The Hudsons: Max, Bella and Devlin: Bargained Into Her Boss's Bed / Scene 3 / Propositioned Into a Foreign Affair / Scene 4 / Seduced Into a Paper Marriage

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About the Author

Bestselling Desire™ author and RITA® Award finalist EMILIE ROSE lives in her native North Carolina with her four sons and two adopted mutts. Writing is her third (and hopefully her last) career. She’s managed a medical office and run a home day care, neither of which offers half as much satisfaction as plotting happy endings. Her hobbies include gardening and cooking (especially cheesecake). She’s a rabid country music fan because she can find an entire book in almost any song. She is currently working her way through her own “bucket list” which includes learning to ride a Harley. Visit her website at www.emilierose.com or e-mail EmilieRoseC@aol. com. Letters can be mailed to PO Box 20145, Raleigh, NC 27619, USA.

To LaShawn, a woman who truly embodies the phrase

“dance like nobody’s watching.” You go girl!

One

“What is this?”

Dana Fallon flinched at the irritation and impatience in Max Hudson’s voice. She couldn’t blame him. Hudson Pictures was up against an immovable deadline in shooting their current project, and her leaving now wasn’t the nicest thing she could do to them.

But she had her reasons. Good ones.

Stand by your decision. Execute your plan. Her big brother’s booming “coach” voice echoed in her head even though he was on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

She reined in her retreating courage, brushed the dark curtain of overgrown bangs out of her lashes and tucked the ends behind her ear. Her gaze bounced off the disbelief in Max’s vivid blue eyes and focused instead on the V of tanned, muscled chest revealed by the three unfastened buttons of his white Joseph Abboud shirt. Dangerous territory.

“It’s my resignation. I’m quitting, Max. You’ll need to advertise for my replacement as soon as we return to the States. I’ve already drafted the ad for your approval.”

“You can’t quit.” He wadded the paper one-handed and pitched it toward the trash can in the corner of the hotel suite he’d been using as a temporary office for the past several months. He missed. In the five years she’d worked for him, Dana didn’t think he’d ever managed to hit a wastebasket with a paper ball regardless of which continent they were on. Max might be a creatively brilliant producer and film editor, but despite his killer body he had no athletic talents of the team sports variety.

She loved him anyway, and didn’t that make her an idiot since her attachment was completely one-sided and unlikely to ever be returned? It was time she admitted Max would love his deceased wife until he joined her in the grave and move on.

He went back to shuffling papers as if his pronouncement settled everything, and she was tempted to scuffle back to her hotel room with her metaphorical tail between her legs. But she couldn’t. Not this time.

When a job offer from a friend had coincided with the anniversary of her brother’s accident, Dana had realized she was no closer to attaining her goals today than she’d been when she’d taken this job. Her brother had never quit pursuing his dream despite setbacks and staggering odds, and she owed it to him to find the same courage.

That morning she’d promised herself that as soon as she left France behind and returned to California with the rest of Hudson Pictures’ cast and crew she’d seize control of her life and go after the career and family she wanted.

“I have to go, Max. I want to produce my own films, and you’re never going to let me do that here at Hudson. Like my letter says, I have an opportunity with an indie film company—”

“You misunderstood me. You can’t quit—not to work for another filmmaker.” His inflexible tone warned her not to argue.

She’d known this wouldn’t be easy. That was the main reason it had taken her weeks—until the day before her departure from France—to work up the courage for this conversation. “I’m not asking your opinion.”

“Because you already know what I’ll say. It’s a stupid decision and a step backward to leave a major player like Hudson to go to a fly-by-night independent studio. That aside, read your contract. You’re forbidden to work for another film company for two years after you leave us.”

Surprise snapped her shoulders back. She didn’t remember signing a noncompete clause, but she’d been so thrilled to be offered a position at Hudson that she hadn’t read the contract as carefully as she should have. The document in question was in her file cabinet at home. She couldn’t verify or disprove his words. “Two years?”

