Trade (3 page)

Larry shook his head. “I tried. I’m
sorry. He said they had to go.”

*****

The West
Continental had three elevators: two for regular guests, and one reserved
solely for the penthouse. Max watched the numbers counting down, and then stood
to the side as the doors slid open. Three girls sauntered out, all wearing
mini-skirts and cropped T-shirts. They were talking, giggling, staggering on
their high heels. They looked as though they’d spent one hell of a night.
Sholto Kincaid obviously hadn’t changed at all.

Max stepped into the elevator, breathing in a potent cocktail of
mixed female perfumes, and pressed the P button on the display. For the first
time since she’d made the call the previous day she allowed herself to think
that perhaps contacting Sholto hadn’t been the best idea. Especially after last
night. The double whammy of seeing him undress and act sex with a beautiful
actress while at the same time being aware that he was staring at her watching
onscreen him, had been the hottest experience she’d ever had. When he touched
her, she’d forgotten where she was, who she was with, for a moment and just let
herself play the game.

The I’m-going-home-with-you game.

Thank God Jasper intervened when he did, before she made a complete
fool of herself. She’d stayed awake for hours reliving it. While he played the
I’m-going-home-with-you game with a whole team of players.

Max ran a hand through her hair and sighed. The thought of sitting
down and talking rationally with the man who had just shooed three gorgeous
women out of his penthouse made her stomach clench with nerves.

I don’t have to do this.
Cam didn’t know
of her plan. Max could just walk out of this hotel and never have to see him
again. For a moment, the idea was attractive, but then she stared at her
reflection in the mirrored wall and took control of her errant thoughts.

Just in time. The elevator doors slid open and Sholto stood before
her. Intense green eyes held her spellbound. Above them, his forehead creased
in a frown.

His gaze travelled from her face to her toes and back again. “Max?”
He stepped to one side and flashed a panty-melting smile. “How did you know
where I’m staying?” He rubbed the back of his head. “Aw, hell, that doesn’t
matter.” He checked his watch. “I’d love to talk, but I have an appointment.
Can I ask you to wait in the lobby? I’m expecting someone but I shouldn’t be
long, I’ll come down and find you.” He stared at her mouth with blatant hunger,
just as he had the previous night.

Heat pooled between Max’s legs.

He reached around her to the buttons on the display. “I’m glad to
see you.” His voice was deep and husky, filled with sexual promise. He pressed
a button.

She flattened her hand on the closing elevator door to halt its
progress and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not leaving, Sholto.”

His eyes widened. “Look, baby, I’m expecting someone.”

“I should hope so.” She stepped out of the elevator. “After all, you
knew I was coming. Have you forgotten me?” She held out her hand. “Maxine
Goode, but I go by Max these days.”

Chapter
Three

What the fuck?
The woman before him bore no
resemblance to the brown-haired girl he remembered. His tongue felt clumsy,
incapable of forming words, like a man woken from sleep, unable to make sense
of his surroundings. Stupid. Wrong-footed. For a long moment the world was
blocked out as he stared. Long, straight, blonde hair. Full, pillowy lips
enhanced with a lick of cherry lipstick. Killer cheekbones. Dark blue eyes and
long black eyelashes. Her mouth curved in a smile and a little dimple appeared
in her left cheek. A dimple he vaguely recalled from years ago.

The girl he remembered wore homemade
clothes but Max’s tailored pantsuit had come from the exclusive collection of a
designer—he’d bet his last cent on it. Pointy high-heeled shoes poked beneath
the tailored pants. Under the jacket she wore a gunmetal grey silk shirt open
at the neck to reveal a string of black pearls.

He breathed in her scent.
Roses.
“Is it really you?”

“It really is.”

Caro’s penthouse door opened and a
couple of girls stepped out—no doubt more survivors from her all-night after-party.
The sound of which had kept him awake for hours.

Max’s eyes widened. “Oh. I thought
you were alone. I can come back…”

“Not my penthouse.” He took her
arm and walked her to his door. “My co-star held a party last night.” He’d
dropped in for a couple of hours but had grown tired of being addressed as
Damon, rather than his own name. It was as if many of the women there wanted
him to keep playing the role, wanted him to be sexy, witty, and scandalous all
night and when he wasn’t, were disappointed. So he’d bailed. Alone.

Inside, with the door closed
firmly behind them, he ushered Max to the pair of sofas, and then waved a hand
in the direction of the wet bar. “You could have made your identity known last
night.”

She shrugged. “I guess I was just
waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Her mouth curved. “I thought after speaking
so recently you’d put two and two together…”

“Yeah, well, apparently not. I
wasn’t expecting to see you there. Especially not with Jasper.” He burned to
know more about her relationship with the director, but there would be time to
tease out the details. “Would you like a drink?”

“It’s a little early for me.”

“Tea, then? I can call room
service.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want
to take up much of your time.” She folded one hand atop the other on her
clamped-together knees. She looked like a schoolteacher—well, the schoolteacher
in a teen boy’s wet dream.

