Chapter Twenty-Four

The next day I don’t leave the production office, and Jake refuses to leave the set. I know it’s because we’re avoiding one another.

“Cassie’s refusing to wear any of her costumes,” whispers Rachel, chucking a biscuit at my head to try and rouse me out of my black mood. “Jake’s been in her trailer for the last three hours trying to talk her round. We’re never going to finish on time.”

I know she’s only trying to cheer me up, but Rachel’s words plunge me into an even deeper despair. Jake is making me question myself, over and over. One minute he’s practically screwing me against the wall of the hotel bar. The next, he’s calling me a lapse in judgment and refusing to speak to me.

We’re done. Finito. My secrets will continue to stay buried beneath years of deliberate neglect. So, why do I find myself Googling “Jake Dalton and Cassie Lee” for the hundredth time today?

Reluctantly, I click off the entertainment website that Rachel seems to mainline like celebrity crack. Sweeping a thin film of dust off my laptop screen, I cast my eyes over the first item on Max’s To Do list:

1. Call George Clooney’s agent and set up a meeting with him and his management team.

Is he serious?

There’s no way I can track down anyone out here, not when all I have is a dodgy phone line, poor cell reception, and an internet connection as capricious as the man currently responsible for my state of mind. Damn that family. Not content with tormenting my heart, they’re now tormenting my brain, as well.

Swatting the flies off my face, I tuck my bangs behind my ears and wipe the sweat off my forehead. I’m just reaching for another water bottle when my phone starts ringing.

“Max Dalton’s office. Can I help you?”

“I bloody hope so!” cries a voice, but I can’t identify the caller at first. The static on the line is horrendous. It sounds like a swarm of hornets are on the rampage in there. “Can you hear me, babe?” The voice perks up through the buzzing again, and my heart leaps. I’d recognize those shrill, raspy tones anywhere.

“Lucy!”

In that moment I love my best friend more than life itself. Somehow, she always knows when to call. My misery transcends entire continents for her.

“You’re in big shit, lady. You haven’t called in ages. What’s happening out there? Have you gone and fallen for some spicy Bedouin chief?”

Not exactly. Hearing her voice again, so familiar and oh so pragmatic, makes me realize how much I’ve missed her. I need her no-nonsense approach to emotional stuff right now.

“Oh fuck, I was only joking. Who’s the lucky man?”

“Lucy, how did you—?”

“Your silence gave you away.”

What, the two-second one? “Look, I really can’t talk about this right now.”

“Why? Is he there? Who is it? Shit, I bet it’s Max Dalton. He’s such a slut.”

“Erm, no.” This is painful. Rachel has started paying an inordinate amount of attention to the ancient office photocopier behind me.

“Then tell me and I’ll shut up about it.” Lucy’s tone is brusque and intrusive. There’s no doubting her interviewing credentials at a time like this.

“I can’t really—”

“God, it’s not Max, is it? Oh, fuckity fuck, it’s the other one. Oh, Charlie. Has he broken your heart yet? Is his dick as big as his ego?”

Her questions are coming at me from all angles. I’m under siege.

“Lucy, please!”

The phone on the other side of the office starts ringing and Rachel is forced to abandon her eavesdropping to answer it.

“Yes or no?”

“Um—”

“Charlie!” Lucy howls again. “I knew this would happen. You were looking for trouble as soon as you got that call. I warned you not to go. You’re so vulnerable. You didn’t stand a chance.”

She’s right. Jake has ripped through every single one of my defenses like a bullet through paper.

“It’s not all my fault,” I say crossly. “We were in L.A. and it just sort of—”

“L.A.? Wait, I’m lost. I thought the film shoot was in Morocco?”

“It is, but then he wanted me to go back to America with him for a few days. Work stuff.”

“Racking up the air miles, I see. This job is intense.”

I tip my head back and groan. “Lucy, you have no idea—”

“Where the fuck is my call sheet?”

Jake’s angry voice pierces my misery as he stalks into the office looking tired and irritable. After weeks of chilly indifference, the heat finally seems to have gotten to him. There are damp patches under the arms of his blue linen shirt, and his Levi’s are streaked with dirt. His forearms are glistening with sweat and his hair has been shoved under a Red Sox baseball cap all day. It’s left a faint line around his forehead. Despite all this, he can still make my stomach drop.

“It’s here, Jake,” cries Rachel, rushing over with a copy.

