Page 6 of Hot Nights in Morocco
I’m still reflecting on the merits of this plan as I barge into his office without knocking and grind to a halt in the doorway.
And naturally, he had to have amazing taste, as well.The room is a bright, bold clash of Moroccan and Western style and influence, like someone dipped a popsicle of technology into a bowlful of the exotic. It’s twice the size of the production office, with red and gold Berber rugs, smoldering Baroque furniture, and hi-tech flat-screens all over the place.
My gaze jerks upward. The walls are different. They’re more honest somehow, more revealing of the man behind the fame and the money. They’re covered in set design plans with peeling corners, location photographs with neon-pink Post-it arrows, and a montage of stark pencil drawings with more detail than any comic. For some reason I can’t stop staring at them. They’re surprisingly elegant, too, like something you’d find hanging in a London art gallery instead of on a studio wall in North Africa.
“They’re storyboards,” snaps a voice to my left, and my whole body radiates in his direction, a sunflower seeking warmth, but there’s none to be found. Jake is sitting behind a vast mahogany desk, as dark and menacing as his mood. He’s watching me carefully. His face is impassive but he’s drumming the fingers of one hand lightly against the woodwork. “They’re intended to provide inspiration for our camera shots. If you’re interested in that sort of thing, of course.”
He sounds bored. Inconvenienced. It gets my back up straightaway.
“Are they working?”Clearly not after this morning’s performance.
“Like hell they are.” He takes the provocation like he welcomes it. Like it’s some kind of release for him. “They’re giving me about as much creative vision as my art department’s sets.”
He rises from his desk and moves to stand in front of me. My nerve starts to waver. His close proximity is playing havoc with my senses. I can’t believe he’s affecting me so much. Hell, even his aftershave is divine. Cedarwood and citrus. It’s so dominant, so…safe.
“I don’t apologize to anyone, Miss Winters,” he announces, folding his arms in front of him and settling on the edge of his desk. “Though I fear I may have offended you when we were first introduced. If you found me indescribably rude, it’s only because you’re on the receiving end of averydifficult week.”
He’s glaring at me now as if it’s somehow my fault.
“Will you be saying the same to your costume designer and art department?” I ask, tilting my chin in his direction. “From what I hear, you’ve been indescribably rude to them, as well.”
A flash of disbelief crosses his face. “Areyoualways this rude?”
No.
“I guess I’m being led by example,” I counter swiftly.
His dark eyes are glinting dangerously at me now. His intensity is stifling. His office may be huge but the walls are closing in on me already. There’s a power struggle here and it’s catching us both by surprise. I’m hanging onto this job by a thread, but I’m determined not to give him an inch.
“I appreciate that you’re new to this business, but there’s a certain pecking order on my movie sets.” He stretches out his legs, bridging the gap between us. I find myself both drawn to and repelled by this encroachment on my personal space. I want to inch closer and let his masculinity envelop me, but I’m afraid of what might happen if I do. I’m afraid of whatImight do.
Get a grip, Charlie.
“There are rulesyou need to abide by, especially if you want to stay working as my brother’s assistant.”
I remember Max’s words from earlier and suppress a crazy swell of laughter.
“Did you hear what I said?” His gaze rakes over my face, leaving bloody weals of frustration and anger.
The next few months are going to be interesting. I’ve never cared much for authority. My mother and stepfather can certainly testify to that.
Opening my mouth to make another smart remark, I catch a waft of his aftershave again and lose my train of thought. I’m then forced to watch as he rakes his hand through his hair. What does it feel like, I wonder? Does it smell as good as he looks? It’s a universally acknowledged law: bastards always have the best hair.
He’s so much more than that, though, from the square arrogance of his jawline to the cut cheekbones, the long straight nose, and the faint frown lines carved into his forehead. He’s pure physical male perfection, right there in front of me. We hold each other’s gazes for a beat before the shrill ring of his telephone interrupts us. His hand snakes out and snatches up the receiver. His eyes never leave mine, even for a second.
“What is it?” He listens for a moment, his face losing some of its animosity. “Gemma, doll, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll have to call you back.”
Who the hell is Gemma?
Why do I care?
“I’ll make it up to you when I’m back in L.A.”
There’s a gleam of contempt in his dark eyes now. It’s as though he can see through my belligerence and can sense my reluctant attraction to him. If so, then he’s mocking me for it. Forcing me to listen to him toy with another woman.
He replaces the receiver and it starts ringing again. “What the hell is it now?”
This time I can hear Rachel’s voice patiently detailing some crisis. Jake breaks our impasse by rolling his eyes and then closing them in anger. I savor my small victory as he circles the desk and returns to his chair. “That fucking woman! Why can’t she behave herself?”
