Over Exposed (6 page)

He leaned closer, until she felt his breath on her lips and his eyes were only inches from hers.

“There are a lot of damn good reasons why we shouldn't take this any further. Hell, the age difference alone should be giving you second thoughts.”

That made her chin tilt back. “I'm not some idiot teenager without a brain. I'm a grown woman—”

“Believe me, I know that.” His jaw flexed and his gaze dropped to trace her body, making her breasts feel even more sensitive.

Oh, my God, she couldn't get enough air.

Her hands clenched into fists and she leaned closer. She couldn't help herself. “And you are not that old.”

“Then let's just say I've had a hell of a lot more experience.”

Did that mean he thought she wouldn't be any good in bed?

As soon as she'd thought that, his eyes closed and his mouth flattened into a straight light. “Damn it, don't take that—
Shit
.”

He released her and stepped away, shoving a hand through his hair. She had to hold herself back from grabbing for him so he didn't leave.

“I'm sorry.” She forced the words out of her mouth. “I never should've said anything. I'll call Tyler and have him send someone else. I'm so sorry that I made you uncomfortable—”

He started to laugh. “Oh, honey. You have no idea how uncomfortable you make me.”

His laughter finally died but the smile remained. And again, she couldn't help noticing how utterly gorgeous the man was. Yes, he was older. He had a few tiny lines around his eyes, but they only made him more handsome.

He sighed and shook his head. “Look, Sabrina. This is my fault. I shouldn't have kissed you last night. Total miscalculation on my part.”

“So why did you?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she waited for him to answer. She could have pulled away. He wasn't holding on to her any longer. And it wasn't like he was going to grab her and kiss her again. He'd just told her he'd made a mistake. Okay, not a mistake. A miscalculation, whatever the hell that meant. But still, she had to know. If she was going to be humiliated, she might as well get it all over with at once.

He mirrored her stance. “Because I couldn't help myself. You make me want to throw you on the nearest flat surface, rip off your clothes, and spread your legs. I want to sink my cock between your thighs. I want to watch you come and feel you squeeze around me and make me come while you do. Then I want to take pictures.”

The more he talked, the more the air in the room felt like it had simply evaporated. Oh, God, she was going to come just listening to him talk. Her thighs clenched as if he'd put his hands on her, and she felt moisture seep from her body to wet her panties.

And he knew it, damn him. His expression spoke volumes. He meant every word. But he still looked like he wasn't going to do a thing about it.

And that really pissed her off. “You know what, if you're not going to put your money where your mouth is, then just stop.”

“See, that's the problem.” He shrugged. “I don't want to stop.”

“Ugh!” She couldn't stop the rush of frustration that made her reach out and shove at his chest. He was taking up all the air in the room and she needed some space. But she didn't even manage to make him rock back a step. “Then make up your mind. Either you put your hands on me and we do this or you step away and we don't. Just do
something
.”

His grin reappeared, the one she knew made women fall into his bed because that's exactly what she wanted.

“Tell you what.” He looked totally in control, and that just made her even more furious. “I've got to do some more writing today. Tonight, you let me know if you're still interested. If you are, I'll spend all night making sure you don't regret your decision. If you aren't, no harm, no foul. Either way, no one will ever know what did or didn't happen.”

Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving her with her mouth hanging open.

The bastard.
He'd worked her up then left her hanging.

She didn't want to wait. But even through the heat pounding in her blood, she realized he had a point. They shouldn't make this decision in the heat of the moment.

Then again, wasn't that what this was all about? Heated moments stolen out of time. Not something over-planned and over-thought.

By tonight, she might talk herself out of it. He might have second thoughts. Hell, by tonight, the snow could clear and he could make a break for it.

And how stupid was that thought?

The timer on the stove dinged behind her and she turned with a start. She'd forgotten all about the scones. Which meant she had the perfect excuse to track him down and . . . and what?

Throw herself at him again?

Yeah, because that had gone so well the first time.

Maybe he had the right idea. They needed to calm down and look at this from all sides before they made that irreversible leap.

Damn.

She grabbed a scone, blew on it for a few seconds, and took a huge bite.

*  *

Christ, what the hell was he thinking?

Sabrina had practically thrown herself at him and he'd told her to
think
about it?

He must be fucking nuts. Absolutely fucking insane.

His dick was so hard, he swore he could bat with it. Every muscle in his body had tightened to the point of pain. He could still taste her from last night and he could barely breathe through the lust.

And he thought he was going to be able to write? No doubt about it. He
was
crazy.

He stopped halfway up the stairs on the way back to his room, fighting the urge to turn around, throw her over his shoulder like a caveman, and carry her back to his bed. Then he'd spend the rest of the day over her, under her, beside her . . . any which way he could have her.

Still . . . he continued to hesitate, that niggling sensation that he was doing the right thing deep in his gut.

Waiting wasn't something he had a lot of personal experience with, at least not in his sex life. If he wanted a woman, he asked her out, took her to dinner, took her to bed, and either called her the next day to set up another dinner or had his secretary send her flowers with a note that said, “Thanks for a great night. Best wishes.” Which meant the sex had been great but he wouldn't be calling.

Damn, he really was a prick, wasn't he?

What the hell did Sabrina see in him? She had to have guys her own age hitting on her all the time. What did she see in him? Money? Power? Connections?

And why would any of that matter to her? She wasn't an aspiring actress and didn't even appear to want anything to do with the film industry. Of course, he was friends with Tyler and—

No, that didn't track. She was already good friends with Kate and, if Sabrina wanted someone to back her with Tyler then—

No, that wasn't Sabrina. It just wasn't. He'd made his fortune in Hollywood being able to read people and he could spot a user at five hundred yards.

