Lovely Little Liar (Blackwell-Lyon Book 1) Page 6

  “Absolutely,” I say, appreciating the tease in her voice. “But I have a feeling this assignment is going to be my favorite.”

  “Because of my sister?”

  I meet her eyes, and the heaviness that had been in the air is finally brushed completely away, replaced by something equally dangerous. “No.”

  For a moment, we just look at each other, a faint pink rising in her cheeks. Then she finishes off her drink and reaches for the small wallet-style purse she’d left on the table. She slides the strap over her arm, then flashes an awkward smile. “We should probably go. I bet your sister has the contract ready.”

  “Sure.” I stand, a little disappointed. I don’t know why—it’s not as if this were a date. As if we were going to leave the bar and head down Sixth Street, popping into various venues to drink and dance, her body pressed close to mine in the throng.

  That wouldn’t happen. But so long as we sit here, I can nurse the fantasy. And I hate that Jez has thrown reality back in my face.

  She’s three steps away from our table, and she looks back. “Coming?”

  That’s when I realize she’s flustered, too. She hasn’t given a thought to paying, and right now, she looks like a rabbit who’s looking back at a hunter.

  But this rabbit looks like she’d be happy to be devoured.

  At least it’s not just me.

  I toss a hundred on the table—I happen to know the waitress, Melanie, is struggling to come up with the balance of her tuition—and follow Jez to the doorway into the main area.

  The bar is coming to life, along with the street. And as in my fantasy, the crowd pushes us closer together. I take her hand, ostensibly to lead her to the door, but really because I just want to touch her, and by the time we reach the exit and step out into the cool night air, I’m breathing hard and sweat is beading on the back of my neck. Not from the exertion of getting out of there, but from the effort of fighting the urge to stay.

  She’s still holding my hand, and when I glance down and see our intertwined fingers, that’s it. It’s all over. I say a silent prayer and lift my head so that I can see her face, and there’s so much heat reflected back that it almost melts me.

  “Pierce,” she says, but I just tug her toward me.

  “Come on,” I say, urging her down the street, faster than I should since she’s wearing heels, but I can’t wait. And when we’ve gone two blocks down the street, I pull her into the service alley by my office and press her against the wall, caging her in my arms.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “But I have to.” I thrust my fingers into that rich, dark hair, hold her head steady, and claim her mouth with mine.

  It’s probably the most wonderful, terrifying moment of my life. Jez, soft and warm in my arms, juxtaposed against the fear that she’s going to shove me back and slap my face.

  But she doesn’t. Instead, her lips part more, and she leans into the kiss, her mouth as hot and wild as my own. She tastes of alcohol and desire, and my head swims, intoxicated by her surrender as much as by her touch.

  One hand cups the back of my neck, pulling me closer. The other presses against my back, giving her leverage to arch up against me. Her hands are the most potent of aphrodisiacs, telling me without words that she wants this moment as much as I do, and my entire body tightens in response, need coiling through me. A wild craving. A desperate longing.

  I’m hard as steel, and it’s taking all my self-control not to slide my fingers through the slit of her skirt and tear the damn thing right off of her. I want to thrust my hands between her legs, then slip my fingers beneath the hot, wet silk of her panties. I crave the slippery heat of her desire on my fingertips. That sweet, slick evidence that proves how much she wants me.

  I imagine bending my head and tasting her breasts. In my fantasies, I strip her bare and fuck her hard, our overheated bodies writhing together on cool, smooth sheets. My cock and fingers working a primal magic, sending her up and over and into the stars, until she explodes in my arms and begs me to do it again.

  But I can’t do that. Not really. And so this kiss—this single, wild kiss in a filthy alley—is our stand-in for clean sheets and wild sex, and I thrust my tongue in deeper, making the most of it. She tastes like bourbon and sex, and as our tongues war and our teeth clash, I fear that this is so wild and so frantic that we’re going to draw blood.

  But I don’t care. All I want is this moment. All I want is her.

