Wicked Fortune (Wicked Nights #5)

Chapter 8

EIGHT

Matthew Holt pressed his palms flat against the marble countertop of his private bath, then leaned forward, looking past his own reflection in the window to the glow that was spreading over the vista. Pale gold, soft pink, even a hint of lavender—the morning light as it illuminated the backlot of Hardline Entertainment’s Burbank headquarters and studio.

From this twelfth floor vantage point—the highest on the lot—he could see most of the complex that he’d built over the last two decades. But in his imagination, he still saw the undeveloped land that he’d purchased, betting his every penny on the down payment, then mortgaging himself to the hilt. But he hadn’t wavered. He’d moved to LA with a dream to build something huge. Something his. And through a combination of ego, bold determination, and the seed money he’d worked so hard to acquire, he’d turned acres of underdeveloped land into a Hollywood force to be reckoned with.

Hollywood? Hell, the world. His empire reached every facet of the entertainment industry from live theater to recording artists to podcasts and movies and television and more.

An entire life built on the profit of his imagination and dreams. And a few unique skills that Fate had forced him to acquire.

He took a step back, casting his gaze around the elegant private bathroom that he’d demanded be included in the architectural plans eleven years ago when Hardline Entertainment moved out of the original cluster of trailers that had once served as office space.

He recalled the day he’d looked at the blueprints that Jackson Steele, his architect, had drawn up. They’d been perfect. His huge office. This bathroom. And a formidable building that reached to the maximum height the Burbank Powers That Be allowed.

He’d loved every minute of the design and building process. And when it had come time to choose paint and tile and furniture and fixtures, he’d wallowed in that as well.

Shallow? Perhaps. But he’d worked his way up from life as a street rat to the most powerful man in Hollywood. And, dammit, he fully intended to wallow in the luxury that represented everything for which he’d worked so hard.

He drew a breath, his gaze drifting over the subtly veined Italian marble floor, sourced from the Apuan Mountains above Carrara. The etched-glass steam shower that took up an entire side of the room, its polished chrome fixtures gleaming in the early morning light now sneaking through the frosted glass window that made up an entire side of the shower.

He’d insisted on controls that allowed him to fine-tune the water temperature, the pressure, the amount of steam. He could take a quick, bracing shower if he needed it, or a longer, therapeutic steam when the day’s demands ground him down.

With a sentimental smile, he ran his finger along the marble countertop that stretched the length of the opposite wall, providing plenty of space for dual sinks and the huge mirror that almost filled the wall. Hidden cabinetry kept the area tidy, while the brushed steel fixtures contrasted the cool white and grays of the rest of the space in a way that underscored the room’s elegance.

Stunning and efficient, just as he’d wanted. Functional. Inspirational. His.

The room sat like a microcosm of his business.

A business that some unknown asshole was now fucking with.

But he was the one who did the fucking, not the other way around, and if there was a traitor at Hardline, he would make it his mission to find that person and destroy them.

He clenched his fists, then closed his eyes, letting his head drop as he counted to ten.

Over the last two decades, he’d fulfilled every dream he’d spun during those long years when he’d lived out of a backpack, forced to hustle for his supper.

He was only forty-seven years old, but it felt as if he’d lived a millennium. All those years. All that work.

Had it been worth it?

He pushed away the intrusive thought. Of course it had. He’d started with nothing. Didn’t he now have everything he’d ever wanted, with enough money tucked away to buy it all again, thirty times over?

Damn right he did. He had it all. Every tabloid rag in the city said so.

Except that was a lie .

He was close, no doubt. But the truth sneered at him. Whispering that he didn’t have forgiveness. Instead, he had regret. Even shame. And he didn’t have her , the one woman who’d been his touchstone for what felt like a lifetime. A woman he couldn’t have but would always crave.

But the tabloids knew nothing about any of that. They saw his life, his women, his power, and they praised him as a genius. A brilliant strategist. A player who rained pleasure upon a woman’s body while toying with her heart.

All true. And at the same time not true at all. How could it be when those reporters and gossips knew nothing about his past. Nothing about the ragged hole that marred his soul. Hell, as far as the Hollywood gossip mill knew, he was like a male Minerva, brought forth fully embodied from the sea in a giant clamshell with Hardline Entertainment borne on his shoulders.

God, he was being maudlin.

And why not?

Somebody was fucking with him.

The rage that had been on a low simmer ever since he’d realized that inescapable truth began to boil. He’d worked too hard to lose everything, but with the girl’s death, that was a very real possibility.

No.

No, no, and hell fucking no.

He’d built an entire world for himself. He wasn’t about to lose it now.

He drew in a calming breath and shifted his gaze, so that now he focused on the window, not the vista beyond. He met his reflection and silently confessed that he was no stranger to sin.

Sin and danger and pain. He knew the price for success. The body count as he’d climbed on the backs of the conquered. The corporate world was like the damn Roman Empire. Thankfully with suits instead of togas.

True, he’d made it out of the gladiator pit, but he still had to play the game. Had to fight for everything he had and cut down anyone who stood in his way. Over the years, he’d become expert at clearing a path.

Still, no matter how high he flew, those years of secret sin haunted him, and Friday night at Masque had reminded him that more and more often he felt the tug of his ghosts reaching out from their dark hiding places to grab him by the throat.