Sabrina did not fall in that category.

“Fuck.”

Frustration ate at his guts, but the part of his brain that was constantly churning out ideas screamed at him to get to his laptop and put this angst to good use. Channel it into the screenplay.

He started back up the stairs, this time with no hesitation.

That look on Sabrina's face had given him a damn good idea about the final scene.

He was sitting on a chair in front of the French doors to the balcony and had only just gotten into the scene when he heard the clink of pottery.

His head shot up and he turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Sabrina's backside as she left the room. Then the scent of fresh, hot pastry hit his nose. He spied the tray she'd set on the dresser just inside the door.

That smells great
. She'd even put a carafe of coffee and a mug on the tray.

If this were a rom-com, she would've put the tray on his desk, knocked coffee on his lap, and tried to mop it while getting her hands all over his crotch. Then she would've tripped on her way out and landed in his lap.

He'd never been a fan of rom-coms. The conventions were bullshit and outdated. He didn't have one thing against a good love story if you told it right, and that meant having something new and interesting to say about love or you had characters so special you rooted for them to find their happily-ever-after.

But happily-ever-after wasn't something he expected in real life. There was always going to be too much bullshit in life to be happy all the time.

Since the tray was out of reach, he had to get up and get it but seconds later he was back in his chair, laptop humming, keys clicking.

The next time he looked up, he had a crick in his neck that made him swear like a sailor, and when he checked the time, he realized he'd spent more than three hours in the same position.

He'd also gotten through that final scene and finished the entire plate of scones and carafe of coffee.

Break time. He wanted to see Sabrina. Wanted to talk to her, tell her about the progress he'd made. Trying not to feel like a teenager with a crush, he stretched until he felt his spine and neck crackle and pop, then he picked up the tray to take it back down to the kitchen.

Good cover story.

Downstairs, he didn't hear her, and when he checked the kitchen and set the tray near the sink, she wasn't there. So he proceeded to check every other room on the first floor.

No, he wasn't obsessing much, was he?

He was on his way back to his room, determined to ignore the need to see her, when he heard his phone ring. He had gotten out of the habit of carrying it around with him everywhere because it continually buzzed and beeped and rang.

For so many years, he'd been tethered to the thing like he needed it to keep his heart beating. He'd answer it at any time of the day or night, whatever he was doing. Hell, he'd even answered it during sex every now and then.

He'd always considered it one of the costs of being in charge.

But over the last few weeks, he'd let his business partner, Fred Jamieson, handle most of the day-to-day stuff he usually took care of.

And that might prove to be your downfall.

Lately, he and Fred had started to butt heads over the company's direction. Fred wanted to go even bigger. Global.

Greg wanted . . .

Fuck, what the hell did he want?

Shit, he thought when he picked up his cell—he had to answer this one.

“Truly, babe, what's up?”

Trudeau Morrison sighed as she always did when he called her by his pet name. “I see you're feeling better than you were the last time we talked. Not that that's a bad thing . . .”

Greg laughed, picturing the look on his personal assistant's pretty face. Trudeau had been a kid just like he'd been when she'd fast-talked her way into a job in his production company six years ago.

She had a quick mind and the ability to sweet talk anyone she met, probably because she looked like everyone's kid sister.

Big blue eyes, pug nose, brown hair, and freckles. The definition of adorable on Wikipedia had her picture next to it. At least it had for her birthday last year, when he'd paid someone at the website to put it there for the day.

“But you just can't stand when I'm in a decent mood, can you?”

“It's not that I can't stand you. It's just that I've learned to be wary. Sometimes when you smile, you still cut people off at the knees. Sir.”

Smiling like he hadn't in days, he settled into the chair overlooking the forest. “So why are you disturbing my peace today, Tru?”

A slight pause and he had the fleeting thought that he should hang up before she opened her mouth again. “Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to make sure you were aware that the contracts still haven't been signed. The deadline passed this morning and I tried to contact Vince but—”

“Vince is avoiding your calls, and Daisy and Neal have fallen off the grid again.” He sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He knew the fact that his phone hadn't rung in several hours was a bad thing. “Shit.”

Those contracts needed to be signed within the next couple of days if filming was going to start on time. Casting Daisy and Neal had been a no-brainer, at least for him. They were perfect for the roles, but Neal had burned a few too many people in the industry who'd thought a handshake over dinner constituted an ironclad deal.

Greg knew once Neal signed a legal contract, though, the guy would live up to it. Which was why he'd given them a deadline to sign. He honestly hadn't expected this to be a problem.

And maybe he should've listened to Fred and probably every other legitimate production company in the industry that'd blackballed Neal for good reasons, not the least of which was his cocaine addiction.

“What do you want me to do?” Tru asked. “I can drive over to the house and knock on the door if you want.”

And what if they weren't there?

“No.” Maybe he was sticking his head in the sand, but he didn't want to have to worry about whether or not Daisy and Neal had fallen off the rails. Again. At least not yet. “Give them until tomorrow. If you don't hear from either of them, then go to the house.”

“Okay. So . . . how goes it?”

He paused and he was pretty sure he heard Trudeau suck in a sharp breath and hold it. His assistant wasn't normally easy to rattle. Then again, the way he'd been acting lately, he shouldn't be surprised she was worried.

“Actually, it's going pretty well. I think I'm finished.”

She released her breath on an audible sigh of relief. “Great. That's great.” She didn't even try to hide her relieved enthusiasm.

Damn, he must have been worse than he'd thought these past few months. He made a mental note to get her set up with his masseuse for regular sessions. She deserved it for putting up with him. He'd add an unlimited account at M.A.C., too. Trudeau liked her cosmetics.