by Cora Kenborn
I nod. “This morning.”
“Excellent. Because projects under the Silverline name are of the utmost secrecy. It only takes one slip of the tongue for word to get out and then some hack studio turns out a third-rate copy six months before release, and we’re left with our dicks in our hands.”
“Of course.”
“So, you understand, per the terms of your contract, what happens in this office is never to be discussed outside of it.”
“You mean what’s said in this office.”
“Of course. My mistake.”
Sure, it is.
However, now is my chance. I need to test the waters and find out what his plans are for Dominic. He may have screwed me over once, but that doesn’t mean I want to see him ruined.
“Mr. Rosten—”
“Greg.”
“Right, Greg, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Dominic McCallum.”
He peers out over the movie studios, his jaw sawing from side to side. “What about him?”
“Well, there seemed to be animosity between you at the party on Friday.”
Chuckling, he glances back over his shoulder. “Animosity? Alexandra, the boy can’t spell animosity much less go head to head with a man such as myself.” He waves a dismissive hand. “He’s insignificant.”
“But—”
“However, there seems to be quite the opposite between you two.” Rosten takes a few measured steps toward me. “Are you fucking him?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question,” he says, his eyes darkening. “Are. You. Fucking. McCallum?”
“No!” At least not yet.
“Good, then we can proceed.” I have no idea what to say. I’m speechless. Which doesn’t matter because Rosten doesn’t seem to notice. “Silverline is producing a new film.” Returning to his desk, he pulls a bound folder from a desk drawer and drops it in my lap. “It’s already well past the casting stage and into the table reads. However, the female lead isn’t working out, so I’ve decided to recast.”
Bound Fate.
Top secret my ass. I’ve heard of these books. Violet was obsessed with them. She nearly lost her mind when rumors circulated a Hollywood studio had bought the movie rights for the entire trilogy. However, nothing was ever confirmed.
Well, until now.
“Huh.” I have no idea what else to say, so I flip to the first page, shocked at the name I see. “Holy shit, you’re replacing Greta Amherst?” The woman is a legend. Only twenty-six and already two Oscars and three Golden Globes under her belt. “Who’s replacing her?”
“You are.”
My head jerks up, the script almost tumbling off my lap. “I’m sorry?”
“Alexandra, Greta is beautiful and talented—”
“And a guaranteed box office draw.”
He flashes that brutally white smile. “True, but so are you, my sweet. You’re the topic at every water cooler. I wouldn’t be the businessman I am without capitalizing on that.”
“So, you’re putting me in a movie because of my name.”
“No. I’m putting you in the movie because you were born to play the role.” Rosten leans over my shoulder, flipping the pages of the script until he finds the one he wants. “See there? Isabella is an innocent, young girl, just coming into her sexual awakening. Sebastian is the much older CEO who breaks her inhibitions and drags her into a world of darkness and carnal sin.”
He’s right. The lines he’s referring to are explicit and from what I can tell, the role calls for pretty much full nudity on my part. “I don’t know if this is the right fit for me.”
Rosten leans back, his hands rubbing my shoulders. “Do you want a sweet, romantic comedy that paints you as the cute, little Romanov girl they remember, or do you want a gritty leading role that shows the world Alexandra Romanov is all grown up?”
Please stop.
“I have to think—”
His hands pause. “No thinking, Alexandra. Either you take the role, or I give it to Kya Perrone. Yes or no.”
Shit.
The tabloids love a good rivalry whether it’s real or not, and Kya versus Alexandra is the cat fight du jour. Even though we’ve never spoken two words to each other, the media has us at each other’s throats, fighting for roles, and trash talking behind each other’s backs.
Michaela says it may be fabricated bullshit, but the more my name stays on people’s tongues the better. I’m not so sure. Because if Kya gets this role and it explodes, where does that leave me?
I’ll tell you. As the dumb bitch who handed it to her on a silver platter.
“Fine,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “I’ll do it.”
“Excellent, I—”
“On one condition.” I say the words before I change my mind. “Leave Dominic McCallum alone.”
“Very well,” he says, returning to his ministrations. “Welcome back, Alexandra. Things might not have ended the way we planned before”—I wince as his fingers dig into my skin—“but this time will be different.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dominic
A wave of dread builds like a slowly rising tide as I drive my Harley up Stone Canyon Drive. However, it’s only when I pull into the bowels of the mansion that it comes crashing down and swallows me whole.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I catch my reflection in the side view mirror. God, I look like shit. Lines crease down from the corners of my blood-shot eyes, and I haven’t cared to shave in four days. At least Rosten kept his end of the bargain and my mother is back upstairs in the main level of Moss Valley Hospital. That’s one less thing keeping me up at night. But I’ve done nothing but obsess about everything else.
Especially what happened in that hallway with Angel.
I tried to push her away, but Rosten backed me into a corner. The fucked-up part is he didn’t have to push very hard. I half walked there myself just to get close to her again. I lose control around her, which is a very catastrophic and dangerous thing for both of us.
“Less pussy more sleep, McCallum,” I tell my reflection before swinging my leg off the side.
Starting tomorrow.