“Yes. It’s a standard clause in Hudson contracts. It keeps people from taking proprietary information with them when they go.”

He stabbed his fingers through his short dark hair and moved a pile of papers on his desk as if he were looking for something and was irritated at not being able to find it. She fought the urge to spring forward and locate the missing item for him the way she always had in the past.

Helping him and taking care of him wasn’t just her job, it had become something of an addiction—one she needed to kick.

“The timing of your tantrum sucks,” he added without looking up.

She gasped and tried to put a lid on her anger. Hasty words and emotional outbursts never solved anything, and it wasn’t like him to be rude. But then he wasn’t often under this much pressure. The film had to be wrapped and ready before his grandmother Lillian Hudson died from the cancer consuming her body. They were getting close to completion since they’d already begun the postproduction phase, but the clock was ticking. Time was short and Lillian’s remaining days were limited. Everyone involved was working around the clock and tense enough to crack.

Still, anger flushed any lingering reservations Dana might have had about hurting Max’s feelings from her system. When she’d taken this job five years ago she’d intended only to get her foot in the door, gain a little experience and then move onward and upward in a year or two. She was overqualified to be the executive assistant to a producer and film editor—even one as acclaimed as Max Hudson. She had credentials—even if they were of the East Coast variety instead of the West Coast.

She’d always dreamed of producing her own films. But then Max had turned out to be an amazing boss. She’d found herself learning more from him than her years at university and her internships back home had taught her.

And then like a dummy, she’d fallen for him, which made leaving impossible. Until now. After watching him waltz off with yet another blonde last week, she’d realized that if the romantic setting of Chateau Montcalm in Provence, France, couldn’t make Max see her as a woman instead of just an office accessory, then he never would.

She had put her life on hold to be near him for too long. She had to move on. Her brother often said that treading water did nothing but maintain the status quo, and she’d been treading and going nowhere. That had to end. Now.

She struggled to get control of her emotions so she wouldn’t end up shrieking at him, and when she thought she had, she took a deep breath. “This is not a tantrum, Max. This is my career.”

He looked up from his desk, his blue eyes glacial. “You’ll have no career if you try to find work elsewhere in the film industry.”

Shock slipped beneath her ribs like a sharp sword. Shock, hurt and betrayal. Max had a reputation for being ruthless in pursuit of his vision for a film, but he’d never been that way with her. “After all I’ve done for you, you’d blackball me?”

“In a heartbeat. Your leaving now would destroy our chance of finishing before—” He bit off the words and turned his head toward the storyboard hanging on the wall. But she didn’t think he was focusing on the graphic depictions of each scene from the movie.

His jaw muscles bunched and his lips flattened. Watching him struggle with his feelings gripped her in a choke hold. She knew he was crazy about Lillian. They all adored the Hudson matriarch. And the knowledge that they would soon lose her was difficult to handle. But Dana knew Max was wrong about one thing. He could finish this film without her.

He visibly pulled himself together and his eyes found hers again. This time they were hard with determination and devoid of emotion. This was the face of the man she’d seen reduce misbehaving cast or crew members to Jell-O with a few terse lines. She locked her knees to prevent the same thing from happening to her.

“Dana, I won’t let you make me fall behind schedule. My grandmother wants to see the story of her romance with my grandfather on the screen. I will not disappoint her. And I will do whatever it takes to prevent you from sabotaging this project.”

“Sabotaging!” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d known he wasn’t going to take this well, but to threaten her? When she’d started working for him five years ago he’d still been reeling from his wife’s death. She’d done everything except breathe for him until he’d surfaced from his grief. And she’d continued to be his right hand ever since.

This was the thanks she got?

Fury simmered inside her. If she stayed in this suite one more minute she was going to say something she’d regret.

“I am going back to my room.” It had taken everything she had to work up the nerve for this confrontation, and she’d crashed and burned because he was being an idiot. She needed to regroup, to replan. Because she couldn’t go on. Not like this.