Muttering his thanks, he comes straight over to my desk and glares down at me, signaling for me to end the call. Up-close, his dark eyes are bloodshot from the dust but they’re no less sexy for it.

I hate him.

I want him.

“Charlie, babe, are you still there?” Lucy’s voice cuts through my Jake-induced stupor.

“Sort of. Actually, I’ve got to go.”

“You sound odd. Are you— Oh. Has Dalton rocked up?”

Has he ever.

Jake’s expression is blistering. I’m finding it very hard to concentrate.

“This conversation’s not over,” she warns me.

“I understand. I’ll make sure we return to it at our earliest convenience. I’d appreciate your, umm, discretion, as well.”

“Goes without saying. I may write for a tabloid, but I still have a handful of principals left, especially when it comes to my best friend. Look after yourself. I’m worried about you.”

“No need, but thanks.”

“You took you time,” snarls Jake, as soon as I replace the receiver. “Max wants you back on set. He needs his shoelaces tied together. Prepare yourself for disappointment—he’s wearing more clothes than he was yesterday morning.”

Cheap jibe, Jake.

His gaze shifts back to Rachel. “I’m flying out to Marrakech in the next hour. The costume department’s sourced someone who can make the alterations our delightful lead actress is insisting on. Cassie’s adamant, and I can’t be fucked to fight about it anymore.” He adjusts his baseball cap in a fury. She’s clearly pissed him off.

Good.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to drive?” I offer up tentatively.

“Charlie’s right,” says Rachel. “There are no internal flights out of Erizo today.”

“Stop questioning me, the both of you.”

I bristle at his tone, but he pretends not to notice.

“There’s a private landing strip just north of town past the main airport. My jet’s been flown in overnight. I’m not taking any more chances with future cancellations and shitty, unscheduled airport terminal layovers.”

I feel the heat bloom in my cheeks. Jibe two. Is he going for a record?

“Get my first AD on the line as soon as you can,” he says to Rachel. “Patch him through to my cell. I’ll speak to him on my way back to set. He needs to shuffle the schedule around. We can’t spare any of the costume team. We’re too far behind. Max will have to shoot second unit until Cassie and I get back. We’ll leave this afternoon and return tomorrow.”

“Cassie’s going with you?” I can’t hide my look of horror.

“What fucking planet are you on, Charlie? How else can they make the alterations?”

He’s punishing me now, I can tell. I had a drink with Max, so he’s going to screw his ex all over Marrakech.

“Can’t someone else accompany her?” I ask, determined not to show him how angry I am. “You said yourself that Max can’t be left unsupervised. We’re already over budget.”

“I’m very well aware of how over budget we are,” Jake says coldly.

“Give me the details,” says Rachel, rushing over and shooting me a look. As far as she’s concerned, I’m riling up the beast for no reason.

“Here.” He hands her a piece of paper.

“Will anyone else be accompanying you?” I ask, tilting my chin in his direction.

“Not this time,” he says, looking shifty suddenly.

Shit. He never does that. I really have set that boomerang in motion.

“I’ll be on my cell for the next hour if De Niro calls. We’ve been missing each other all day. I’m going back to set. I’ll travel straight from there. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” With that, he turns and stalks back out of the office.

Rachel whistles in relief to the tune of a slamming door. “That man is a whirling dervish. I’m finding it harder and harder to keep up.”

“What hotel is he staying at?” I ask, shuffling a pile of scripts around my desk to make myself look busy.

Rachel studies the piece of paper that Jake gave her. “Hotel Yasmina. Very nice. Very nice, indeed.”

“Never heard of it.” I drop the scripts and gaze unseeingly at my laptop screen.

“I’m not surprised. Regular folks like you and me don’t get to stay at places like Hotel Yasmina. It’s the height of six-star luxury. Thousands of dollars a night. The stuff only celebs and billionaires can afford.”

“Has he stayed there before?” I’m trying hard to keep my burgeoning panic in check, but my heart isn’t listening. It keeps crashing painfully against my rib cage.

“Not for a while, and only when—” Rachel stops and starts chuckling. “I knew it! Gosh, they’re so predictable. I wonder if the press has gotten wind of it yet?”

“Gotten wind of what?” But I already know what she’s going to say. The answer is written all over her face. As further proof, she holds out Jake’s hotel reservation details for me to see. There, in black and white, is confirmation that I should always take Lucy’s advice when jobs involving Jake Dalton in any capacity come my way.

Number of guests: two.

Number of hotel suites required: one.

Double shit.

There’s no coming back from this.