Walking across the darkened garage, I pull a pack of smokes and my lighter from the pocket of my leather jacket. I don’t think. I spark the end, taking such a deep drag I’m pretty sure my chest is more smoke than air. Just as I reach the elevator, I exhale, glancing down at the orange ember while shaking my head.
I promised her I’d quit.
What was I thinking? I’m Dominic McCallum. I don’t change who I am for any woman.
Cursing, I toss the half-smoked cigarette on the concrete, stomping it out with the heel of my boot. “Definitely less pussy,” I mutter.
“Kind of late to be making house calls to a business partner, don’t you think?”
I chuckle. Why wouldn’t he be here? The man’s like a cockroach—ugly as shit and impossible to get rid of. Turning around, I shove my hands in my pockets. “Detective Rubio. I’d say I’m surprised to see you here, but I’m not. We both know you have a blatant disregard for private property.”
Rubio just stands there, stone-faced in his three-piece suit. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You’re right.”
“You can’t ignore me forever, McCallum.”
“Really? I thought I was doing a pretty good job up until now.” I make a sweeping motion across the empty garage, and then it hits me. “How did you get the access code to get in here anyway? Oh wait, don’t tell me.” Stepping forward, I lean in and whisper, “It’s classified.”
He doesn’t react to my taunt, offering only a calm smile. “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Depends on the question.”
“Well how about this one,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Where were you between the hours of seven and ten-thirty p.m. on Friday?”
My danger gauge slams all the way to the right. I’ve kn
own men like Rubio all my life. They like to play the hero role, but they’re just like the rest of us—predatory bastards who look out for number one. And if this asshole thinks he’s going to spin me in verbal circles until I say something stupid, he didn’t do his homework.
“It’s mid-September, Jav. There have been a lot of Fridays. You’ll have to be more specific.”
A flash of irritation in his eyes breaks his calm façade. “This past Friday. The night of Miss Romanov’s party.”
Danger gauge was dead on. This whole routine was just the warm-up for the real show. The one where he goes in with a shovel to see what he can dig up.
Well, game on, motherfucker. I have one too. Let’s see who can move the most dirt.
“At home getting ready,” I answer, crossing my arms and mimicking his stance.
He rolls his eyes. “For three and a half hours?”
“As they say in Hollywood, magic doesn’t just happen.”
“Can anyone verify your whereabouts? Oh, let me guess…you were alone.” He air-quotes the last word.
“As a matter of fact, I wasn’t,” I clarify, air-quoting my own word. “Talk to my producer, Milly Boone.”
He raises a curious eyebrow. “Now isn’t that interesting? Does Miss Romanov know your producer works,” he clears his throat, “overtime.”
There are those damn air-quotes. I swear, if he does it again, I’m going to punch him, badge or no badge. Still, I can feel his confidence starting to waver. He’s grasping at straws, and the one he’s pulling on is the shortest one in the bunch.
“Do you have a point you’d like to make, detective?” I say, air-quoting once more. “Or do you plan to stand here tossing out baseless bullshit all night?”
His patience is wearing thin. I can tell by the involuntary twitch in his eye. This time there are no air-quotes, smirks, or eye rolls. He’s back to being stone faced and stock still.
“You don’t happen to know anything about a missing man named Freddy Wiseman, do you?”
Shit.
“Nope, never heard of him.” I clamp my teeth together.
“Interesting. Because witnesses verify seeing him taking pictures on your lawn two weeks ago.”
“And I’m supposed to know the name of every idiot who stalks me?”
Locking his hands behind his back, he flicks his gaze toward me. “Just find it interesting, that’s all.”
“Get a hobby, Rubio.” I’m done with this conversation. I don’t offer a goodbye as I turn around and push the elevator call button.
“Why are you here?” he asks slowly. “You’ve been spending quite a lot of time with Miss Romanov.”
Losing my patience, I cock my chin over my shoulder and glare. “Why are you here? I’m sure she’s not expecting you, so yet again, that means you’re trespassing.”
“Watch yourself, McCallum,” he warns, backing away while never taking his eyes off me. “You’re not as invincible as you think you are.”
They say Hollywood changes people, and they’re right. Because Alexandra Romanov swallowed Angel Smith and I’m not sure if she’s ever coming back.
Not that I’m complaining.
I scan my eyes down the bright green dress she’s wearing straight to those damn stiletto heels. Add in the made-up face, framed by dripping diamonds and styled hair, and I’m having a hard time keeping my dick in check.
“Rook.”
She glances up, a stack of papers curled in her hand. “You came.”
“I told you I would.”
“Yeah, but, you’re late again, and after…” A rush of pink splashes across her cheeks. “Well, it’s been four days, and I thought maybe…”
That maybe I haven’t been hard for four damn days? That one time with you could ever be enough?
I push the thoughts away. “You called and said you needed help, so here I am.”
She doesn’t say anything. The only acknowledgment I get is a nod.
“By the way, did you give Rubio the access code to the front gate?” I ask casually.
Lines crease her forehead. “The detective? No, why?”
“He was waiting for me in your garage.”
“What? Why, and how?”