  She’s practically melting against me, and I’m losing my mind. My thoughts reduced to basic, primitive needs, so powerful I can barely stand it.

  My condo’s only a few blocks away. I could step into the street. Grab a taxi, and take her home.

  It would be a bold move. But then again, so was kissing her in an alley.

  But, of course, we can’t.

  “Jez,” I say, regretfully breaking the kiss. She opens her eyes, and by some miracle I grow even harder when I see the wild, blatant desire heating her eyes.

  “We can’t,” she whispers, and though the words are like a knife, I know that they were inevitable.

  “I know.”

  Her brow furrows. “Then why—?”

  “Because I don’t get involved with clients,” I say, silently damning my own stringent rule. “But I had to taste you—just once—before we sign the contract.”

  Chapter Eight

  Anyone who’s ever said that watching a movie being filmed is exciting is a goddamned liar. It’s exciting for about the first fifteen minutes, when you’ve just arrived, and the crew is busy setting up lights or dressing the set or doing whatever it is that movie crews do.

  Then you see how much sitting around it involves. Sitting and waiting and being quiet. And take after take after take.

  I’m sure it’s scintillating if you’re in the cast or on the crew. But as an observer? Honestly, it’s mind-numbing.

  And yet here I am. Not because I think there’s an immediate threat to Delilah—it’s a closed set with its own security team—but because she’s Blackwell-Lyon’s responsibility, and this is my shift, and I need to understand her routine if I’m going to do my job.

  So I’m sitting and watching and learning. I’ve seen three takes of Delilah’s current scene, and while I don’t know much about acting, I have to say I’m impressed with her skill. It’s an angst-filled scene, and she’s managed to kick me in the emotional balls all three times she’s run through it.

  But that’s about as exciting as it gets, and since the entire scene is under four minutes and I’ve been sitting here for almost three hours, I’d say the return on investment is low.

  “You do this every day?” I ask Jez, when she approaches my chair between takes. It’s a director-style folding chair with a canvas seat and back. It doesn’t, however, have my name on it.

  “Exciting, isn’t it?” she says dryly, and once again I’m struck by how much I like this woman. We’re simpatico, she and I.

  “As much fun as watching grass grow.”

  “Watching action scenes is fun, though,” she tells me. “When the stunt double comes in, especially.”

  “Now you’re talking,” I say, willing to hold out for this tiny thrill. “When are they shooting that?”

  “They’re not.” A hint of a smile flashes. “That was in the movie she got fired from. This one’s all deep emotion and torment.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Enjoy.”

  “Where are you off to now?”

  “Back to the hotel. I can’t get a decent signal here, and I have a video call scheduled with Delilah’s agent, then her publicist, and then her accountant. I’ll be lucky if I survive the day without my head exploding. You’re good?”

  I want to tell her I’d be better if she stayed. I’ve barely seen her since we arrived, and while I’m here to work, the truth is I missed her last night.

  After we got back to my office and finished the paperwork, I’d planned to go back to the hotel with her. But Jez shut me down. “Del’s already tucked away i
n her room and the floor is secure, right?”

  “Right,” I admitted. And that was all well and good, but I knew the real reason was that she wanted time away to clear her head. And as much as I regretted the distance, I had to admit that was probably smart.

  “Fine,” I say now. “Del and I will see you at the hotel after the shoot.”

  She heads out, and since the cast and crew are pulling long days, I settle in for another nine hours of soul-crushing non-excitement.

  Fortunately, I only have to wait an hour before Delilah comes by and flops on the ground beside my chair. “I am so wiped out,” she says. “But I have forty-five minutes until we start up again.” She passes me a wrapped sandwich. “Want? The powers that be are making me eat salad.”

  From the tone of her voice, you’d think they were making her eat gruel.

  She’s wearing skinny jeans and a Keep Austin Weird T-shirt. Her damp hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing no make-up. I assume she showered in her trailer before heading my way. Presumably, there’s another hair and make-up session scheduled for after lunch.

