Page 22 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“So, you’re pulling rank again? That’s emotional—no,employmentblackmail. And it’s unethical.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Books. I’m still your boss’s boss, remember?”
“Which means nothing, by the way. I already checked. Max told me you can’t fire me, so don’t even go there.” I tail off and switch tack. “Why are you doing this?”
He jets out a breath. “It’s a favor. Be grateful. They’re rare as fuck.”
Never in a million years.Thanks to him, I have to spend an entire evening with my mother at an event that will trigger memories I’ve spent a lifetime trying to forget. “I don’t want to be your pity date, Jake.”
His jaw tenses. “You’re not a pity date, or any sort of date, for that matter. Text your mother my address so she knows where to courier the dresses.”
“Please don’t do this.”
I don’t know what I’m pleading for here—a reprieve from this event or a reprieve from his company?
“It’s for a good cause.” He reaches out to turn the radio up and drown out any more of my protestations.
“Am I the good cause, or are you referring to the kids?” I say, determined to have the last word.
“I’m not listening anymore, Books.”
We’re starting to slow next to an exclusive row of homes. I can see their slanting roofs rising up like gilded citadels above ten-foot security fences and jagged green topiary. “Wouldn’t you rather be at home watching baseball or basketball, or whatever you billionaires do in your spare time?”
He pulls into the driveway of one, hits a button on his dashboard, and waits for the gates to open. “You’re stalling, Books. Are you trying to stand me up?”
“New experience, is it? Anyway, I can’t stand you up,” I say quickly. “You said this wasn’t a date.”
The foliage parts and we pull up to a gorgeous Tudor-style mansion with lots of aromatic honeysuckle clouding the front porch. I wouldn’t expect anything else from him. Jake spits good taste while others, like me, are left to swallow our mediocrity. Behind us, the security gates close like steel-tipped trapdoors.
“Argue as much as you want, call me every name under the sun if you must, but we’re going to this event together, and that’s final.” I watch him slide off his seat belt and exit the car as gracefully as a matador, though his words are spliced with steel. “And another thing. I don’t watch television.”
“Said the media mogul to the soapaholic,” I mutter as he slams the door on me.
Reluctantly, I follow him inside.
His mansion is spectacular, of course, but I don’t tell him that. His ego is far too big already. It’s all cool creams, dark grays, and angled furniture.
Achingly modern.
Eminently masculine.
Stepping through the front doors, I’m confronted with a curved white marble staircase leading up to the next floor.
“Take one of the bedrooms on the left,” he calls out after me as I shoot up the stairs two at a time, anxious to put some distance between us.
There’s a hallway of doors waiting for me at the top. Pushing open the nearest, I slip inside. The room is light and spacious with a huge floor-to-ceiling window separating me from a dusky, neon-lit metropolis. I flop down onto the bed and close my eyes. Everything out here seems so hyper and intense compared with the stark simplicity of the desert. The view is making my brain ache.
Jakeis making my brain ache.
My mother has three dresses and a trunk load of accessories couriered over to his mansion shortly after we arrive. Guilt sure buys a lot of couture, and it takes me ages to unpack everything. I lay each item out in turn on the navy comforter. Okay, so my mother has many faults, but her taste in designer cocktail dresses isn’t one of them. There’s a shimmering silver Chanel, a slinky red Calvin Klein, and a classic Versace LBD. The clock is ticking. I don’t have long to choose. We’re scheduled to leave in forty minutes.
All too quickly, I hear Jake shouting up to me from downstairs, “How long does it take to change a pair of Chucks, Books? Get a move on. It’s time to go!”
No Chucks tonight, and it’s a decision I’m mourning already. Hurricane Dalton is much easier to withstand when my feet are firmly flat on the ground. Instead, I glance in the mirror as I slip into a pair of four-inch Jimmy Choos. In the end I chose the Chanel. I’ve not had much time to work on a tan in Morocco, but my naked back looks okay from this angle. The dress is seductive enough to flatter my slim figure, with a slit up one side and a slight flaring at the waist. For once I’ve obeyed my mother, and swept my long, dark hair into a neat chignon at the nape of my neck. There are small diamond studs glittering in each ear lobe.
“Not bad, Charlie, not bad,” I whisper at my reflection as I grab a silver purse and a pale pink pashmina from the collection.
Jake is waiting for me in his cavernous white lobby next to a gilt mirror and a bleak, expensive-looking painting of an unfamiliar skyline. He’s changed into a sharp, impeccably fitted black dress suit, and as I descend the winding staircase he turns to look at me. Clutching the banister for support, I gaze back at him steadily, even though my heart is pounding, as I take in the strength of his jawline and those heavy dark eyes.
