Wicked Fortune (Wicked Nights #5)

Chapter 9

NINE

I’ve lived in Burbank for a while now, and I’ve passed the ornate gate that marks the entrance to the Hardline Entertainment complex more times than I can count. But this is the first time I’ve made the left turn from Victory Boulevard onto Hardline’s private drive.

Honestly, it’s kind of exciting. And not just because I’m coming to see Matthew Holt.

I stop at the gate, show my ID, then follow the guard’s directions to the guest parking area, getting more and more intimidated the deeper into the complex I drive. From my usual vantage point on Victory, I’d never realized how big the place is, much less how many buildings cover the acreage. I pass sound stages, workshops, actors in period costumes, a faux neighborhood, and even a pen of live pigs before I finally make the right turn into the tower’s guest parking area.

I keep Harry the Honda running while I check my make-up, then use a hint of powder to get rid of some shine … and a dab of lip gloss to add a bit.

I pat the steering wheel. “You’ll be safe here. Nobody’s repossessing you while you’re on this lot.” And since I’m about to walk through those doors with my signed contract, I’ve got the money coming in to keep the loan thugs at bay. All for the price of my soul. Or, more accurately, my innocence.

Except that I’m not innocent at all. So, hey, score one for me.

I close my eyes and take a breath, annoyed by my flighty thoughts. I’m nervous, of course, and it’s making me a spazz.

But I really can’t be a spazz in front of Holt.

For Jenny , I tell myself. Calm down and don’t screw this up.

Thus chastised, I push open the door, then grab my purse, the signed contract sticking out of the top of it.

After another deep breath, I climb out of the Pilot. I pause for a moment, my hand still resting on the door frame as I gaze at the building that rises in front of me. With twelve floors, the structure gleams in the morning sun, broadcasting success. Power. And for one heart-clenching moment, I wonder if I’m truly up to the task.

Hell, yes, I am.

At first, the words are nothing more than a mental pat on the back. But as soon as I approach the double glass doors, something occurs to me. Matthew Holt may qualify as a Master of the Universe, but like every superhero, he has a weakness. And considering the man conditioned my employment on wearing sexy undies, I’m thinking I know what that weakness is. I may not be rich, I may not be powerful, but I have something he wants.

And, sure, maybe he can get it from another woman, but I’m the one with whom he struck his naughty little deal. I’m the one with the job and the contract.

I’m the one with the lacy bra and tiny panties.

And that means I’m the one with the power.

With renewed confidence, I tug open the door and step over the threshold with my head held high. I have so got this.

I get my pass to the twelfth floor from the receptionist—a woman who probably believes the cliche that she’ll be discovered by the boss and then thrust into stardom. “Good luck with that,” I say before I head to the elevator, leaving her confused behind me.

There’s a mirror between the two elevator banks, and as I wait for my car, I do a quick once-over. I look damn good, if I do say so myself. I’ve got the conservative suit and the sexy-yet-somehow-work-appropriate heels. Everything says polished, professional, reliable. But underneath ….

I look down, my lips pressed together as I hide a smile. I should be pissed that he’s playing the perv. That he’s diving into all those obnoxious stereotypes and pulling a major Weinstein.

But I’m not.

I feel powerful this morning in a way I hadn’t anticipated. I’m going into the lair with a mission—to find out what happened to Jenny. And if Matthew Holt is attracted to me … well, I’ve watched enough psychological thrillers to know that puts me in the power position. Not him.

Bottom line? This job is exactly what I need. A way to not only make decent money, but to get in close and poke around. To play detective and try to learn what really happened to Jenny. Who hurt her. And—if she truly did kill herself—then why.

I know the answers may not be here, but I can’t think about that now. I have no other ideas, no other leads.

The elevator arrives, the doors sliding open. I step on, shoulders straight and loins girded. If I want to do right by my friend, this is where I have to start.

I press the button for the twelfth floor, and as the doors slide shut, a chill creeps up my spine.

Anticipation , I tell myself. Not nerves. Because today, nerves aren’t allowed. Today I’m cool and collected.

Today, I am seriously bad ass. Sexy. Confident. In control.

Matthew Holt doesn’t stand a chance against the likes of me, and if he has any secrets, he might as well just spill them now, because I’m going to find out everything.

