Susan Andersen - Playing Dirty

Still, it had been naïve of him not to even consider the possibility that she had an agenda of her own before he’d all but handed her carte blanche to the most important project he’d ever worked. Which was surprising, considering naïveté hadn’t been a part of his makeup since the day he’d found out his dad wasn’t really his dad.

“Boss!”

Grateful for Beks’s bellow yanking him away from the pit into which that last thought likely would have landed him, he stalked over to the open pocket door and stuck his head out into the hall. “Yo!” That subject was a dead horse he had no desire to beat all over again.

“Your concierge is here.”

There was no good reason for his heart to start tripping all over itself. Snapping off a silent command for it to get the hell back to its normal steady rhythm, he muttered a terse, “About damn time,” and headed down to the kitchen.

“You ever consider going into acting?” he heard Beks demand as he neared the room. “’Cause you’re, like, a ringer for those amazing actresses that ruled back in the Hollywood studio system era. Same vibe, same glamour, swear to God.”

He paused in the doorway to watch Ava peel off a pricey-looking coat as she smiled in bemusement at his production assistant.

Beks had that effect on people. If she harbored a single inhibition in her entire body, he had yet to discover what it was. A guy could rack his brain until it liquefied, in fact, and still never come up with an instance in which the younger woman had bothered to censor her thoughts before loosing them on the world.

He had to admit, though, that she was right on the money with her assessment of Ava. Between the concierge’s flame-red thirties-style bob and her forties, knock-you-on-your-ass body, she had the retro glamour of a Hollywood golden age starlet. The impression was only reinforced when she finished removing her coat and revealed a black cashmere sweater dress that clung here and skimmed there, showcasing spectacular curves both above and below the skinny red belt that cinched in her waist.

Feeling a primal pull of attraction, he took a step closer to the threshold.

Then she tipped her head back and laughed in genuine amusement, and he stopped in his tracks. Because he remembered that sound. Remembered it from that long-ago time before he’d made one of the dumbest decisions of his life.

“Me, an actress?” Even in profile he could see a dimple flash. “No, I can honestly say I’ve never considered that as a career choice.” Another laugh burbled up her throat. “Really, truly never considered it. I couldn’t act my way out of a paper bag if my hair was on fire.”

“Which the color sorta suggests it is,” Beks said.

“Yes, well, that’s the curse of the redhead for you. Trust me, given a choice, I’d much rather have black hair like yours. But no one who knows me would ever put me and acting in the same sentence. I’m supereffective when it comes to making people’s lives run smoothly. But be scintillating in front of a camera?” Her quick grimace produced another dimple. “Not so much.”

“Yeah, I can’t act for shit, either,” Beks admitted gloomily. “Otherwise, I’d be all over gettin’ into the star groove.”

Stepping to the side of the archway out of Ava’s sight, Cade watched as she studied Beks’s skim-milk skin and dark hair, which the younger woman wore in high, fan-shaped, burgundy-streaked pigtails. Ava’s lips crooked up in the faintest of smiles as she took in the Goth eye makeup and bloodred lipstick, both of which presented a stark contrast with the Catholic schoolgirl uniform and knee socks Beks wore, yet tied right in with her black lace-up, patent leather ankle boots with their clunky heels and three inch, correction-shoe-looking platforms.

Ava’s smile grew wider, punching dimples deep in her cheeks. “Yeah, speed assessor that I am, I kind of guessed right away that you’re not the repressed type.”

Cade frowned. They were obviously in the throes of one of those instant bonding moments females were so freaking fond of—and he hadn’t hired Ava to hang out with Beks.

He stepped into the room. “Good of you to finally make it, Spencer.”

Her dimples disappeared as she turned to give him the same cool, detached look that had been a trademark of their previous meetings. “Mr. Gallari,” she said coolly. “I said I would be here, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, at one-thirty.” He resisted the urge to drive home the fact she was an hour and a half late. He didn’t doubt for a second that she was every bit as cognizant of the fact as he.

“Oh, gosh, you didn’t check your messages, did you?” Her tone was easy, friendly, but her gaze seemed to say something else. “I called last night to let you know that, although I’d secured the house for your crew that I told you about last month, I had a last-minute opportunity to strike a better deal, so I would be late.” Reaching into a vintage alligator briefcase, she extracted a handful of papers and extended them to him. “I had a meeting with the owner this afternoon and I think you’ll be happy with the results of my negotiations.”

Accepting the stack without looking at it, he gave the pocket where he kept his cell phone a surreptitious pat, only to find it empty. Shit. He knew he should own up to the dead battery he’d discovered when he’d turned his cell back on after debarking the plane this morning, and the fact that he’d plugged it into the rental car power source—where he’d undoubtedly left it. He absolutely should, but he was irritated with her even though it wasn’t her fault.

Still…

If he were to be honest about it, his and Beks’s arrival into town had been extremely smooth—maybe even the smoothest ever. The town car driver had been there with Cade’s name printed on a sign when they’d reached Baggage, the key to the back door had been exactly where Ava had said it would be and her instructions to disarm the security alarm clear. Unlike the last time he’d been here, the mansion had been warm and inviting, and they’d found the refrigerator stocked with cheese, meats, fresh fruit and an assortment of drinks, both hard and soft. On the counter had been two different kinds of crackers and a box of Fran’s Gray and Smoked Salt caramels. So she’d done her job—and then some.

He let his irritation go on a quiet breath. “You’ve met Ms. Shy and Retiring here, I take it?”

Ava smiled at the nickname but said, “Yes and no. We’ve been talking for a few minutes but never got around to the actual introductions.”

“In that case, let me present Rebekka Donaldson, my production assistant.”

“Okay, there’s a name I haven’t been called in a while,” the younger woman said as she reached out to give Ava a firm handshake. “It’s been so long, in fact, that unless you’re my grandmother, it’s unlikely I’ll respond to it. Everyone except Granny Louise—and maybe Mom when she’s unhappy with me—calls me Beks.”

“Come to think of it, except at our own introduction I’ve never actually heard anybody call you Rebekka,” he agreed. “So, Ava, Beks. Beks, meet Ava Spencer, our local concierge.”

“What does a production assistant do?” Ava asked, folding her coat and laying it over the back of an antique oak chair. As she looked at Beks with bright-eyed interest, she smoothed the soft fabric with a long, pale hand. Her fingertips bumped one of the turned spools that rose on either side of the chair’s back and she traced its shape between her fingers and thumb.

He looked away, jolted all over again by her unconscious sexuality. He’d felt it when they were kids but had always assumed that was merely because A: she had a way of moving that made him think of sex and B: sex was all he had thought about at the time. Hell, he’d been a teenage boy, ready and willing to nail anything with tits. And God knows she’d always had great breasts.