  All in all, she looks like she could be a freshman at UT, and she’s at least as laid back as any local Austin girl. She crosses her legs then peels open the lid from her salad. “I’m ravenous. Tonight, when we get back to the hotel, I’m going to actually eat.” She looks at me. “How about you? Gonna stay for room service? I’m thinking we need to order all the fries. Like, all the fries.”

  “No salad and quinoa for you tonight?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t rat me out, okay? I’ll have a hard enough time when I get back to LA and my trainer kicks my ass. But while I’m here, I’m eating when I can. Besides, I’m fully clothed in this movie. No love scenes. No showers. No slow-mo shots of me in a bikini running on a beach. Honestly, it’s nice to just act, you know?”

  “Not really,” I admit. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

  Del smiles, and that’s when I can really see her star power. It’s bright and photogenic and lights up the set.

  “You like her, don’t you?”

  “Who?” I ask, though I know perfectly well who she’s talking about. And like Pavlov’s dog, my pulse has sped up just at the mention of Jez.

  “My sister. She’s not really a bitch, you know.”

  “Sure she is,” I quip, making Del laugh.

  “Okay, fine. Maybe she is. But you like her anyway.”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I do.”

  “Good.” She sounds smug. “And just so you know, Jez has reasons.”

  “I don’t think she’s a bitch,” I say, though I don’t mention that I’ve definitely witnessed some bitchy moments. “But what are the reasons?”

  “That stupid book, of course.”

  I frown. “What stupid book?”

  “That tell-all book that my old bodyguard wrote.”

  “Larry?” That can’t be true.

  “Oh, no. The guy who came after. Simpson. The prick. He called the book The Stuarts of Beverly Hills. It was total trash—one of those things they published superfast to get in on all the drama with me and Levyl and Garreth—but he said some pretty shitty things about Jezebel in it, too.”

  She lifts her shoulder. “They got pretty close, if you know what I mean. So now she’s careful. That’s why we’ve only had a series of rent-a-guards since she fired him. But it’s hard not really knowing the guys who are watching over you, you know?” Her words are flying fast, and I wonder if it’s because as an actress she’s usually scripted, so she’s taking advantage of being off book.

  “At any rate,” she continues, before I can get a word in, “sometimes she comes off as bitchy, but it’s only because she’s protecting us.”

  I’m gripping the wooden arms of the chair so tight I’m probably leaving dents. And I swear if this asshole Simpson was on the set right now, he’d be a dead man.

  “Anyway,” she says, standing up and brushing the dust off her jeans. “I just thought you should know. In case she seems, you know, distant.”

  “I’m just working for her, Del. There’s nothing going on.”

  “Of course not,” she says, but right then I doubt her acting skills, because she really doesn’t sound convincing.

  As soon as she heads off to the trailer to get in make-up for her next scene, I pull out my phone, open a web browser, find a digital copy of the book, and settle in to read.

  Immediately, my blood starts to boil. He talks about how their parents died, and how Jez stepped in as head of the family and manager of Del’s career, which was already on track, as the girl had been discovered at age six. He gives details about Del’s dating and how she met Levyl and her interactions with fans. He runs though arguments between Jez and Del. Reveals their conversations, their habits, the details of their lives.

  It’s not skanky, but it’s invasive as shit. He’s told the world things that only someone close and with access would know.

  In other words, he broke their trust.

  Bastard.

  I finish the book about an hour before Del wraps for the day, which is good, because that gives me a chance to quit seething before we get into the Range Rover and head for the Starfire.

  “I ordered some food,” Jez says when we arrive at the suite. She points to the spread laid out on the suite’s dining room table, and Del squeals and claps her hands.

  “These are for me,” Del says, taking the entire basket of fries. “I’m going to go gorge myself in my room and watch bad reality television.” She flashes me a mischievous smile, and I can’t help but think that she’s leaving us alone on purpose. And not so that we can talk business.

