Chapter Forty-Five

By the time dusk hits the South Bank, I’m dead on my feet. All I want to do is slink back to my apartment, crawl into bed, lick my wounds, and forget all about Brad Wilson and Ryan Ramirez for the next ten hours or so.

As if it could ever be that easy.

Brad corners me as I’m about to leave the set.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he snaps, grabbing my arm and marshaling me toward a waiting SUV.

“Home.” I wrench my arm away. I’ve had enough of him manhandling me today.

“We’re not done. You’re needed at a meeting across town.”

I don’t even bother hiding my irritation. “Do I have to?”

I know it’s going to be some last minute script amendment bore-fest with Ramirez, interspersed with some verbal target practice at my expense.

“Yes. Get in.” He pushes me roughly toward the car and I’m half tempted to remind him of this morning’s diatribe about over-entitled assistants.

Central London is nowhere near as enthralling as it was twenty-four hours ago. The lights are too bright. They’ve completely lost their charm—rather like my respect for Brad Wilson. I have no idea where we’re going, and Brad’s refusing to look at me, let alone impart that minor detail. When the SUV slows to a stop, I’m surprised to see that we’ve parked on the flawless gray forecourt of one of London’s top hotels.

“I thought we were going to a meeting, not out for cocktails?” I quip, even though I’d rather drink poison than sip margaritas in his company.

“Business center,” growls Brad as he exits the car

How did I ever fall for his duplicitous charm? Even his Hollywood smile is fake. He’s no better than my mom and all her gold digger cronies, except his drug of choice seems to be these power plays with his brother.

We enter the lobby and make our way up to the fourth floor. I never knew an elevator ride could be so excruciating. An elegant redhead is waiting to greet us, but she’s clearly working late for no overtime. She keeps checking her watch and doesn’t bother to offer us any refreshments. She ushers us toward a large meeting room that is fronted on all sides by frosted glass panels. “This way, please. He’s been waiting for you, and he’s growing impatient.”

Trust Ramirez to be chucking his weight around. He can’t have been waiting that long. He left the set around the same time we did.

“After you.” Brad stands aside to let me enter first and it catches me off guard. I thought the man was devoid of all manners and decency.

Mumbling my thanks, I slip past him and step inside the room. At first glance it’s like any other business center around the world—neutral cream walls, nonsensical abstract paintings to distract from the tedium of meetings, a carpet in the richest claret to cover up all the blood from corporate backstabbings.

And then my gaze shifts left.

A large oval meeting table dominates the space. There are five men sitting around it, but I only see one. He’s at the head, dressed in a familiar three-piece Tom Ford suit, and there’s a muscle working hard in his left cheek. He stares directly at me with those smoldering dark eyes that I know so well.

“Hello, Charlie,” says Jake grimly.