She pivoted on her boot heel and stomped out of his suite. A stream of Max’s muttered curses followed in her wake. He called her back, but she didn’t stop and she didn’t go to her room. She couldn’t. A sense of claustrophobia engulfed her. She bypassed the elevator, jogged down the emergency stairs and slammed out the side exit of the hotel. Her long stride covered the parking lot as she headed…somewhere—she didn’t know where, but anywhere away from the infuriating, selfish bastard in the hotel was preferable to here.

“Dana,” Max called from behind her. She ignored him and lengthened her stride. “Dana. Wait.”

She heard his footsteps quicken as if he’d broken into a jog and then he caught her elbow as she reached a corner, pulled her to a standstill and swung her around to face him. “Give me a couple of months. Let me get Honor in the can. And then we’ll talk.”

“There’s nothing left to talk about, Max. I’ve asked you for a bigger role and been refused so many times I’ve quit wasting my breath. I didn’t spend all those years and all that money getting a degree in filmmaking to be an executive assistant.”

“I’ll give you a raise.”

She tilted her head back and glared at him. He could be so obtuse sometimes she wanted to scream. “It’s not about the money or even the project. I believe in this movie with all my heart, and I want to help you finish it. But the chance to produce the indie film won’t wait for me. My friend’s company needs me now. The only reason I have this opportunity is because their last producer died unexpectedly. I’ve already made her wait three weeks for a decision. If I turn them down or try to stall them any longer they’ll find someone else. If anyone understands budget and time constraints as a producer, you should, Max. You know I have to move now.”

She could practically see the wheels turning in his brain. His hand slid from her elbow to her bicep to her shoulder, his long, warm fingers infusing her flesh with heat that seeped through the fabric of her blouse and straight into her bones. It wasn’t a sexual thing on his part. But it was on hers. She felt the noncaress deep inside.

She had a love-hate reaction to his touches. She loved how each caress made her feel all excited and jittery and breathless, but she hated how a simple brush of his fingers could weaken her knees—and her willpower—and turn her into putty in his hands.

And he didn’t even notice.

Talk about adding insult to injury.

“Stay, Dana. I’ll give you associate producer credits on Honor. That will give you better credentials whenever you decide to move on. Not that I intend to make it easy for you to leave. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

His praise filled her with a warm glow, and then reality hit her with a cold, sobering shower. He was talking about her work, not her personally. He’d never see her as anything more than a coworker. And she wanted more—so, so much more. But right now, with his fingertips gently massaging her shoulder, she was too addled to make a decision.

She shrugged off his hand. “I’ll think about it and get back to you before we touch down in L.A.”

“I won’t be returning with you tomorrow. I need another week here, maybe two or three. I want your decision now.”

Frustration and a sense of entrapment made it difficult for her to breathe. He knew if she agreed she wouldn’t go back on her word. Unlike most of the inhabitants of Hollywood, her word was her bond. But if she stayed with him…how would she ever get over him and move on with her life? And if she couldn’t do that, how would she ever have the family or the career she craved?

James, her older brother, her idol, would be so disappointed in her for waffling.

“We both know ‘associate producer’ is a pretty useless title, often no more than a boon given because someone did somebody a favor. I want more than credits, Max. I want hands-on skills. And I know you. There’s enough control freak in you that you’d give me the title but none of the producer’s responsibilities. I’d come away with a slightly better-looking résumé, but without any new abilities.”

A nerve in his upper lip twitched, drawing her attention to the mouth that had monopolized so many of her dreams—a mouth she had yet to feel against hers in her waking hours. A September breeze cooled her skin and stirred his thick hair. She fisted her fingers against the need to smooth those dark glossy strands back into place.

“With the deadline we’re facing, you’ll be working around the clock if you take this position, and I promise you, this won’t be a meaningless title. You’ll get your new skills.” And you’ll regret it, his challenging tone implied.