“You have a proposition for me.” He
sat next to her on the sofa. Close enough to hear the little intake of breath. “I
must admit to being intrigued as to what it is.”

“I run a business.” She reached into
the bag she’d dropped on the floor and handed over a business card. “Fantasies
Made Real.”

His eyebrows rose. “An upmarket
concierge service?”

“Well we can get anything for our
clients. In the past we’ve obtained tickets to sold-out shows, organized a wedding
in the middle of the jungle and a dinner on a glacier—but we also arrange other
more unusual requests.”

Sholto leaned closer. “Such as?”

She turned her head and stared
into his eyes. “You name it.” Her gaze flickered to his lips, then back up. “The
sky’s the limit.”

“Have you come to find out my
fantasy?” Awareness shimmered in the air between them. The gunmetal grey shirt
was open at the neck, revealing a hint of creamy cleavage. Her lips were parted
a fraction, and slowly a full-blown, very detailed fantasy involving the two of
them naked took form in Sholto’s mind.

Her long, dark eyelashes blinked.

She shook her head, the dimple
making a reappearance. “I’m sure you can fulfill any of your own fantasies
without any help from me. No. I’ve come to ask you to fulfill one of mine.”

Even better.
He reached out
and stroked the hair back from her face. She jerked away, eyes wide. “It’s not
what you think.”

Even though he was starved of
sleep, he could think of nothing more satisfying at this moment than making Max’s
fantasy come true, if it involved both of them naked and sweaty. He was already
semi-hard at the mental pictures her words were painting.

“I’m not your fantasy?”

She laughed. “No.”

But her gaze was on his mouth
again, and her chest was rising and falling rapidly. She wasn’t indifferent,
not by a long shot. He leaned in. “There’s no shame in admitting it. A lot of
women want to sleep with Damon Fitz.”

“Not me.” She folded her arms. “If
I had a fantasy, it wouldn’t be you—or any character you play on screen. I know
you, remember?”

She did. And her memories… “I want
to apologize.”

She brushed him off like a
sunbather brushing off a mosquito. “No need. What happened between us was a
long time ago. I’m well over it.” She angled her knees away from his. “I have a
client who would like you to accompany her to a school reunion.”

“You want me to screw one of your
clients?” Anger bubbled up under the surface—once again; his body was all that
was wanted. His outer shell. “How much does a celebrity fuck cost these days?”
He stood and stalked to the fireplace.

She tucked an errant strand of hair
behind her ear. “No sex required. My client…my client had a bad time in school.
Her ex-husband will be there.”

“And she wants a trophy boyfriend
to make her look good?” He strode back and pulled her to her feet. “I’m fucking
insulted,” he ground out, his mouth inches from hers. “I’m not a piece of meat.”

“This is important to my client.” Max’s
voice was high and filled with passion. Her eyes flashed. “I want to make this
happen for her.”

“You sound like a pimp.”

Max stepped away. Her teeth
gritted. “I thought maybe, for the right fee, you might agree.”

“Money?” He had more than he could
possibly spend, and a cut of the profits of
After Ecstasy
. Money wasn’t
going to cut it.

She tilted her head to one side, a
spark in her eyes. “I could make your fantasy come true. What’s your fantasy,
Sholto?”

*****

She was playing a dangerous game. The subtext was obvious,
shimmering in the air between them. She hadn’t walked in here with the
intention of offering herself up on a platter to whatever fantasy might be
running though Sholto’s mind, but the look in his eyes, the way he looked at
her as though he might devour her, revealed that their minds were focused on
the same thing.

On ripping off their clothes and
getting hot and heavy.

She’d avoided watching him on
television. Or at the movies. He’d been potent enough as a teenager; there was
no way she wanted to spend any more of her time and energy on what-ifs. But after
last night, she couldn’t erase the image of his naked form from her mind, or
the memory of his fingers caressing her…it was as though a fog of attraction
emanated from him, drawing her closer, drugging her. Journalists might call it
personal magnetism.

Catnip for women. An intoxicating
scent that made them want to press themselves to his solid chest, and rub against
it, purring. To roll around on him in bliss.

She should have gone with her
instinctive reaction when Cam mentioned his name and never made contact. He was
beautiful, but duplicitous. Hadn’t she learned anything?

He can have any woman in the
world without lifting a finger.

The thought was a cold splash of
reality.

She swallowed and tried to step
back, but the sofa blocked her. She was caught between him and a soft place.

“I’d like to take you to bed.” He
trailed a finger across her collarbone. “Strip off your clothes, and stroke you
all over.”

Heat pooled between her legs. It
had been months since a man spoke to her like that. She hadn’t been to a bar or
club, or anywhere she might meet a single man since Joel. Time had marched on,
the weeks since his arrest stretching into months, but she still couldn’t bring
herself to be so vulnerable again. Couldn’t risk letting down her guard and allowing
a man in, even for a quick lay.

