“I don’t think so,” I say slowly, my mind racing. He speaks!
“You look familiar,” he says, his blue eyes traveling slowly down the length of my body, then back up. “On vacation?” he asks, taking in my suitcase. “You here to stay and play in LA?”
“Yeah,” I blurt out before correcting myself. “Well, no. I’m here on business.”
“Business, huh?” He gives me a naughty smile. “No time for pleasure, then, I take it?”
Umm, what? Dale Ryder is FLIRTING with me? Something is seriously screwy, or maybe the LA water supply is polluted with hormones.
Or he’s seen the video.
Fuck, there goes the fantasy. You know—the fantasy where a mega-successful Hollywood actor just happens to pick me out of a crowd. But before I tell him I’m not interested, something makes me stop. Jake is watching from the front desk with a scowl on his face. I’m still reeling from how fast he made me go from zero to turned on—without ruffling any feathers at all. It’s all just a game to him, so maybe it’s time I found out just how cool his cucumber is.
A little jealousy never hurt anyone.
“That sounds tempting,” I coo to Dale. “Well, maybe I could make time. Do you have any recommendations?”
Before he can respond, Jake walks back over, key cards in hand. He glowers at Dale, who completely ignores him.
“I’m here for another week or so,” Dale says, giving me a wink. “But if you want to have dinner, let me know. I’m in the penthouse suite under George Peppard.”
“George Peppard—the name of Audrey Hepburn’s love interest in Breakfast at Tiffany’s?” I ask, surprised.
He laughs. “You know your movies, huh?”
“It’s my job.” I smile back, and explain we’re in town scouting for the Met.
“Wow, beautiful and cultured.” Dale doesn’t miss a beat. This guy would have charm oozing from his pores—if they weren’t invisible, thanks to some thousand-dollar facial, that is. “I’d love to take you out.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Jake interrupts, pulling me to my feet. “We have a very busy schedule while we’re here and there’s really no time for anything extra. But thanks anyway.”
Before I can say anything, he’s pulling me by the arm toward the elevators, leaving Dale and his gorgeous washboard abs standing by himself, looking more than just a little confused.
I hide a smile. Hmmm, there goes his cool act. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I pull my arm away “Just what do you think you’re doing?” I ask, acting confused. “That was Dale Ryder! Talking to me!”
“Didn’t look like talking,” Jake says coolly. “More like flirting, if you ask me.”
“And?” I challenge lightly. “What business is it of yours anyway?”
“Just looking out for you,” he says in an annoyingly even tone of voice.
“Jealous?” I ask, pushing him.
“Of what, that pumped up idiot?” Jake laughs it off. The elevator comes to a halt on the tenth floor, the doors opening with a ping. Jake steps out of the elevator, reaching back to hand me a small, white key card.
“You’re in 1110,” he says. “Get some rest. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. I’ll meet you in front of the hotel at nine a.m.”
The doors slide shut before I can answer. Typical. He just loves to have the last word. And I still don’t know why he’s acting like a jealous boyfriend when he’s made it perfectly clear we’re just working together. Still, it’s hard to stay mad long when I open the door of my own room and find a view of the city and palm trees and a pool with inflatable swans floating around.
Ahhh . . . I flop down on the bed, resting my head on the cool, white pillow. I grab the room service menu and dial. “Hello? I’d like a steak, rare, with French fries and a chocolate sundae.”
After all, there’s nothing like eating your feelings to make a girl feel better.
But even as mad as I am, I can’t stop thinking about Jake’s voice as he talked dirty to me on the plane, the look in his eyes, like he wanted to drag me off to the tiny, cramped airplane bathroom right then and there and pull my skirt up, wrapping my legs around him as he plunges deep inside me . . .
And as furious as I am right now, I know that if he had, I would have been all in.
So I should be glad he’s acting so weird, right?
At least this way, I’m feasting on fried carbs and chocolate, instead of his gorgeous body.
20
Lizzie
The next morning, I decide to forget about Jake’s weird hot-and-cold routine. I mean, it’s pretty hard to stay mad when it’s eighty degrees and sunny and everywhere you turn the air smells like jasmine. I’ve had an amazing plate of eggs benedict for breakfast and already gone for a swim in the pool. Nothing’s going to bring me down today.
Not even Mr. Down With Love himself.
Jake’s already in the car, waiting for me, a pair of Ray-Bans slapped over his eyes. “Ready to rumble?” he asks as I slide in and close the door behind me.
“Are you going to talk in Hollywood clichés for the whole trip?” I ask, putting my sunglasses on.
“Unless you can think of something better to do,” he grins, pulling out into traffic.
The drive up to Bel Air is nothing short of magical—the giant mansions with bougainvillea climbing up their elegant facades, the manicured gardens and softly rolling hills. But that’s nothing compared to Max Danforth’s estate. When we pull in, I can’t help but gasp out loud, and even Jake looks impressed.
“Whoa,” he says, taking in the huge art deco mansion, the gently trickling fountain at the center of the circular driveway, the fleet of classic cars gleaming in the sunlight. “Quite a pile of bricks Max has here.”
“You’re telling me.” I look around. “I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Next thing I know, what I assume is a butler in a black suit escorts us inside and we’re walking through an enormous foyer, my heels clicking against the marble floors. This is incredible! The walls are lined with art deco paintings, and the living room, when we finally reach it, is full of expensive antiques. White silk curtains billow at the French doors that frame the garden and pool, and it’s so quiet that I can hear the sound of birds twittering outside.
“Wow,” I whisper, taking in the view.
“Not bad,” Jake murmurs. “Not bad at all.”
“Glad you think so,” a voice says from behind me. When I turn around, a small, white-haired man is standing in front of me, resting his weight on what looks like a rosewood cane with an elaborate gold top.
“I’m Max Danforth,” he says, extending a gnarled hand to me, and then to Jake.
“Thanks so much for letting us visit your home,” I gush. “Your collection is legendary, and I know you have reservations about loaning pieces to the museum, but I promise, everything will be treated with kid gloves. Literally!”