She could feel herself slipping toward acquiescence and tried to pull back from the ledge to weigh the positives and negatives. As he’d said, any Hudson Pictures product carried clout and a guaranteed cinematic release. An indie film did not. The best she could hope for was acclaim at the Sundance or Toronto film festivals and possible success if that happened and the movie got picked up. But the market for independent films was exceptionally tight right now. Few were selling without big name stars. Her friend’s flick had no box office draws in the cast.

Slim-to-none chances versus a sure thing. Some choice.

Focus on the outcome, her brother always said. In this case, the outcome was a chance to get named credit for working on a major feature film, one she truly believed in, and a credential for her résumé.

She sighed in defeat. She was only twenty-eight. Her dream of a family, of someone to come home to and a career she could be proud of, could stand a few months’ delay.

Although she’d probably live to regret it, this was a chance she just had to take.

“I’ll do it.”

Friday evening Dana palmed the key to Max’s Mulholland Drive house in her damp and unsteady hand, but she hesitated to slot the key into the frosted-glass-and-iron front door.

It was stupid to be nervous. She’d been to Max’s house dozens of times since he bought the place four years ago, but never while he was here. He usually sent her to pick up or drop off something while he was tied up at his office, on a set or away on location. She’d been here several times since the day two and a half weeks ago when she’d left him in France. But tonight felt different.

Should she let herself in or ring the bell? He had to know she’d arrived. Not only had he summoned her the moment his plane landed and told her to drop everything and get over here, but she’d had to stop at the end of the driveway and punch in the security code to open the electronic gates. Whenever the gates were activated a chime sounded in the house. Had he slept through the summons? Or was he working? Either way, she didn’t want to disturb him. She lifted the key.

The door opened before she could shove it in the slot and her heart tripped. Max, with a dark beard-stubbled jaw, a faded blue T-shirt and a pair of snug, worn jeans, stood barefoot in front of her. She’d never seen him dressed this casually before. He tended to dress for success at work, and he’d always demanded the same of his staff. Today’s sleepy-eyed, just-out-of-bed look made her want to drag him right back to the rumpled and possibly still-warm sheets.

Don’t go there.

She dragged her brain back from taboo terrain and studied his pale, drawn face and mussed hair. His body was probably still nine hours ahead on French time and thought it was the middle of the night. After several months in France it had taken her a few days to adjust. “Jet lag?”

“I’m fine. Come in. We have a lot to do.”

Typical male. Refusing to admit weakness and stupidly ignoring the fact that he needed rest. “I take it you didn’t sleep on the plane or nap when you got home?”

“No time. I could use a pot of coffee.”

“You don’t drink coffee, Max.”

“I will tonight.”

“I’ll make it.” She instantly wanted to kick herself. Taking care of him was her past role, not her current one. If she wanted him to give her new duties, then she had to stop doing the old ones.

“Thank you.” He turned and headed back into the house, leaving a subtle trail of his cologne, Versace Eau Fraîche. She knew because she’d had to buy a bottle when he’d forgotten to pack his for a previous trip, and she loved the lemon, cedar and herb notes.

Her gaze traced the tired set of his broad shoulders. When she caught her eyes taking the old, familiar journey down his straight spine to his tight butt, which looked totally yummy in the jeans, she abruptly averted her eyes, tightened her grip on her briefcase handle and mentally shook herself.

Get over this obsession already. He’s not yours. He never will be yours. Move on.

The two-story marble foyer echoed her footsteps as she followed him toward the elevator with her gaze firmly fastened on the back of his head. The doors enclosed them into the paneled space. She focused on the numbered panel until he leaned against the wall—another testament to his exhaustion. Max never leaned on anything. He was too dynamic for slouching.

“Max, you’d think more clearly if you slept a few hours.”

“Later.”