That answers my question. Cops like Rubio love the divide and conquer tactic. One I worried he’d already put in play before cornering me in the garage.
“Just some baseless questions you don’t need to worry about. He was fishing because he’s desperate. As for how? I don’t know, but you can bet your ass I’m going to find out.” Angel nods again, and I can tell there’s something else on her mind. Something big enough to rank above Rubio’s gate hopping. “You sounded stressed on the phone. What’s up?”
She hesitates for a moment, then shoves the papers she’s been holding under my nose. “This is the script Rosten gave me. I’m supposed to be at a table read on Thursday, and I’m having trouble with the lines. I was hoping…” she trails off, shaking her head. “Never mind. It was a stupid idea.”
Something’s off, but I don’t push it. I’ve learned with Angel you have to stroke the kitten before she’ll meow. “I’m already here, you might as well tell me.”
She bites her bottom lip. “I was hoping you’d run some lines with me. The movie is…well, it’s hard to get into character by myself.”
“I’m no actor, but as long as you don’t mind a shitty delivery, I’m game.” Taking the offered script, I flip through it. “What’s the movie?”
“You have to promise not to say a word. I signed an NDA. If word gets out Silverline is producing this, I’ll get—”
I stop flipping long enough to cast a glance up at her. “Rook, I’m in the industry, remember? I know all about producers and their NDAs. I won’t say shit.”
She nods again for the third time. “It’s Bound Fate.”
What the fuck? “The mommy porn books?”
A few years back, Milly had that shit on blast. Those BTN bitches traded those damn books like Pokémon cards.
Covering her face, Angel walks toward the grand piano, her heels clicking against the marble. “God, please don’t call it that. This is hard enough knowing I’m replacing Greta Amherst.”
“What?” The vaulted ceilings echo my voice like a bad sports replay. “They canned Greta Amherst to cast you?”
Swiping a second script off the piano, she spins around, a new look on her face. “Try saying it with a little less shock next time.”
“No, I just meant…” I pause because I don’t know what the hell I meant. “Shit, this is big, rook.”
“I know. That’s why I called you.” Her face falls, and I can see the toll this has taken on her.
I can’t stand seeing her like this. I hate it.
Letting out a resigned breath, I flip through a few more pages. “Okay, so, obviously, you’re Isabella. Who’s playing this Sebastian guy?”
“Noah Braddock.”
It feels like someone shoved a needle in my veins and injected me with lava. I can’t breathe. My lungs burn, and my heart is pounding like a coked-up racehorse. Either I’m having a heart attack at thirty-two, or…
No fucking way.
Am I jealous?
I’ve never been jealous over a woman in my life. But the thought of Noah Braddock, America’s clit-clicking poster boy, doing a sex scene with my Angel…
Back the fuck up.
When did she become my Angel?
About ten second ago, asshole.
“Be careful around him.”
“Why? From everything I’ve read, he’s a really nice guy.”
Holding her stare, I force a tight smile. “You of all people should know not to believe everything you read.”
We stand there in awkward silence, scripts in hand and tension pinging back and forth between us like a tennis ball. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. “What’s the scene?”
Thankful for the distraction, Angel flips through her script while beckoning me over. With no other choice, I
stand by her side, still seething. “Sebastian is the CEO of a tech empire, and Isabella is his new personal assistant. She’s been called to work late hours at his penthouse.”
I snort. “Because that happens in real life.”
“Are you going to make jokes the whole time?”
“Sorry, continue.”
“Forget it, just turn to page eight-seven and read the line.”
The sooner we do this, the sooner I can go home and sort out whatever the hell has gotten into me. Clearing my throat, I assume my best boss voice. “What do you want, Isabella?”
Angel turns into somebody else right in front of me. Those fiery green eyes suddenly look innocent and doe-like, her body seems skittish, and her voice even sounds different. “Mr. Fox, it’s almost midnight, I thought—”
“You thought what? That this job adheres to a clock? You’re done when I say you’re done, Miss Prescott.”
“Yes, sir,” she whispers.
“Come here.” Angel shuffles toward me, somehow making her knees wobble. “Do I scare you, Isabella?”
“Yes.”
I catch her chin between my thumb and index finger. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir. You frighten me more than anyone I’ve ever known.” Her fingers tremble as they ghost along my wrist.
“Fear is only another level of desire, Miss Prescott. Some thrive under its guidance, even crave it.”
Her chest heaves as the tip of her tongue presses against her top lip. “You didn’t hire me to be your assistant, did you?”
“Of course I did. I just didn’t list every”—closing the distance, I kiss the corner of her mouth—“single”—then the other corner—“requirement.” Growling the last syllable, I hover my lips over hers in a silent dare.
Because I’m not acting anymore. I’m not Sebastian Fox.
I’m Dominic McCallum, and I’m fucking tired of waiting.
I don’t know who breaks first. All I know is we’re a frantic tangle of hands, lips, tongues, and teeth. I pour all my frustrations, all my guilt, and all this damn jealousy into kissing her. Her hands are in my hair, digging and pulling, which is fine because mine are clawing at the bottom of her dress like it’s the wrapping on a Christmas present.