When the doors open on the twelfth floor, I roll my shoulders back and walk with confidence down the sleek hallway in front of me. His office is at the end, taking up one entire side of the building. Sketches from the design of various Hardline movies hang on the walls as if highlighting a promenade of success leading straight to his office.

I pause outside the door, reminding myself I’m confident and collected. I have the skills for this job. And he’s already vetted me.

At the same time, there’s no denying the fact that—considering the offer was made at Masque and accompanied by the prerequisite of lingerie—I may not have been hired entirely for my job qualifications.

I sigh, my nerves twitching as my confidence starts to take a dive.

Stop it .

You. Have. Got. This.

I’m not sure that talking with the little voices in my head is actually evidence of confidence, but I press on anyway. Mostly, I’m nervous because I don’t know what he wants. Am I really here to be an assistant? Or am I here so he can take an up close and personal tour around the lingerie?

I stop walking for a moment to wipe my damp palms on my skirt as I remind myself that the job details don’t matter. I’m here with a mission, and I don’t intend to fail. And if that means getting up close and personal with Matthew Freaking Holt, then I need to just roll with the punches and enjoy myself. After all, the guy’s hot as sin. And after Friday night, there’s no denying that he pushes all my buttons.

Then again, naughty time with a hot guy is one thing. Naughty time with a hot, egotistical guy who probably has a god complex and who may have killed your friend is something else altogether.

Clearly, I’m not entirely sane.

I continue on until I’ve reached the end of the hall and stand facing the floor to ceiling door with M. Holt, CEO stenciled on it in crisp gold letters. And, no, I’m not intimidated at all.

I bite back a self-deprecating chuckle. I excel at lying, which is probably not something to brag about, though it’s true.

What’s also true is that I excel at lying to myself. And right now, I’m not sure if I was entirely honest with myself when I decided that taking this job was a good idea.

Yes, I want answers for Jenny. Because she deserves them, and because I want them. For me. For her. For her family and friends. But maybe swan-diving into the lion’s den wasn’t the most brilliant plan ever.

I’m about to turn around, find the ladies room, then call Bree and lay into her for not putting an end to this particular manifestation of my insanity, but of course that’s when the door opens. A burly guy in a poorly tailored suit with hair the color of sweet potatoes steps out, pausing for a second to look me up and down. He smiles, almost shyly, then says “good luck,” before continuing down the hallway.

Whoa. Another applicant? I’ve already signed the damn contract. So what the actual fuck?

“Ms. Parker?”

I jump a little, then realize that while Opie disappeared down the hall, the door had stayed open. Now the space is occupied by a curvy, elegant blonde in a sexy-but-conservative shift-style dress that reveals shapely legs that seem to go on forever.

Not intimidated. Not one little bit.

She extends her hand. “I’m Lila Blackstone. We spoke on the phone.”

“Right.” I take her hand to shake, noting that her skin is as smooth as her voice. “The scheduling call.” I glance behind me, then back at her. “How was my competition?”

She only smiles and laughs politely. I seethe as she ushers me into the reception area, which is all smooth lines and perfect polish. The efficient yet stylish reception desk. The leather sofa and matching chairs for guests. The coffee table neatly displaying today’s Hollywood Reporter and various fan magazines.

The room holds one surprise, too. Unlike the hallway, which had boasted Hardline-related art, this room is all about classic abstract art. I recognize a Rothko and a Kandinsky right away. Whoever Holt’s decorator and art consultant are, they made good choices.

“Stunning pieces, aren’t they?”

“They really are.” I offer a smile, hoping to lighten her up. “I approve of Mr. Holt’s decorator.”

I think I hear a hint of disdain as she says, “Mr. Holt is more than capable of choosing his own furniture and artwork. In fact, those two are both signed and numbered serigraphs from his personal collection.”

“Oh.” I feel duly chastised. Considering Holt’s ego, I would have expected framed memorabilia—photos of him accepting a Best Picture Oscar. Stills from his movies. Articles blaring out the box office gross. Photos of him standing arm-in-arm with the industry’s hottest stars.

But there’s none of that in this room.

Strangely, the disconnect between my expectations and his reality makes the butterflies start up in my belly. And then all the confidence I’d gathered during the trek from my car to this office grabs onto those butterfly wings and flies far, far away, leaving me alone with the nerves I’d tricked myself into ignoring.

Fuck.

I’m about to tell Lila I need a moment in the ladies’ room when I realize she’s reached the grand double-doors on the far side of the room. She turns the nob, pushes the floor-to-ceiling door open, and steps inside.