Every day, he told himself that he’d buried the mistakes of both youth and hubris. Shoved them so far down into his soul that they—and she—would never rise again.

He should have known better.

He wasn’t a believer—not really. But his mother had been. Too bad her belief hadn’t saved her, and the fact that her god had called her home before he was six years old had taught him the only thing he could truly believe in was himself.

Certainly not his father. Wasn’t he still paying for Vincent Larouche’s sins along with his own?

He closed his eyes, her image coming unbidden into his mind. The woman he should never have fallen for, much less ever met. He thought he’d gotten rid of her. Had finally, painfully, done away with the last remnant of her, then buried the guilt along with the memories.

He had, dammit. He had.

The only mistake he’d made was not anticipating her ghost.

“ Goddammit .” Without any conscious intention, he turned to face the mirror and the vain and sentimental man staring back at him. Two long strides and he had the crystal glass in hand. He turned it sideways, letting the toothbrush fall to the floor. Then he took three steps away from the mirror and hauled his arm back even as his mind screamed for him to stop. Well, fuck that.

He threw it forward with all the strength he had. It rocketed toward his reflection, then shattered the mirror, destroying his visage and sending shards of glass spilling into the sink, onto the floor, everywhere.

But he remained unscathed.

He stifled a mirthless chuckle.

Once again, he’d dodged a bullet he didn’t deserve to dodge.

The pounding at the restroom door came within seconds. “Matthew! Dammit, Matthew, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Lila,” he called. “Everything’s fine.”

The doorknob rattled. “Open the door.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to tell her to go the fuck away. He glanced at his watch. Not even six a.m. “What the hell are you doing here so early?”

“Catching up.” He heard the metallic scrape of a key going into the lock. He bit back a curse, then opened the door before she could.

Lila Blackstone crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the now-open door frame. She wore her long, blonde hair up in the style he’d once told her was his favorite. She had cheekbones that could cut glass and green eyes hidden beneath naturally long lashes. She wore a pale pink shift-style dress that he’d seen before. Sleeveless and form fitting, it hugged her hips and waist and breasts in a way that accentuated her Marilyn Monroe-esque curves.

Her makeup was, as usual, perfect. And as he had so many times before, he marveled at her skill in putting herself together so quickly in the morning, taking about a quarter of the time most other women he knew took. In the past, he’d considered that talent of hers a bonus. Today, it was irritating as hell.

With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to stave off a headache. “We’ve talked about this, Li. You’re my receptionist. Not my Personal Assistant. I only need you here during your regular working hours. And in case you’re confused, the day starts at nine. Embrace it.”

She started to speak, but he held up a hand. He saw a hint of irritation flare in her eyes, but he pressed on. “You have two choices. One, stay on my desk, take my calls, usher my appointments into my office, cash your paycheck, and remain my friend. Two, get the hell out of here. I’ll soften the blow with a hefty severance package if you choose Door Number Two. We’ve talked about this before. Hell, the only reason you’re even on my desk is because I didn’t want you out of work in a shit economy. So make your choice. I won’t discuss it again.”

She held her hands up in surrender. “Bitchy much? I come in early, and I get chewed out about a job I’m not even applying for?” She softened the words with a smile that was obviously forced.

He winced. The damn headache was still building, and he really didn’t need this right now. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep much, and I have a full day of interviews to look forward to.” He hoped that wasn’t the case. Aria Parker was on his calendar as the third appointment of the day. If she came to his office with a signed contract, that would clear his calendar.

With that bit of hope brightening his morning, he offered Lila a smile. “I apologize for snapping.”

The way her face brightened was like a time machine, taking him back to those days when they could practically read each other’s minds. “Apology accepted. I think we know each other well enough that we can drop the boss/employee routine. Especially before seven a.m.”

“True.”

“Besides,” she added, with a familiar smirk. “I know where all the bodies are buried.”

He shook his head, half-amused, half-annoyed as he pointed to the door. “Go. Call maintenance and the janitor and get this mess cleaned up. Then bring me a coffee.”

“Of course. And I’ll bring the applicant files. There are eight today. I’ve summarized the pros and cons for each. Since you insist on not letting me undertake the work, I thought the least I could do was help you hire someone competent in the job. You’ll find the analysis in the HR folder under today’s date. Or would you rather I print them?”

“Aria Parker’s the third appointment?”

“That’s correct.”

“Fine. Bring me the files for the first three applicants. I’ve already offered the job to Ms. Parker. When she accepts at her interview, you can call and cancel the rest.”

“Oh. I see.” She tapped her lower lip, something she did when annoyed. He’d seen it often in their years together. “Ms. Parker wasn’t at the top of my list. I hate to think that we have a different vision as to what you need in the way of assistance.”

He rubbed his temples, the fire going out of him. “Lila.”

She moved one step closer. “Matthew.”

He felt the tightness in his lower back. God, he was an asshole. “You know how much I rely on you. So thank you. Really. That will be all.”

She looked at him, and he remembered how he once thought the gleam in those pale green eyes was a kind of sweet mischief and joie de vivre . He knew better now. Knew himself better, too.

Most of all, he knew he was a man who had a long road of atonement ahead of him.