* * *
“I met your friend,” Brantley’s voice behind her made her freeze.
“I noticed. Where did he go?” She’d come inside looking for Tyson moments before, but he seemed to have disappeared.
“I think he’s probably feeling a little out of place.”
No shit. “Well, I hope you made him feel comfortable.” Instead of acting like the arrogant asshole you are, she was tempted to add. She took a deep breath. Like it or not, Brantley now held the cards. He was the one with the power to make or break this opportunity for her career. She still hadn’t had time to sit and talk to him about the script. She hoped they were sincere about leaving it alone and working with the limited sets the original writer had planned.
“Of course. I always make people feel comfortable,” he said, draping an arm around her.
She shrugged it off.
“He seems to have quite the hard-on for you.”
His words made her turn and glare. “That’s none of your business.”
He shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t care. So if that’s what all of this was about . . .” He moved toward her and cupped the side of her face with his right hand, his left arm going around her waist. “You didn’t need to go through so much trouble.”
So much trouble for what? She slapped his hand away from her face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, as usual.” She moved away from him. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”
He grabbed her arm. “I meant, if you wanted to get my attention, you got it.”
Her mouth gaped. Of course he’d assume all of this was about him. Getting his attention and possibly getting back together. It couldn’t possibly be because she was struggling to rebuild her career after the three failed movies he’d made featuring her and the fact that now an indie film was the only role she’d read in a long time that inspired her.
His thick skull wouldn’t understand any of that . . . if he was even listening. So, instead she said, “I’m glad that this movie will get a chance to be seen by more than five hundred people at a movie festival, but don’t misunderstand my intentions—you and I are never going to happen again.”
He grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Believe what you want, Parker, but the only people for those in the business are other people in the business. We get each other, while the rest of the world looks on in awe, wishing they were us. Tattoos and big muscles may be doing it for you now, but you’ll wake up and leave him behind soon enough.”
She took a step toward him and, lowering her voice so her other guests wouldn’t hear, she leaned closer. “Tattoos and big muscles always did it for me . . . it was what I thought of whenever I was with you. Enjoy the party,” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked away, now more desperate than ever to find Tyson.
* * *
“You made it,” Parker said behind him, just as he was contemplating an escape. Watching her across the room talking to Brantley moments before had him more than a little on edge.
“Yes,” he said, turning to see the woman he barely recognized. Her hair curled and pinned back from her face and the tight-fitting gown, she had Hollywood written all over her. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t see you come in or I wouldn’t have left you to fend for yourself,” she said, taking his hand. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to some people.”
Fantastic. Meeting more of these industry people sounded about as appealing as a root canal. And he felt awkward on Parker’s arm—the curious, judging eyes on them as she made the rounds introducing him to people whose names he didn’t even try to remember. This was her world and he didn’t belong in it. That much was obvious.
But if it was obvious to everyone else, it didn’t seem to faze Parker. She looked happy to have him there, eager to introduce him to her fellow cast members and executives. How did she not notice the looks they exchanged? Or feel the tension in the air? Had she spent so much time in these situations that she’d become immune to it all?
As she introduced him to the movie’s screenwriter, a man who looked just as uncomfortable as he did, Brantley waved to her from the pool deck, motioning toward another new arrival.
“I’ll be back in a second,” she told him, squeezing his arm. “Don’t leave.”
“No promises,” he mumbled as she walked toward the two men.
The new guy smiled at her and gave her an appreciative once-over, and Tyson’s fists tightened at his sides. What the hell was wrong with him? He had to get his jealousy under control. He had no right to feel possessive over Parker. Wasn’t he the one who didn’t do relationships? Who wasn’t interested in anything other than his fight career? So why did he feel as though he’d been kicked in the gut when the guy leaned forward and kissed her cheek?
“That’s Darren Cable, the lead actor in the movie,” Dave, the screenwriter told him.
So that was the guy Parker would be kissing on set in just a few weeks.
He watched as the man moved closer to her and placed a hand casually on her back—so natural, as if it belonged there.
His temper rose within him. He needed to pull it together. This was her job. She had to entertain Hollywood’s finest . . .
But when the guy’s hand dipped lower to the base of her spine, he couldn’t stop himself. Crossing the room, he interrupted the conversation. “Parker, can I talk to you for a moment?” he asked, taking her wrist in his hand.
The look on the leading man’s face was pretty clear, but he didn’t give a shit.
Parker looked surprised at his sudden interruption. “Um . . . sure . . . Excuse me,” she told the men as he led her away.
He dragged her back inside the house and headed upstairs, not stopping until they’d reached her bedroom. Slamming the door behind him, he whipped her around and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“What are you doing? I have guests,” she said as his head lowered to her neck.
“I don’t give a shit about your guests. You’re driving me crazy in this dress,” he murmured against the side of her ear. “Take it off,” he whispered.
“But I . . .”
“As your trainer, I’m telling you to let that dress fall to the floor at your feet before I rip it off,” he said, biting her flesh at her collarbone.
She whimpered, and her hand shook slightly as she reached for the straps of the paper thin dress. Bringing them down over her shoulders, the weight of the fabric fell to the floor at her feet.
Standing in only her red, lacy thong and her silver strappy sandals, she turned slowly to face him. “What now, Coach?”
In an instant, his mouth was on hers, his hands all over her bare skin. They dipped below the string of the thongs on both sides of her hips as he pushed them downward, sliding his hand along the front of her flat stomach until he cupped her swollen mound of flesh between her legs.
She bit his bottom lip as his finger plunged inside and he moaned. “Tell me what you want,” she whispered against his mouth, her gaze locked with his, telling him she would do anything he asked.
“Bend over,” he said, turning her around, pushing her gently forward until she was resting on her forearms on the bed. Her hair came loose from the clasp and fell to the side as she looked over her shoulder, to watch as he unzipped his pants and freed his already throbbing cock. He stroked himself and groaned as he moved forward, toward her. “Open wider,” he said, easing her thighs as far apart as her thong around her ankles would allow.
He needed to have her now. He didn’t care that there was a house full of people or that her ex-boyfriend was making a play for her. He needed to be with her, be as close to her as possible, cling to her to try to erase these feelings of inadequacy and powerlessness taking over his emotions.
Kneeling on the bed behind her, he slid his fingers along her wetness. Then stroked her back, and hips and thighs. Her knees shook slightly on the bed and she gripped the bed sheets in front of her.