Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation)

Reality was what slapped him, hard, leaving behind a cold sting of frustration that did nothing to burn away the lust.

Quinn Sheridan. According to Eddie, she wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow morning. Apparently, she’d caught an earlier flight.

No two-dimensional medium did her justice. The woman sitting ten feet away at the bar looked like exactly that—a woman—rather than the kittenish cheerleader he’d watched sing, dance, and connive her way through the screener Eddie had sent him so he could see what his new client ‘should’ look like.

Personally, he begged to differ. Her current BMI put her at the curvaceous end of the healthy spectrum, and squarely into male fantasy territory—his, at any rate—but professionally, he understood Eddie’s concern. The movie role she’d signed on for required she look sleek and nimble as a lynx. Someone not to be fucked with. Right now she looked entirely too…fuckable. Want sliced through

him. Hot and sharp, and not her fault, despite how easy it would be to lay the blame at her feet.

Note to self. You don’t fuck actresses. No, he did not. Not anymore. He’d done his share during his ten years in Hollywood, and he refused to reboard that particular crazy-train. He also didn’t fuck clients. And he absolutely, positively did not fuck actresses who were clients.

Her attention lingered on him this time, so undisguised he thought for a moment she realized who he was, and was about to say something to him. Maybe he hadn’t been the only one to do some research before arriving?

The gaze wandered lower, moving over him as slowly and thoroughly as an appraisal. By the time she finished looking her fill, his whole body ached. Then the little tease picked up a spoon, dug into a confection of whipped cream and chocolate he hadn’t noticed on a small plate in front of her, and brought it to her mouth. The spoon dripped with melted fudge and empty calories. Her lips closed around the bite, and her eyelids fluttered. She savored the mouthful for a drawn-out moment, then swallowed and licked chocolate from her lower lip. The bartender brought her another glass filled with a generous pour of something chilled and bubbly.

Lust and frustration simmered into anger. Was she really sitting there, eating chocolate and chugging champagne in front of the man her agent had emotionally extorted into helping her? Dammit, he’d put carefully laid plans aside to come here and tackle this “emergency.” And she wasn’t taking it seriously. Granted, their six weeks didn’t start until tomorrow at noon, and maybe she didn’t actually realize who he was, but this sneak peek at her commitment level didn’t impress him.

Time to lay down the law.

She straightened as he approached, and aimed the sly smile at him, but no flicker of recognition crossed her features. She didn’t know who he was. At least there was that. She hadn’t deliberately flaunted her bad behavior at him, but even so, she’d definitely earned a warning.

He stepped into the empty space between her chair and one occupied by the female half of a very affectionate couple sharing an oversize umbrella drink. Restoring the Texas drawl fifteen years in Los Angeles had eroded, he led with a relaxed, “Sorry for staring, but aren’t you—”

“No.” She let the smile turn apologetic and lowered her eyelids. “I get that a lot, but no, I’m not her.” Long, naked eyelashes flicked up to reveal guileless eyes as clear and blue as the Caribbean shimmering in the distance. “I hope you’re not too disappointed?”

He had to hand it to her. She had this act down pat. “Somehow, I doubt you’ve ever disappointed.” Leaning a forearm on the bar, he eased closer. “Now that I see you up close, I realize you’re much prettier than what’s-her-face.”

“Quinn Sheridan?” She couldn’t quite hide the hint of irritation in her voice at the backhanded compliment.

“I guess that’s her name. She’s got, well, you know…” He smiled vaguely, and deliberately refrained from elaborating. Knowing actors—and he did—she wouldn’t be able to resist finding out what imperfection he perceived.

Her brows drew together for one fleeting moment, before she arranged her features into a show of mild curiosity. “What?”

“The plastic look. Inexpressive. Like she’s had too much Botox. I guess that’s what happens when a thirty-something actress plays the part of a high school student. She’s got to be getting desperate to move on. She’s not going to be able to pull it off much longer.”

Her mouth dropped open. Inexpressive? Uh-uh. She might have a certain look she presented to the world, but her real emotions were right there beneath the surface, ready to break through. Finally, she took a long gulp of her drink before swallowing and clearing her throat.

“I’m sure she’s not thirty-something. She looks very natural to me. I don’t have a hard time buying her in the role.”

He shrugged. “I guess you suspend your sense of disbelief more easily. Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s not her looks that throw me. Maybe it’s her performance.”

Color flooded her cheeks. She swiveled so that she faced him, and folded her arms over her chest. “What’s wrong with her performance?”

“She comes across kind of wooden, don’t you think?”

Her mouth dropped open again. She actually sputtered. “Wooden? Hell, no. She’s won awards for her performance. She’s been nominated for an Emmy.”

He shrugged again. He’d read her bio. He knew about her Emmy noms. “Has she?”

“Twice!” Her palm slapped the bar for emphasis.

“Didn’t win, though, huh?” Before she could respond, he continued, “If she’s so talented, why hasn’t she broken out? Could be I missed it, but I haven’t seen her in anything except that show.” He caught the bartender’s eye. “I’ll have a glass of what she’s having, and—” He glanced at her. “Would you like another?”

“Yes. Thank you,” she said, and under her breath added, “Bring the bottle.” When the bartender moved away, she drew herself up to full height. Five feet, four inches of slightly inebriated, very pissed off actress ready to defend herself. “Maybe she was waiting for the right role? I heard she’s going to be in the movie version of Dirty Games, and”—her white-knuckled grip on the bar offered him a small sign of her nervousness about that situation—“I think she’s going to make an amazing Lena Xavier.”

Now that he’d gotten her all primed to do battle, it was time to lull her into thinking she’d won. He held up his hands. “Hey, listen, I don’t mean to offend you. You’re obviously a fan.”

Her grip on the bar relaxed a fraction. “And you’re obviously not.”