Playing Dirty

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.

But that didn’t explain his reaction to her now.

“I’m half gofer and half coordinator,” Beks said. “Cade’s giving me my big break.”

Clearing his throat, he shook the reaction aside. “Beks is our detail woman. There are a million attached to filming and she’s a genius at keeping track of ’em all.”

Beks nodded. “That whole ‘making people’s lives run smoothly’ thing you said you do?” she said cheerfully. “Well, I am to the running of a production what you are to people’s lives.”

Turning back to Cade, she waved at the papers in his hand. “Go ahead and look over the contracts, boss. I’ll show Ava what I’m working on at the moment.”

It wasn’t a quick tutorial he heard, however, as he turned his attention to the rental agreement. Instead Beks mentioned that while the weather up here would take some getting used to after L.A., at least she didn’t have to worry about getting a sunburn.

Ava laughed but then said that even in Seattle in the winter women with skin as fair as theirs required a good sunblock.

Which promptly segued into a spirited debate over the best brand.

Shaking his head, he searched the contract for the bottom line, flipping through the pages until he came to the one that had the clause disclosing the monthly rent. He read it swiftly. Then went back to read it again more slowly.

And blew out a breath. “No shit?”

Ava turned her head, raising her brows at him. “I assume that meets with your approval. In fact, a nice little gift certificate to my favorite spa for my negotiation skills wouldn’t be out of line.”

“It really wouldn’t.” He read the clause again, then looked up at her, feeling some of the she’s-gonna-blow-my-big-chance-all-to-hell-and-gone knot he’d been packing for the past couple of months dissolve. “How the hell did you talk the owners down to a rent this reasonable?”

She shrugged. “By being the best at what I do,” she said lightly. “Which is why you hired me. Although I did have to give the owner my word that if he finds someone interested in seeing the place while your crew is still in residence they’ll be reasonable about allowing it to be shown—with the strict understanding, of course, that it’s not available until your lease expires.” Leveling those green eyes on him, she said, “I also promised that your crew would leave it in as good, if not better, condition than they found it.”

“We will,” Beks agreed, and Cade nodded.

“If there are any small repairs that need doing—and they have time and the union allowing—I’ll talk to the guys about taking care of them,” he said, then gave her a solemn, head-on gaze. “Good work.”

AVA INCLINED her head. “Thanks,” she said. But she wasn’t as uninfluenced by his approval as she might have wished.

Not that she wasn’t over Cade, because she so was. It was more that…she hadn’t expected to still feel this pull of unwilling attraction.

She supposed that was precisely what she should have expected, given she’d had a similar reaction at their earlier meetings. But perhaps because she’d handled the first face-to-face pretty well and had felt reasonably removed when she’d had to see him again at her lawyer’s office, then again during the summit with his scriptwriter in the beginning of December, she had assumed she’d gotten the whole oh-my-gawd-am-I-really-going-to-work-with-the-bastard thing out of her system.

Apparently not.

Still, that was all this was, a sort of knee-jerk what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here vibe at being thrown together again with the author of her worst insecurities.

Which she had worked her way through, thank you very much, more than a dozen years ago. She didn’t discount the great deal of effort it had taken on her part, but damned if she intended to go back there again. Squaring her shoulders, she dug two sets of keys out of her briefcase. She handed the larger one to Beks. “These are to the house. I think I have enough for everyone who’s staying there, but if you need more let me know and I’ll have the landlord make them up.”

The other set she handed to Cade, along with an additional contract. “I wasn’t able to get as good a deal on the Belltown condo you requested, because short-term leases on units in that area have a built-in demand. I did, however, talk them down two hundred and forty bucks from the original asking price, since historically January is a postholiday lull month.” She shrugged. “It’s not much, but I imagine every little bit helps.”

“You rock, girlfriend,” Beks said and offered up her palm for a high five.

As Ava slapped it, Cade gave her an unsmiling nod. “It does, yes. Thank you.” His fingers, brushing hers as he accepted the keys, were warm and hard.

He was harder and tougher-looking all over, in fact, than he’d been at eighteen, his shoulders wider, his chest brawnier. The sleeves of his blue sweater were pushed up, revealing silky dark hair that feathered tan, muscular forearms. And his face, which was more angular and less…pretty…than it had been in high school, sported even darker stubble around his mouth and along the inflexible lines of his jaw.

He also seemed a great deal less carefree than he’d been back in the day, more somber-mouthed and watchful-eyed.

Not that she gave a great big rip one way or the other. Who didn’t change after high school? She was just interested in discovering the kind of man she’d be working with in the here and now. The more she knew, the better prepared she’d be to keep him at arm’s length, right where he belonged. Because while a whole lot had changed in thirteen years, the fact that he couldn’t be trusted remained the same.

But speaking of work…

“As you requested, several of Miss Agnes’s collections are in a vault here,” she said briskly. “If you’ll give me some times that work best for you, I’ll coordinate them with Jane’s schedule so we can discuss which ones you want to use for your documentary. Once you’ve made your decision, we’ll arrange to have the rest moved to off-site safekeeping.”

