Page 79 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“We’re not done. You’re needed at a meeting across town.”
I don’t even bother hiding my irritation. “Do I have to?”
I know it’s going to be some last minute script amendment bore-fest with Ramirez, interspersed with some verbal target practice at my expense.
“Yes. Get in.” He pushes me roughly toward the car and I’m half tempted to remind him of this morning’s diatribe about over-entitled assistants.
Central London is nowhere near as enthralling as it was twenty-four hours ago. The lights are too bright. They’ve completely lost their charm—rather like my respect for Brad Wilson. I have no idea where we’re going, and Brad’s refusing to look at me, let alone impart that minor detail. When the SUV slows to a stop, I’m surprised to see that we’ve parked on the flawless gray forecourt of one of London’s top hotels.
“I thought we were going to a meeting, not out for cocktails?” I quip, even though I’d rather drink poison than sip margaritas in his company.
“Business center,” growls Brad as he exits the car
How did I ever fall for his duplicitous charm? Even his Hollywood smile is fake. He’s no better than my mom and all her gold digger cronies, except his drug of choice seems to be these power plays with his brother.
We enter the lobby and make our way up to the fourth floor. I never knew an elevator ride could be so excruciating. An elegant redhead is waiting to greet us, but she’s clearly working late for no overtime. She keeps checking her watch and doesn’t bother to offer us any refreshments. She ushers us toward a large meeting room that is fronted on all sides by frosted glass panels. “This way, please. He’s been waiting for you, and he’s growing impatient.”
Trust Ramirez to be chucking his weight around. He can’t have been waiting that long. He left the set around the same time we did.
“After you.” Brad stands aside to let me enter first and it catches me off guard. I thought the man was devoid of all manners and decency.
Mumbling my thanks, I slip past him and step inside the room. At first glance it’s like any other business center around the world—neutral cream walls, nonsensical abstract paintings to distract from the tedium of meetings, a carpet in the richest claret to cover up all the blood from corporate backstabbings.
And then my gaze shifts left.
A large oval meeting table dominates the space. There are five men sitting around it, but I only see one. He’s at the head, dressed in a familiar three-piece Tom Ford suit, and there’s a muscle working hard in his left cheek. He stares directly at me with those smoldering dark eyes that I know so well.
“Hello, Charlie,” says Jake grimly.
Chapter Forty-Six
I grind to a halt and Brad crashes into the back of me.
“What the fuck!” he yells, and then he catches sight of Jake. With a smirk, he neatly sidesteps around me like the emotional roadkill that I am. “At least you two won’t need an introduction. Still, I’m betting this evening won’t be nearly asenjoyableas yesterday’s.”
The implications of his words swing like a guillotine above the table. At the same time I’m miserably aware of how crap I look. My black jeans are filthy, my pale pink hoodie is covered in spilt coffee, and I sweated off the last traces of makeup hours ago.
Jake’s eyes keep swiveling from Brad to me. I can tell he’s trying to second-guess the nature of our relationship.No, no, no,I want to scream at him.Don’t even think it for a second.
He’s changed since we last saw each other. He’s grown older and harder, somehow. His cheeks are hollow, and despite his golden tan, there’s no warmth left in his face.There’s nothing left for me.
“Sit down, Charlie,” he says coolly. “I assume you’re here in your capacity as Brad’s new assistant. If so, I’d appreciate you taking the minutes for us.”
WhyamI here?
Is Brad taunting me?
Is he taunting us both?
“Of course,” I squeak, pulling out my notebook and collapsing into a seat as far away from Brad Wilson as possible.
“Let’s get this over with then, shall we?” Brad glares at his brother. “Are you going for the explosive Dalton special, or is this going to be a long, drawn out affair? If so, I need a whiskey.”
There’s a short lull as drinks are ordered and terse introductions to Jake’s associates are made.
And then all hell breaks loose.
“You irresponsible fucker! What the hell were you thinking?” roars Jake, slamming his bourbon down on the table with a deafening crash.
