Page 47 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“Had a taste for him, have you? One Dalton isn’t enough anymore?” He slowly rises to his feet. He’s wearing black again. There’s the faintest trace of sweat on his torso and it’s molded his T-shirt to his body, defining the hard ridge of muscle that I love so much.
“Rather two Daltons than half of Hollywood like you,” I say, stung by his words. “Why do you always assume the worst about me?”
Because we don’t know how to act any differently.
The sex may be earth-shattering, but there’s a fundamental flaw in our extended one-night stand. Neither of us brings any real trust to the table.
“I don’t expect the woman I’m fucking to bend over for my brother, as well,” he says roughly. “You should know by now that I don’t like to—”
“Share?Yes I heard you the first, second, and numerous other times. Shame, really,” I say, walking over to the closet and kicking off my Chucks. “I was looking forward to a Dalton threesome. You know, a chance to get some real experience under my belt.”
Boom.
The look of rage that crosses his face is terrifying. “Don’t push me, Books. I’m warning you.”
“You’re such a hypocrite, Jake,” I say, losing my temper. “There’s no way I’m going to act like a nun while you go around screwing your lead actress and every Lydia or Gemma who calls you up on an hourly basis.” I don’t care what Max said. My self-doubt can’t ignore the blitz of beautiful women that keep banging down his door every day.
End it.
The words are right there on the tip of my tongue again.
“I’m not going to dignify that—”
“Then get out. I can’t be bothered to decipher your bullshit answers anymore.”
We glare at one another, both emanating righteous indignation.
“This is one of the fucking reasons I don’t do relationships,” he says, storming for the door. “I should have just fucked you out of my system in L.A. as I’d planned.”
He had a plan?
I forget what insult I was lining up to use next.
He brushes past me and I catch a trace of his aftershave. I fight back the tears as it conjures up images of my safe place, of us lying naked in bed together with his strong arms wrapped tightly around me.
I inhale sharply, drinking him all in, and when the door finally slams shut behind him, I sink to my knees in despair.
This is for the best, I tell myself.
So why does it feel so wrong?
Chapter Twenty-Four
The next day I don’t leave the production office, and Jake refuses to leave the set. I know it’s because we’re avoiding one another.
“Cassie’s refusing to wear any of her costumes,” whispers Rachel, chucking a biscuit at my head to try and rouse me out of my black mood. “Jake’s been in her trailer for the last three hours trying to talk her round. We’re never going to finish on time.”
I know she’s only trying to cheer me up, but Rachel’s words plunge me into an even deeper despair. Jake is making me question myself, over and over. One minute he’s practically screwing me against the wall of the hotel bar. The next, he’s calling me a lapse in judgment and refusing to speak to me.
We’re done.Finito.My secrets will continue to stay buried beneath years of deliberate neglect. So, why do I find myself Googling “Jake Dalton and Cassie Lee” for the hundredth time today?
Reluctantly, I click off the entertainment website that Rachel seems to mainline like celebrity crack. Sweeping a thin film of dust off my laptop screen, I cast my eyes over the first item on Max’s To Do list:
1. Call George Clooney’s agent and set up a meeting with him and his management team.
Is he serious?
There’s no way I can track down anyone out here, not when all I have is a dodgy phone line, poor cell reception, and an internet connection as capricious as the man currently responsible for my state of mind.Damn that family. Not content with tormenting my heart, they’re now tormenting my brain, as well.