He nodded. “The sooner the better works for me.”

“Let me call her.”

She set up the appointment for that evening, then left to take the staples, supplies and extra linens she’d bought earlier to the two rentals. When she got back, Cade’s director of photography, a beefy, bald guy named Louie who looked to be in his mid-forties, had arrived. She also met the night watchman, a tough-looking older man named John.

It was full dark when the van she’d arranged for pulled into the driveway and disgorged the production’s soundman, the lighting engineer and a film school student who was the light man’s assistant. She pulled out her iPhone and added notes to the ones she’d already jotted down on Louie and John to keep everyone straight in her mind.

For the soundman she thumb-typed: Kyle. 40-smthing. Never seems 2 b w/out Bose in-ear head set.

The lighting engineer rated: Jim Short. 60s? size matches name. Asst Ryan. Blond surfer boy. Somthg they call Best Boy.

Over time she would add personal preferences to their files, because information like that was what had contributed to her success over the years.

Jane arrived a short while later, and Ava escorted her down the hallway, the two of them chatting nonstop. Finding the pocket door to the parlor open, she glanced in to see Cade sitting at the desk, poring over the papers spread across its surface. A rich brown lock of hair fell over his forehead, the desk lamp picking out its subtle streaks of bronze and blond. And her friend’s voice promptly faded to a background murmur.

Because, for just a second, she had a vision of that silky hair brushing her stomach.

She jerked in shock and slapped a new vision in its place—this one of letting herself into her Alki Beach condo, kicking off her heels, lighting a few candles and turning on the fireplace. She’d love nothing more than to climb into her nightie and maybe pour herself a nice glass of wine. To flop down on her big, overstuffed couch and know that this day was finally over.

She couldn’t deny she was intrigued and excited at the opportunity to be part of a documentary featuring Miss A. It was a world outside her normal experience and she was fascinated by the idea of learning about it.

But a big part of her was already exhausted by the push-pull of her emotions, which kept flip-flopping all over the place whenever she was in Cade Calderwood Gallari’s company. And for now she just had a need to escape.

So she cleared her throat and leaned into the room. “Jane is here and I’m gonna take off.”

Janie grabbed her by the arm at the same time Cade jerked his head up to stare at her in alarm.

“Are you crazy?” her friend demanded. “Leave me by myself with this clown and I won’t be responsible for what I say.”

“That is not an option,” Cade agreed. “We need you to stick around so you can handle the details.”

Both were clearly determined that she wouldn’t leave, so postponing her home-sweet-home fantasy, she blew out a quiet breath and gave in with reasonable grace. “Very well,” she said and preceded Jane into the room.

Where, steeling herself, she took the farthest seat across the desk from the man and his damn vision-inducing pheromones. “Let’s get this done.”

CHAPTER THREE

Lord. I didn’t realize how crazy the next six weeks were gonna be until I wrote down everything I need to get done.

Later that evening

IT WAS NEARLY NINE when Cade let himself into his rented Belltown condo in a renovated 1914 brick building on First Avenue. Dropping his keys into a burled wood bowl on a tobacco tin–sized table, he didn’t bother feeling for the light switch. Instead he made his way down the abbreviated hallway and into the body of the living space by the glow of the city lights pouring through a good-sized triple-pane window that blocked most of the downtown traffic noises. He went directly to the gas fireplace in the corner of the room and flipped on the switch.

With a soft whoosh, flames leapt to life and began licking at the artificial logs. Turning on the table lamp, he looked around his new digs.

It was a short tour, since the place had a single studio-style bedroom, a galley kitchen and a bathroom boasting an oversize shower, which all by itself made it worth twice the price he was paying. It would definitely do.

It had been a long day, however, and he was past ready for a little kick-back time. So he toed off his shoes and padded in his stocking feet to the kitchen, where he delved into the fridge Ava had stocked, grabbing the first thing he saw: the half gallon of milk. Opening it, he gulped down a quarter of it straight from the carton, then bent to study the rest of the refrigerator’s contents.

She’d bought him chicken tenders, a skewer of grilled Alaska salmon, cut veggies and fruit, a tub of kalamata olives, a wedge of aged Beemster Gouda, salad fixings and a container of some New Agey–looking salad made of couscous or quinoa, or some such shit. But it was the container of deviled eggs he pulled out.

He wondered if she’d remembered how much he liked them or had just gotten some for everybody.

Probably the latter.

Taking the lid off, he tossed it on the counter, grabbed the carton of milk and took his booty over to the chair by the fireplace. He set the milk on the little table at his elbow, swung his feet up onto a footstool, fished out an egg half and popped it in his mouth.

“Damn.” He didn’t know if Ava had made these herself, gotten someone else to make them or picked them up at one of the upscale grocery stores that seemed to liberally sprinkle Seattle these days, but he had to hand it to her—they rocked.

So far, at least, she seemed to be good at her job.

Yet here it was, not even the first official day, and he already needed a break from her. That didn’t bode well for the next month and a half.