  “Hey,” I say, after Del’s gone. “How was your day?”

  Jez presses her fingers to her temples. “Crazy.”

  “Bad crazy?”

  “No,” she says, “just busy crazy.” She glances at the table. “We’re going to talk shop, so does that mean you’re still on duty?”

  “If you’re asking if I can have some of that wine, I think I can go for it.”

  “Good. Because I don’t want to drink alone, and I need one.” She passes me the bottle and a corkscrew. “I didn’t think to have the waiter open it. You’ll do the honors?”

  I take the bottle, and open the wine, then pour us each a glass. “Cayden texted me as we were pulling in. He’s gone over security with the staff, and the other two guests on this floor checked out this morning. Blackwell-Lyon now holds those rooms through Thursday.” Which means no one outside of our team and the hotel staff can access this floor. And as far as security goes, that’s a very good thing.

  “Really? That’s going above and beyond.”

  “Nothing’s beyond if it keeps you safe. And Cayden’s one hell of a negotiator. You won’t find a surprise charge for those rooms on your bill—from us or from the hotel.”

  “If paying for those rooms keeps Del out of the middle of the kind of melee you saw the other night, I’d happily pay for them.”

  “I know.” I take a seat on the sofa, then indicate the cushion next to me. “You’ve proven over and over again how much you’re willing to sacrifice for your sister.”

  “I have,” she says, sitting beside me without hesitation. She’s wearing a white V-neck T-shirt and a gray skirt made out of some sort of stretchy material. Her feet are bare, and I get the feeling this is Jezebel’s typical work-at-home uniform. Still professional, but not as buttoned up as the pantsuit she’d been wearing on set this morning.

  “Not that I think of any of it as a sacrifice,” she continues. “It’s just—”

  She cuts herself off sharply, then turns to look at me, frowning. “I’ve proven over and over again. That’s what you said.”

  “Yeah.”

  For a moment, she’s silent, her brow furrowed as if she were trying to solve a knotty math problem. Then it clears, and she says, “Fuck,” so softly I almost don’t hear her. She puts her glass on the table, then stands, then
turns to look at me.

  “You read the book.” The words are an accusation, and she doesn’t specify what book. Clearly, she knows she doesn’t need to. “Del shouldn’t have told you about that,” she says, not waiting for me to answer.

  “I read it today,” I admit. “And I think Del was trying to help.”

  “Help?” Her brows rise. “Help how?”

  “Help me,” I clarify. “She realized that I want to get to know you better.”

  “Great. Just great. Because that book’s certainly the way to do that. Fuck,” she repeats, and this time I hear her just fine.

  “He was an ass,” I say. She’s turned away from me, and now I gently take her elbow and urge her back to face me. “Simpson was an ass who broke your trust.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” She thrusts her fingers in her hair, lifting it up before letting it fall back in waves around her face. I know the gesture came out of frustration, but the look is sexy as hell, and it’s all I can do not to gather her close.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She shrugs, then goes over to the table and plucks a tortilla chip out of a ceramic bowl. She dips it in salsa, then takes a bite. I assume that’s her way of saying no, so I’m surprised when she carries the chips and salsa to the couch and puts them on the coffee table. She sits again, this time tucking one foot under her so that she’s facing me.

  “I didn’t have my guard up,” she says. “I’d gotten so used to trusting someone, that I just let down all my walls.”

  “Larry,” I say, and she nods.

  “He was like a dad to me. It was easy, you know? And then he retired and moved to Orange County, and I hired Simpson. And I guess I was primed to trust.” She licks her lips, then takes a sip of wine. “I let him get too close.”

  I nod. I’d guessed as much.

  “And then when the book came out—” Her voice breaks, and I take her hand. I’m not sure if I should, but right now, I need to touch her, not just for her, but for me. “I wanted to go cry to Larry, but the accident—he was already dead. And—” Her voice breaks, and she visibly gathers herself. “And I thought, well, at least he can’t see my humiliation.”