Page 25 of Hot Nights in Morocco
Next, I’m introduced to Mr. Texas and his fourth trophy wife, Courtney, who are just as grim as I suspected. I wish Lucy were here. She and her forked tongue would have ripped these two to shreds.
“Where’s Jake?” asks my mother, looking over my shoulder. “I’msolooking forward to meeting your new man, Charlotte. He sounds so suave and debonair on the telephone. I hear he’s quite the catch.”
I groan inwardly. Three Oscars, five Golden Globes, eight BAFTAs, and a Studio Empire don’t make Jake a catch—they make him a Hollywood deity…albeit a bad-tempered and unpredictable one.
“He’s not my new anything, Mum,” I clarify quickly. “He’s my boss’s brother.”
“Don’t let that little detail stand in your way, honey,” Courtney says with a wink, nearly dislodging a false eyelash in the process. “When I met Harold, here, I was his PA’s stepdaughter.”
Yuck.
I smile vacantly at her and then glance around the room. There must be an escape route lurking somewhere beneath those sparkling, crystal chandeliers. Then I spot Jake sandwiched between two pop princesses and not looking remotely sorry about it, either. As I watch, one of them whispers something to him and he throws his handsome head back and laughs. That’s galling. He never laughs like that with me. We spend most of our time stuttering and false-starting as we struggle along in this messed-up work relationship of ours.
The second pop princess puts a manicured hand on his arm and I make myself look away. Iknewtonight would be a mistake. Why? Because Jake and I share about as much social standing as a lion and his prey do. I’m so far out of my comfort zone it’s unreal. I’m being forced to stand here and be polite to my mother while he’s happily getting felt up by a couple of Britney clones.
“Mascara emergency,” I yelp, cupping my left eye and backing away from the group of doom, speaking the only language my mother understands.
Heading straight for the front lobby, I feel someone touch my hand. Spinning around, I find myself gazing up at a familiar face.
“Twice in one day,” drawls Brad, smiling in appreciation. “I’m a lucky guy.”
The luck must be catching, because Brad’s another man who looks divine in a dress suit. He’s ditched the baseball cap tonight and his long, blond hair is slicked back off his face. He looks older somehow, but his indigo eyes are still sparking with mischief.
“How didyou know it was me?” I say, genuinely happy to see him. “Did my lack of silicone give me away?”
Brad grins. “Welcome to Hollywood, baby.”
His words send a delicious shiver down my spine. There’s no way he can be the Machiavellian monster that Jake makes him out to be.
“Have you seen Lord Voldemort yet?” I ask, grabbing another passing flute and taking a sip. “I believe he’s on a mission to seduce the whole of theBillboardtop ten.”
Brad chuckles. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“Did you know he’d be here?”
“Sure. Jake’s on the board. It would be pretty weird being a no-show at your own event.”
“He is?” I’m stunned.Why the hell didn’t he tell me?
“He likes to throw a couple of mil at charity once in a while. It makes him look less of an ass.”
“You two don’t seem to like each other very much,” I venture cautiously.
“There’s not a lot to like about Jake Dalton.”
My skin starts tingling again. I glance over to find the man in question glaring at me from all the way across the room. The next thing I know he’s taking my arm and ushering me away from Brad.
“What the hell are you doing?” I exclaim as I’m swept along by his white-hot rage.
“Reprimanding my brother’s assistant.Again.” Jake’s expression is like stone. Pausing briefly to consult the seating plan, and then to exchange passing pleasantries with Steven Spielberg, he strong-arms me over to our table and yanks out a chair. “Sit.”
I do as I’m told but only because my legs are close to giving out. Jake’s voice is deceptively calm, but I can tell that horrible temper of his is simmering just below the surface.
He snaps open the front button of his jacket and glides into the seat next to me. “How many time to I have to say it? Stay away from Brad Wilson. Your contract is with Global. Therefore, you’re a representative ofmeandmyinterests, of which he doesn’t even warrant a fucking footnote.”
“This is bullshit,” I say between clenched teeth. “You can’t dictate the rules to me outside of business hours. You don’t see me going around ordering you to stop feeling up pop stars. Why? Because it’s not appropriate.”
“Don’t test me on this, Books. You won’t like the consequences.”