She hadn’t even been tempted.
Until now.

His hand dropped to his side. “That’s
one of my fantasies, but not one I’m willing to trade for. When we fuck I want
it to be because you can’t resist me any longer, not because you’re trading it
for a lucrative business deal.”

He was making her uncomfortable.
Not because his attention was unwanted, but because his words turned her on,
despite her misgivings. She could tell him this wasn’t a business deal, it was
a favor to one of her dearest friends, but the set of his jaw, and the anger
glittering in his eyes kept her silent. It wasn’t an important detail to
impart.

“Are you sleeping with Jasper?”

“No!” Did he really think she’d
have let him touch her if she was going home with another man? “Jasper and I
are just friends. He needed a date at short notice, so I stepped in.”

His expression changed. “How good
friends are you?”

“
Platonic
friends.”

“So this trade…” He stroked his
hand down her arm. “I know what you need. I need a screen test.”

“A screen test?” He couldn’t
possibly be serious. “You’re hot property in the business right now, I can’t
think anyone wouldn’t give you whatever role you want. Hell, they must be
lining up.”

“Your dear
platonic
friend is making a movie about John Weatherly, the guy who was shipwrecked on
an island and wrote that book,
Solo
, about his experiences. I wanted to
talk to Jasper last night about it, to persuade him to consider me for the
part. Get me that role, and I’ll trade you a date with your client.”

“Give me your
private number.” Max took out her cell phone. “The reunion is in a month—on the
28
^th
of June. Will you be available then?”

“If you get me
that role, damn right I will.” He rattled off a number that she tapped in to
her contacts list.

She picked up her
bag and pushed him lightly on the chest to make him step back. His chest was
like stone beneath her fingers. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t move, but
then with a smile, he retreated to allow her to walk around him to the door.

“Are you sure you
don’t want to waste a little time with me? To catch up?”

His deep voice
made her fluttery inside. “This is business, Sholto. Strictly business.” He was
charming. Sex with him would be spectacular, and she was over the incident with
him that had scarred her in the past. She hadn’t even thought of it for years.
But a lingering emotion hung in the air between them.
Distrust
.

She grasped the
doorknob. “I’ll be in touch.”

*****

“Jasper.” Max tracked across the carpet in Jasper Watson’s
office.

The director rounded his desk and
engulfed her in a warm hug. “Max, you look fantastic as always.” His lips
brushed her cheek. “I wish you’d let me take you out to dinner last night after
the movie.” He waved at his desk, stacked high with scripts and manila folders.
“But I guess I’ll have to just take you where I can.” His lips curved. She was
so glad their date was for show only, because Jasper was a man she could flirt
with. One who always made a play, but not a serious one. Flirting was hardwired
into his DNA—heck, he flirted with men and women alike, and she was one of the
few people on the earth who knew his tastes were unusual.

Even if she took him up on his
offer of dinner, there wasn’t any possibility of them ending up in the sack
together. She was the wrong age. About three decades too young.

He led her to a chair, and sat
back down behind his desk. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I’m here on a mission.” She
crossed her legs. “I know you’re casting the John Weatherly movie, and I’d like
to suggest an actor you should screen test.”

Jasper grinned. “You’re here on
behalf of a client.”

“Yes.”

“I adore you, Max. But I don’t
adore anyone enough to screw up this movie. The actor who will play John has to
be perfect for the role. Has to be able to
be
him. Who is this actor?
Have I heard of him?”

He sure had.

“It’s Sholto Kincaid.”

Jasper threw back his head and a
laugh bubbled up from his throat.

Crap, this will be more
difficult than I thought.

When Jasper got his laugher under
control, he shook his head. “Sorry, honey. But Sholto Kincaid? That guy—he’s
not even in the running. He was fantastic in that piece of shit yesterday, he
almost elevated it to a good movie, but he’s shallow—I need a character actor
with depth. Kincaid couldn’t survive on a deserted island for a day, never mind
three months. Before John fell off the cruise ship, he was an overweight
accountant. An overweight accountant who was on holiday with his mother for
chrissakes. His transformation over the months on the island was intense. Can
you see Mr. hot, buff, and sexy pulling that off?”

Max’s mind was whirring with
ideas, because failure wasn’t an option. Not this time.

“What if Sholto could survive on a
desert island? What if he could prove that?”

Jasper’s lip curled.

“I know a survival company who
would take him to an island and maroon him there. I bought
Solo
yesterday and have skimmed it. He found some items on the island that helped
him survive—what if Sholto had only those same items, and he had to hunt, to
fish, to find water, just as John did. Would you consider him then?”

“He could pay off the company,
hide out in a five-star resort somewhere.”

“What if it were filmed?”

“That’s even worse.” Jasper shook
his head again. “The guy has enough money to pay a film crew and make a
mockumentary. I wouldn’t trust him an inch.”