suite looked like. Jared Golden’s fiancée, Annabelle, had taken a special interest in that room and created a sensualist’s dream.
Where Jared had chosen a Victorian theme for the Salon at Haven, this room looked like something out of a sultan’s wet dream. And he totally meant that in a good way.
He was halfway up the circular staircase before his brain said, “Ya know, this is probably a really bad idea.”
Luckily for him, his feet didn’t listen.
At the top of the stairs, he took a moment to appreciate the sheer visual beauty of the room.
He had no idea what it’d looked like before Annabelle had gotten her hands on it. He knew the round bed had come with the building, probably because the huge, custom-made piece would’ve had to be dismantled to get it out of there. It fit the dimensions of the circular room perfectly.
And Annabelle had gone from there.
Deep, rich purple and red silk covered the walls and windows. A canopy of white gauze draped over the bed along with white silk bedding. Every light in the room, all of which looked like lanterns, had a bulb that flickered and bathed the room in simulated candlelight. A chaise lounge made for two sat under the huge windows that took up nearly half of the wall space. A floor-to-ceiling armoire was the only other piece of furniture in the room. It really didn’t need anything else.
Except for the artwork hanging along the walls from ribbons draped over a suspended rod.
Greg couldn’t tell a Picasso from a Pollack but he knew what he liked. And he liked these.
They were black and white and looked like pen-and-ink drawings showing couples and threesomes in all manner of erotic poses. Nothing explicit, but just looking at them made his cock hard.
He wondered what Sabrina thought about them. Did she look at them and get hot?
Shit, he really should head back downstairs.
But did he? Of course not.
“Sabrina? Are you up here?”
A muffled thump followed by a curse came from the attached bath, and he headed for the door to find her on her knees on the floor, rubbing the back of her head.
“Hey, you okay?”
He crouched down beside her, cupping her nape as she gave him a dirty look. Which made him smile. Hell, everything about her made him smile.
“No. You startled me and I hit my head on the cabinet. Which is kind of hard, so, ouch.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
She shrugged and made a motion to get up, not meeting his gaze. “Not your fault.”
Standing, he reached down to help her up and, when she tried to release his hand, he didn’t let go.
Now she did look up, lifting her eyebrows at him.
“Yes, it was my fault. I didn’t mean to startle you. What are you doing up here?”
She tugged on her hand and this time he let her go. “Stocking cabinets. I figured I could get some housekeeping stuff done. I get bored easily and it helps me think.”
“I know the feeling. So are you finished in here?”
“Why?” Her question held a wary tone and his grin widened.
“Because I think we could both use a break.”
Her arms crossed over her chest and he had to fight the temptation to look down awfully hard.
“And what do you have in mind?”
He wanted to go back on his earlier statement and throw her on the bed in the next room.
“How about you help me stage a few photos? I told Tyler I’d do some promo shots while I was up here.”
He really didn’t need her help and Tyler didn’t really expect him to do those photos, but now that he was with her, he didn’t want to be alone in his room again.
And he should have known she’d call him on it.
“I thought you didn’t want to see me until tonight?” Her eyes narrowed and he found her suspicion hot as hell. “What changed? Is something wrong?”
“Why do you ask that?”
She paused. “No reason. I guess. So . . . what kind of p
hotos?”
He had to laugh at the wariness in her expression even as he held back from kissing the look off her face.
“Not those kind.” At least not now. But later . . . “Promo photos for the website and for print ads, but not your standard magazine shots. More artistic than promotional.”
Her eyes narrowed even more as she thought about that. “Okay. But how can I help? I am the least artistic person you will ever meet.”
“I bet that’s not true.”
She gave him a raised eyebrow. “You don’t know me that well.”
No, he didn’t. And he wanted to change that. Didn’t matter if it wasn’t smart. “Don’t worry. I will.”
He underlaid the words with enough sexual heat to make her blush. Which then made her scowl.
He hadn’t had this much fun flirting with a woman in . . . hell, he didn’t know how long.
And even though in the back of his brain he knew he had a problem brewing in L.A., he managed to set that aside and focus on her.
“So, pictures.” She didn’t step away, and he liked having her this close. “Where’s your camera?”
“In my room.” And since he wasn’t sure he could keep to his resolution not to touch her until tonight if she was that close to his bed, he didn’t ask her to come with him. “I’ll meet you in the lounge.”
“Do you want me to get anything? Props or something?”
He hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Maybe a tray and some dishes?” she said. “Or a robe. Ooh, or maybe some of Kate’s lingerie. She’s got a few pieces stashed in the boutique.”
His brain began to see images and he nodded. “Yes, to all of it. Meet me there in five minutes.”
Three
Watching Greg work made Sabrina hot.
The camera looked small in his hands, and the way his fingers curved around it made her wonder how they’d feel cupping her breasts.
The last time she’d seen him with a camera in his hands, he’d been taking pictures of her and she’d been desperately trying not to show how turned on he’d made her.
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