A Hollywood Deal (Ryder & Paige 1)

Like here in the jet.

The line of her shoulders is rigid, and her back is straight. She’s stayed that way for the entire five frickin’ hours. She won’t even accept a drink from me, even though I told her that she could have one.

And that makes me want to punch her ex in the face. She’s usually a lot more fun. You know, relaxed. And hilariously blunt. Every time she’s around, something nasty lifts from my chest, and I can breathe again.

I want that Paige back. I saw a glimpse of her yesterday morning, when she called me out on all my shenanigans and answered Mom’s call just to make a point. It pisses me off that Fun Paige is missing today, and I blame her ex.

Not many people around me are like Paige. Women want to do me because I’m a star. The rest kiss my ass because I’m rich and famous and they want a taste of the lifestyle, even if it’s as someone’s accessory. Paige doesn’t want to fuck me, and she doesn’t kiss my ass. Not that she isn’t attracted to me at all, of course. There are times when I can see that telltale flush or a hint of hunger in her eyes. But she’s good at maintaining a wall between us. I still can’t decide if I like that or not. There are times I’m relieved, because really, I shouldn’t have her. There’s very little I can offer a woman like Paige. But there are times I resent it because I want her.

I’m a pig for even thinking this, but she’s absolutely luscious. Like rich whipped cream you can lap up. I’ve often wondered what she would taste and feel like under my tongue…what kind of sounds she makes when she comes. Would she scream my name, or just whimper and groan? Would she—

Hot blood pools south, and my dick starts to swell. I shift and reach for another scotch to wash away the dirty thoughts. Didn’t used to like the stuff, but my cousin Shane dragged me over to the dark side.

Besides I can’t have tequila anymore. It’s too much of a reminder.

The rest of the trip goes smoothly; our ride—a rented Bentley—is waiting on the tarmac when the Learjet lands. Paige has planned every detail. Mira still grouses from time to time about Paige being a woman, but even she has to admit Paige is an excellent assistant. I think Mira’s relieved Paige and I aren’t sleeping together.

The Bentley pulls into the address in McLean, Virginia, and my lip curls at the monstrosity.

The newly constructed house is a shrine to modern excess. An east-coast version of something I see all too often back home. Wrought-iron gates, topiaries, a couple of water fountains and…a tennis court when nobody at the place plays the sport. A few copies of Rodin sculptures. In Hollywood there’d be a gigantic swimming pool butting up against a faux-Japanese garden.

Spare me.

Dad might think he’s being slick and classy, but I know better. He’s trying to keep up with the Pryces, Mom’s old moneyed family in California. But having more and more stuff doesn’t mean he’s anything like the Pryce family. The Reeds are nouveau riche. According to Mom, that fact alone makes Dad irreversibly and intrinsically flawed. It’s this flaming scarlet letter that no amount of material display can ever erase.

That horrible opinion doesn’t apply to us children of course. We have the Pryce bloodline, and she made sure our names were changed to Pryce-Reed as a part of her divorce settlement. Dad hates us all the more for it—reminds him how poorly he fares compared to Mom and her family.

The car stops, and the driver opens the door. I mentally pull myself together. Some things just aren’t avoidable. Everyone’s gotta do what they can with what they have. It isn’t like I can pretend I was delivered by a stork, as appealing as that is. Da

d is enough of a douchebag to cause a fucking media circus if we ignore his summons.

Not that I mind media circuses. But I want them to be about me.

I smooth my jacket over the casual shirt. My khaki slacks have creases as straight and sharp as a box-cutter blade. Channeling my inner carefree playboy, I put on a pair of Terminator sunglasses and take light steps toward the main entrance.

Paige follows me, her huge black purse slung over one shoulder.

The butler stands at the door, his tux like armor. His back’s straight, his mouth flat, and his hair as black as the ad copy on the bottle he uses to dye it.

“Welcome, sir,” he intones.

I shoot him a quick and empty grin as I pull the sunglasses off my face. “Hey, man.”

The butler’s brows draw together. Now that his attempt at becoming an actor has died a painful and inevitable death, his biggest remaining dream is to be noticed and remembered. I don’t feel like playing games with Dad’s staff, especially a pseudo-butler who’s pretentious enough to call himself Jarvis but refuses to give a last name.

Jarvis No-Last-Name is a relatively new addition to Dad’s household because Wife Number Five ooohed and aaahed over Al, the elderly butler at the Pryce mansion, and Dad decided he needed one as well. Jarvis is nowhere near as competent as Al. But the former actor can play the part, and that’s all that matters to Dad.

“Everyone is awaiting you in the study,” the butler says.

Awaiting me. “Where is it?”

“This way, sir.”

I step inside, my loafers quiet on the floor. Paige’s pumps click. The sound is oddly soothing, reassuring me that she’s following.

Genuine European crystal chandeliers, marble-inlay flooring from Italy, thick Persian and Turkish rugs and matte wallpapers with flower patterns all boast money—plenty of it.

But all that money can’t buy taste.