Page 23 of Hot Nights in Morocco
His expression is unreadable, but there’s a muscle working hard in his left cheek as I walk over to him, my heels sparking off his monochrome tiles. He knocks back the drink in his hand and grabs his iPhone from the sideboard. “You took your time,” he mutters.
“You don’t look so shabby, yourself.” Rebuked, I glare at his broad shoulders. It wouldn’t kill him to say something nice to me. Then I remember who he is and who he’s dated. Jake’s used to having beautiful, confident women hanging off his arm, not some wild-eyed twenty-two-year-old with a broken past and a shaky future. I’m too young, too inexperienced. I’m not in the same league. Hell, I don’t even want to be.
Do I?
The lobby starts to spin. We’re going to look ridiculous together. Every woman in the world wants to walk into a room with him…every woman except me.
I take a step back to catch my breath, reaching out to steady myself against the white wall.
At the same time Jake turns and frowns. “You okay?”
I daren’t look at him. He’s right. Tonight is just business, nothing more.
“I’m fine,” I say, staring at the floor.
“You sure about that?”
“I said I’m fine, so let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
But he doesn’t move. I can feel his gaze raking over my face, seeking out my truth again. “You’restillfighting me on this? Why?”
“Why not?”
Because I’m scared.
Becauseyoumake me scared.
For the first time in my life, I’m tempted to share my dirty secrets—the reasons for my insecurity, and the reasons why I buck against his authority so much. Something in those eyes is making me want to strip away years of bullshit. But the truth is poison. It belongs far, far away from us.
Us?
Striding past him, I step out onto the porch and wrap the pink pashmina around my bare shoulders, flouting the balmy L.A. evening just as I flout his demands at every opportunity.
“Well?” he says, arriving at my side. “Are you going to enlighten me, or are we playing twenty questions again?”
“Oppression,” I grumble.
“Oppression?”One eyebrow quirks in amusement. “I see. Reading Margaret Atwood at the moment, are we?”
I hate that he knows his literature. He must have read English at university, too. Words used to be my safe space, and now he’s laying siege to them, as he is everything else.
“The Count Of Monte Cristo, actually,” I say tersely.Because you’ve taken my thoughts hostage and I still don’t know why.“You may have won this particular battle, Mr. Dalton, but no one says I have to be happy about it.”
His gaze skims across my face again before he inclines his head toward the waiting car. “We don’t fight battles, Charlie—we brawl, at best.” I struggle to catch his parting words as he spins away from me. “It’s never warfare until we’ve shown our true colors.”
Chapter Thirteen
“It says here that each ticket for tonight is worth ten thousand dollars. Is that a literal amount or Monopoly money?”
Jake’s right. L.A. traffic sucks. The car grinds to a halt for the third time today as I’m Googling a profile of the charity event to distract me from my nerves.
Jake shrugs like it’s no big deal, as if he owns this town and was born clutching an Oscar.Which is probably true.“If I confirm the former I’ll only be accused of male tyranny again.”
“By using your wealth to intimidate me?”
“Are we back to Mr. Darcy so soon? What else does it say?” He sounds like he couldn’t care less, though. He keeps messaging someone on his iPhone. He’s barely said two words to me the whole journey.
“That Jake Dalton is a fully paid-up member of the super-rich club for shrugging off a ten-K price tag like it’s a crumpled twenty.”