When he first got the brainstorm to hire her, he’d considered himself fricking brilliant. It was a win-win: Ava was the choice most highly recommended and he could finally pay off the debt of his high school screwup, which until last November she’d refused to even let him apologize for. As an added benefit, she was providing the food services and seemed to have a strong knowledge of the town’s players. All of which would save him money in the long run.

In that aspect, and given the quality of her work, he was brilliant. But he hadn’t thought things through. He hadn’t considered how being constantly thrown into contact with her would make him feel.

He’d forgotten how much he’d liked her back in the day before he’d thrown her to the wolves in order to keep a bunch of friends, who hadn’t been worth what he’d sacrificed.

“Shit.” Losing his appetite, he set the container of deviled eggs aside, dropped his feet from the stool and sat up. Jamming his fingers through his hair, he stared at the flickering flames.

Let it go, Slick. What was done was done, and going over it for the hundredth time sure wouldn’t help him unwind after a day crammed with traveling and trying to get things organized. And hungry or not, he needed to fuel up. Tomorrow was the first full day on the set, and he needed to be on top of his game.

So he reached for another egg. He’d eat his food, drink his milk and just veg in front of the fire for a while. What he wouldn’t do was obsess over old mistakes.

Especially not the one he’d made with Ava Spencer.

SLOW TO PULL her attention from the lists she was compiling when the landline at her elbow rang the following morning, Ava reached to pick up the receiver without bothering to check caller ID. She brought it to her ear and murmured an absentminded hello as she ran her gaze down the list she’d been assembling on her Grocery iQ app. Grey Poupon! That was what she’d forgotten—she’d known there was something.

She added it to her list.

“Ava, I need you to plan your father’s birthday event.”

Well, hell. That got her attention. Abandoning her iPhone on the breakfast bar, she straightened on her stool. “Hello, Mother. I thought you and Dad were still in Chicago.”

“Yes, yes, we are.” Impatience laced Jacqueline Spencer’s tone. “Which is precisely the problem. We’ll be here until early February—which allows me no time to arrange your father’s birthday myself. So you need to do it.”

Ava counted to ten. “Do you remember the documentary job I told you about?” She didn’t hold out much hope, since usually the things that were important to her went out of her mother’s ears as quickly as they’d gone in.

But Jacqueline surprised her. “The one with Allan Gallari’s son?”

“Yes. I just started it yesterday and between that and some jobs for a few of my longtime clients, I’m afraid it’s going to take up all my time for the next several weeks. But I can refer you to a fantastic local party planner I met at the conference in New York last summer.”

“I don’t want some second-rate caterer! This is your father’s sixtieth birthday we’re talking about, Ava.”

Crap. The guilt card. No wonder parents played it so often—it was so freaking effective. Sighing, she picked up her iPhone again and opened a new app. “How many people?”

“I’m keeping it small. I thought seventy-five. At the house.”

Small. Uh-huh. “On Dad’s actual birthday?”

“Don’t be silly, darling—how many people will turn out on a Wednesday night? Make it the following Saturday.”

“Winter theme okay?”

“Yes, that would be lovely. And engraved invitations, of course, with the RSVP to you, no gifts. I’ll get you the guest list.”

Ava made a note to contact the calligrapher she used as soon as she had that in hand. “What do you have in mind for food? The guest list strikes me as too large for a sit-down unless you want me to rent a tent for the back lawn.”

“Not in late February—the weather’s too iffy for that.”

“My thoughts exactly. Were you thinking circulating waiters with hors d’oeuvres? Or a buffet?”

“I thought an open bar and hearty hors d’oeuvres, served by, yes, the wait staff. Then a dessert buffet with, of course, a spectacular cake as its centerpiece. Tiered, not sheet. Champagne fountains at either end.”

“I will need to hire one of my caterers, because I don’t have time for that part and I know you want the best for Father’s party.”

A sigh came down the line, but her mother restrained herself to a stern, “I expect you to supervise them carefully.”

“Uh-huh.” Didn’t she always? “An eight to midnight timeframe, then?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” She made note of that as well, added additional reminders for a few things she’d have to follow through on, then shut down her app. “That will get me started. I’ll send you an email to confirm what we just talked about, but I need to hang up now, Mom, or I’m going to be late for my real job.”

“Mother,” Jacqueline Spencer corrected her automatically. “And really, dear, you’re a businesswoman in high demand—must you sound as though you’re off to flip hamburgers on the weekend shift?”

Ava laughed. “Sometimes I think that would be more relaxing.”

“What am I to do with you?” Jacqueline said, and Ava could envision her mother shaking her head. “Well, I shall let you go, I suppose. But do keep an eye on the mail—I’m going to send you an appropriate dress to wear to your father’s party.”

Ava’s smile dropped from her lips as ice rimed her veins. “I’m not twelve anymore. I can find my own dress, thank you.”

“You’ll like what I select,” Jacqueline said serenely, ignoring, as she always did, Ava’s wishes on the matter.