Then she looks over her shoulder at me, her expression making very clear that I should be at her side. Her lips purse as she holds the door open and says, “Ms. Parker is here.”

Flustered—and annoyed that she didn’t give me even a moment to get my bearings, I hurry across the room, then step into Holt’s private sanctuary just as he’s rising from behind his huge desk, his finger tapping the earpiece of a headset.

He’s dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the sticker price of my car, and he looks as perfect and polished as any movie star heartthrob. The truth is, just looking at him takes my breath away, and when my mind un-jumbles and I remember what I have on underneath my own suit, my mouth goes dry … and my southern hemisphere has the exact opposite reaction.

“Ariadne Parker,” he says, with a nod and a gesture to the seating area on the far side of the room. “Please have a seat. Would you care for coffee?”

“I’m fine. And I mostly go by Ari.” My mom’s a huge fan of spiders, which is how I ended up saddled with Ariadne. It’s different, even kind of cool. But I think spiders are creepy as fuck. So after years of explaining my name, I registered for college as Ari. And that’s the name that’s stuck.

“Ari, then.” He looks to Lila. “Thank you. That will be all.”

She smiles, her gaze sliding over me once more before she slips out of the office and closes the door behind her. There’s absolutely nothing odd about her expression, but I feel a chill nonetheless.

“I apologize,” Matthew says, indicating an earpiece. “But I need to address this immediately.”

“Sure,” I say, taking a seat as he turns to face the window while taking the call. Though I try to eavesdrop, his voice is low enough that I can hear nothing except a brief hint of irritation that matches the sharp line of his posture.

I want to hear more, but since I can’t, I use the delay to gather myself in this overwhelming and—frankly—intimidating space that’s so much more impressive and imposing than my imagination had conjured.

When Bree was the Starks’ nanny, she occasionally took the kids to Stark Tower to see their dad. So she’s not only been to his office in downtown LA, she’s also described it to me in all of its elegant, polished, and undoubtedly expensive glory.

I haven’t seen it myself, but I’m more than certain Holt’s office puts Damien’s to shame. This is a space that demands attention.

Yet at the same time, it seems a perfect fit for a man with Matthew’s innate command and poise. It feels like a throne room, the place from where the king wields his power.

And that, I think, is exactly what it is. What he is.

Two of the walls are entirely glass, revealing his kingdom as well as the spread of the San Fernando Valley beyond, all the way to the mountains rising near Santa Clarita. The entire room feels drenched in light, casting shadows that seem to dance across the leather furniture and Holt’s expansive desk that must be at least as large as a queen-size bed, and clearly designed to intimidate anyone not sitting in the black leather throne.

Like, for example, me.

Still, despite the glitz and glam, the room doesn’t feel ostentatious, but it does feel like power. More than that, it feels like Holt.

“He doesn’t need to know we talked.” Matthew’s voice is still low, his back still to me, but he’s moved closer to his desk, and the acoustics must be better because I can just make out his steely-edged words. “I’ll shoot him a text. I want the revised event budget in my inbox with his annotations in two hours, along with notes explaining every flagged discrepancy.”

He bends over and scribbles something on a notepad. “I’ll dig into that. Okay, see ya,” he adds, the words seeming strangely informal considering the tone of this conversation.

He taps the earpiece to end the call, and I watch his back as he rolls his shoulders, then takes off the headset and tosses it onto his desk, a shadow in his eyes. “A friend?” I ask, then immediately regret the question.

He slides his hands into his pockets and turns, his gaze landing on me with a weight that sends a shiver down my spine. “Pardon?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I just heard you say ‘see ya.’” I shrug. “I always pictured CEO offices as bastions of proper English.”

If there was a shadow before, it’s gone now. In fact, for a moment, I can see nothing in his expression, and I wonder if he’s still lost in whatever crisis he was dealing with on that call. Then he steps out from behind his desk, and the lingering tension seems to melt away, leaving a man who is completely confident and one hundred percent in control.

“Ah, the see ya maneuver.” He walks toward me, and I stand to meet him. “That’s my trademark bamboozle. I use it in the midst of every multi-million-dollar negotiation. It always throws the other side off their game.”

He flashes a crooked smile as he looks me over with a slow, practiced assessment, his gaze lingering in a way that leaves no doubt he knows exactly what I’m wearing—and precisely what it’s doing to me.

