Page 45 of Hot Nights in Morocco
Max seems to confide in her an awful lot.
“Was Jake close to him?”
“Before their mother walked out on the family, yes. Jake was only about ten at the time. Robert was obsessed with his studio. I guess she got fed up. It must’ve been terribly boring sitting alone in an empty mansion all day.” Rachel sighs, and shakes her head at the idiosyncrasies of the superrich. “Robert fell apart after she left. He was forced to hand over the running of Global to his VP, Walt Wilson, until Jake was old enough to take on the business. But Jake never wanted it. Not until now.”
I have an image of a brown-eyed boy. One who is fighting to keep his mother and father together as his whole world is falling apart.
“I had no idea about any of this,” I whisper.
“Why would you?” says Rachel, looking at me oddly. “Even the press doesn’t have the full story. I got all this from Max.”
“Why didn’t Jake want Global until now?” My inner monologue is spewing out across the table again.
“Perhaps he didn’t want to be a businessman?” She signals for the bill. “Jake loves producing movies. He’s so good at it, too. He’s going through hell at the thought of giving it all up after this shoot. I swear that’s why he’s so moody all the time.”
That, and a barrage of hostility from me.
“Do you think Jake blames Global for his mother leaving?” I ask her.
Rachel considers my question. “You mean as a fallout from Robert’s obsession? Maybe. Jake and his father ended up having a huge fight about it a few years ago. It destroyed their relationship. They weren’t even on speaking terms when Robert died.”
“And now Jake’s being dragged back to L.A. by invisible chains.”
“Chains that bind him tighter than you or I could ever imagine.” Rachel looks up as the bill arrives. “Ah, thanks. By the way, I don’t recommend you ask Jake about any of this. He fired a cameraman last year for doing that.” She rakes her eyes over the scrappy piece of paper. “Hey, you don’t have change for twenty dirhams, do you?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s midnight by the time we arrive back at the hotel. I still haven’t phoned Jake back. He’s probably tearing the place apart looking for me, and I’m exhausted just thinking about the confrontation that’s heading our way.
“Bedtime,” declares Rachel, touching my arm as we enter the lobby together.
“Thanks again for tonight.” I lean in to give her a quick hug. She’s been up since five a.m. and her blue eyes are opaque with tiredness. Jake is as unforgiving a boss as he is a lover.
“Sure, it was fun. I still don’t know jack shit about you, though.” Laughing, she disappears into the elevator as I hover by the front desk debating my next move. I don’t want to go upstairs and lie in a darkened room obsessing over Jake and Cassie all night, so I head for the hotel bar instead.
What a difference twelve hours can make. The place is packed. All around me British and American accents are jostling for volume control, a thick fog of cigarette smoke hanging in silver curls above each table. I scan the crowds of sweaty, self-confident bodies for a glimpse of tall, dark, and stupidly handsome,but he’s not here.
Max is, though.
“Hey, Charlie!” he shouts, homing in on me straightaway.
Heads swivel as he rises up from a table in the corner and makes his way over.
“Is this my chance?” His face stretches into a grin as he approaches. “I haven’t forgotten what you said this morning. All that crap about needing romance to sweep you off your feet? I can do that, you know.” He leans across the bar and calls out to the bartender. “We need a bottle of champagne, Omar, and none of that cheap shit, either.”
“Give it up, Max,” I say with a smile, shaking my head at him. “You and I are never going to happen.”
“Bullshit. You can’t refuse me now. Not when you’ve seen me naked, or nearabouts. Did thatGQinterview get firmed up okay? One drink, that’s all. Just don’t tell any of my girlfriends. Deal?”
“Okay, deal.” Reluctantly, I park my ass on a red barstool next to him. It’s impossible to say no to Max sometimes. “And yes to theGQinterview. They’re flying out next Tuesday. What’s my silence worth, by the way?”
“A bottle of Bollinger.”
“I thought you said one drink only.”
“One verylongdrink.” His brown eyes are sparkling with triumph as he leans over to chat to the barman again. I study his profile as he does. With all those laughter lines he looks like a younger, lascivious version of his brother. There’s no darkness and intensity about Max, just sin and mischief and the promise of a good time. For a fleeting moment I wonder what happened to make Jake so different. Was it his mother leaving, his father’s breakdown, or something else entirely?
“You’re not a bit like your brother,” I blurt out, accepting a champagne flute. “Personality-wise I mean.”