The doors opened onto the second floor. His multilevel house clung to the side of a hill. She knew the layout from her previous visits. The kitchen, living and dining rooms were on this level. His office, the screening room and his private den occupied the third. His massive bedroom and two others sprawled across the fourth floor.

She’d had a few brief stints in his bedroom, but sadly only to pack his suitcase or retrieve a file or a forgotten PDA. She’d never even dared to sit on his king-size bed, let alone crawl between the sheets the way she did in her dreams. And she knew from being asked to pack for him in the past that he didn’t own any pajamas. Did he sleep nude or in his boxer briefs?

Not a journey her mind needed to take.

When she reached the sunlit kitchen she headed straight for the high end stainless-steel coffeepot sitting on the black-marble countertop. She’d overheard Max tell one of his brothers that he’d bought the appliance because most of the women who slept over couldn’t wake up enough to leave without their caffeine. She didn’t want to think about the parade of anorexic blondes through his life. Or his bed. They were a reminder that with her dark hair and eyes and olive skin she could never be what he desired.

“Where’s the coffee?” she asked.

“Freezer.” He sat in a chair at the glass-topped table with his back to the extraordinary view of the city, the distant ocean and the heated pool and spa below the window. Most of the rooms in his house overlooked the same spectacular vista. He dropped his head into his hands, exhaustion dragging his frame downward. The evening light streaming through the glass highlighted every tired crease in his handsome face.

She squashed the sympathy rising within her. He was the one who’d chosen not to sleep. But honestly, sometimes he reminded her of her two-year-old nephew who pushed himself harder when he started to tire rather than risk collapsing if he stopped moving. “The filters?”

He pointed to a dark wood cabinet above the machine and massaged the back of his neck. She yearned to step behind him and do that job for him, to tangle her fingers in his short dark hair and massage the warm skin of his neck. But she didn’t dare. She’d done a lot of personal stuff for him as his assistant, but nothing that personal.

Instead, she retrieved the coffee and then opened the cabinet and located the paper filters. Within moments the energizing aroma of coffee filled the air. She heard the rumble of his stomach from across the room over the gurgling pot.

“Have you eaten, Max?”

“On the plane.”

Apparently, even first-class food hadn’t sated his hunger. “Can I fix you something?”

Old habits died hard. She’d have to work on breaking them after he recovered from his trip. Better yet, she’d hand those duties over to her replacement, if personnel ever found someone who could meet Max’s exacting standards, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. That thought made her stomach twinge in an odd way. Who was she trying to fool? She’d always worry about Max.

“There should be some food in the fridge,” his deep voice rumbled without its usual resonance.

“Max, we’ve been out of the country for months. I canceled your catering service, remember?And when I left you in France, you weren’t sure when you’d be home. Since you didn’t let me know you were returning until your plane touched down today, I haven’t reinstated the caterers.”

She checked the Sub-Zero refrigerator even though she knew she’d find none of the precooked meals she used to have delivered on a biweekly basis. As expected, the unit was empty except for condiments and a few bottles of beer. Nothing edible occupied the shelves or bins. The cleaning crew would have followed her instructions to remove any perishables the day after the film team left for France.

She’d have to take care of reinstating the caterers and the maid first thing in the morning. For money, which Max had in abundance, anything could be had—even on a weekend.

“Let me see what I can whip up.” She raided his freezer and found only old chocolate ice cream, which she tossed in the trash, and a bag of meatballs. The meatballs held possibilities. Turning to the cabinets she searched and discovered a box of whole wheat pasta and a jar of marinara sauce. It wasn’t the gourmet fare Max was used to, but it would have to do.

She located a pot for the pasta and another for the sauce and wondered who’d bought the items. One of his women? He didn’t usually date the domesticated variety. He went for the leggy, actress wannabes who had banned carbohydrates from their vocabularies and their diets. Not that he practiced the old clichéd casting couch—she’d learned from observation that sleeping with him pretty much guaranteed a woman would never work with him. That didn’t stop them from lining up.