I fight the urge to cross my arms, to close myself off from the effect he’s clearly having. But I don’t. I can’t. I’m here for a reason, even if that reason feels like it’s shifting, slipping out of my control with each second under his watchful gaze.

I’m in over my head .

The thought spins through my mind even as a smile lights his face.

“No,” he says.

I blink, confused. I’m not in over my head?

“I have no trademark bamboozle,” he explains his jest, apparently seeing my confusion.

“Oh.” I grimace, feeling like an idiot.

“Perhaps I should get one.” His voice is gentle, and I realize he’s taking pity on me. And though I know my assessment might change in an instant, right then, I actually trust Matthew Holt.

For a moment, we both stand in silence. Then he says, “Ms. Parker,” in a voice that’s smooth as silk, but there’s a thread of something darker, too. Something that destroys that nascent trust even while sending a surge of heat through me.

“Um? Yes?”

“I believe that’s for me?” He nods to my purse and the document that’s poking out of it.

“Yes,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Signed?” His expression doesn’t change, but the fire in his voice is undeniable, and like Pavlov’s dog, I react, my nipples going tight as I fight the urge to squeeze my thighs together.

“Yes.”

He extends his hand, and I pull the contract free then pass it to him. He flips through it, checking every one of the pages for my initials and my full signature at the end.

Without a word, he turns his back to me, then crosses to his desk. I hear a drawer open and close, the contract disappearing inside.

I expect him to return, but instead he sits, godlike, behind that massive desk, his eyes locked on mine.

Then, with clear deliberation, he slides his gaze down, pausing at my breasts. My skirt. “You’ve met all my conditions?”

I nod, and he lifts his hand, bending his fingers in a come here gesture. I hesitate, but comply, my movements feeling unnatural as I walk forward under his unblinking gaze.

I stop when I can put my hand on the desktop. I’m close enough I can smell an intoxicating hint of his familiar cologne. Tension stretches between us, taut and undeniable. My entire body is warm, and I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat.

Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of the whisper of lace beneath my clothes, and I fear that every secret thought and every wild desire I have is now on display for him.

For one terrifying moment, I’m certain he’s going to tell me to take a step back. To unbutton my blouse. To lift my skirt just enough to confirm that I really am playing this game.

And so help me, I want to.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he taps a button on his desk. I hear the echo of a low buzz, and a moment later, Lila steps into the office.

“Please cancel the rest of the interviews. Ms. Parker will be joining us as of today.”

“Of course,” she says, then disappears with a look of quiet efficiency.

I stand taller, thinking of Opie and feeling strangely smug that I got the job instead of him. As if the fact that it was my choice to sign the contract somehow really did make me the best candidate.

A delusional thought, but I cling to it. It feels safer than the knowledge that I’m here because I’m playing a naughty game with Holt. Not to mention that I’m here because I’m also playing my own secret game of Clue , and I had to win this job in order to get in close, get info, and somehow vindicate Jenny.

Except I’m not there yet. I haven’t any idea where to start looking for clues, and in the meantime, I have to make good on Holt’s demands. So I wait, my body tingling with expectation as I stand in front of his desk. Any moment, he’s going to demand that I unbutton my blouse or inch up my skirt. Hell, maybe he wants me to crawl over his desk, sex kitten style.

I don’t know.

All I do know is something’s coming. He’ll want proof of my compliance. More than that, he’ll want to take what he bargained for.

But he says nothing. Not one single word.

For what feels like an eon, he simply holds my gaze, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if we’re playing a strange game of chicken. And with every beat of my heart, I feel my nipples hard against the lace of the bra and my core tighten with a familiar need. I make no sound, though. I don’t squirm, I don’t lick my lips.

There is no way I’m giving the bastard that satisfaction. I’m here for Jenny. And if sex games are the price, well, then game fucking on.

Finally, he leans back, the chair creaking just slightly as he says, his voice low, “Shall we get down to business?”

“All right.” It’s a simple response, but even I can hear my eagerness. An eagerness that fades with a surge of furious disappointment when he gestures for me to sit in the guest chair I’m standing beside, saying, “I have a number of documents I need you to review and sort.”

I meet his eyes, certain he can see both my need and my anger. But I take a seat, my eyes never leaving his. “Sounds good,” I say, and in that moment, I hate him with the wildest of furies.

But, dammit, I hate myself more.