Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 2: Mason (7 page)

I
’m
nervous all day about this damned dinner, barely able to focus on my work.

I leave the office at four and go home to shower, then rummage around in my closet for a while. Mason didn’t say where he’s taking me, and I would rather be dressed too upscale than not upscale enough. Besides, the last thing I want is for him to look better than me.

I spend a silly amount of time before finally deciding on a navy blue cocktail dress with lace detailing. It’s short enough to show off my legs, but with a high neckline so Stark won’t gawk at my cleavage like he did last time.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror surprises me because I’d forgotten how the dress clings to my breasts and fits snug around my waist. I’ve somehow chosen one of the sexiest things in my entire closet, pairing it with black strap heels and a small black clutch. I convince myself I’m wearing it to tease Stark, to get his hopes up about the sex he will never actually have with me, but part of me knows that I really just want to look sexy around him.

When I return to Creative Talents, though, I become concerned that the dress is
too
sexy. The few employees still here give me not-too-subtle looks as I walk to my office. What was I thinking? What is it about Mason Stark that clouds my judgment?

Anyway, it’s too late to change now, so I’m committed. As the minutes slowly tick down to seven o’clock, I start feeling butterflies in my stomach. I try to tell myself it’s because I’m seconds away from a rather unexpected dinner date with the man I’m trying my best to screw over.

Though true, that doesn’t fully explain my anxiety.

Stark is right on time and calls to ask if he should park and come up, but I tell him I’ll meet him downstairs in front of the building. I want to keep him off of my turf.

I check myself in the elevator’s mirrored walls, making sure my red lipstick is perfect and my hair spills artfully over my shoulders. His gray Mercedes is curbside when I strut out. He exits the car to open the passenger door for me, and my bravado takes a hit when I see how impeccably put together Stark is. He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit that fits him like a glove, paired with a violet spread-collar dress shirt and a lovely purple silk tie with small diagonal stripes.

I rarely describe men as breathtaking, but Stark’s look is flawless and I literally stop breathing for a few seconds when he smiles as I approach. I instinctively want to wrap him up in a big, warm hug, then remember with a jolt that he’s the enemy. No hugs tonight.

“You look stunning this evening, Miss Jarrett,” he says, holding the door open.

“As do you, Mr. Stark.” I’m aware that he’s watching my legs as I sit, my hem riding up my thighs when I raise my feet into his car.

En route to dinner we chat about industry gossip, steering clear of any talk of
Texas Flood
and Cheyenne Parris – and especially the bet. He drives me a few miles from Hollywood to a tiny restaurant called Marcel’s, a spot I assume he chose because he doesn’t want anyone to see us together.

Marcel’s is a charming little place with less than a dozen tables, and they’ve reserved one in the corner for us. I make a mental note that this would be a nice choice for a romantic date, with its old world décor and subdued lighting.

Stark holds my chair out for me, and as I sit down I catch a whiff of his cologne. I don’t recognize the scent, but damn, it’s intoxicating. As he takes his seat across from me, I wonder if it would smell that good on another man.

I’ve given myself a strict two-drink limit tonight, and the luscious Viognier wine Stark orders will certainly test me. We start off with escargot, also his choice, and they’re scrumptious. As we finish off the delectable morsels, I take advantage of the moment to satisfy my curiosity.

“So, Mason, I have to say it struck me as odd when you invited me to dinner. What nefarious purpose lies behind this meal?”

His reply is simply odd. “Actually, Drake found your texts on my phone and thought it would be funny. He’s the one who sent the invitation.” Sure, whatever you say. “But I thought it would be fun, seeing as how we’ve got this big wager between us.”

“You’re not trying to back out already, are you?” I ask snarkily.

“On the contrary. I’m already making a to-do list for your stay at Chez Stark.”

I take the bait, wanting to egg him on. “And what’s sitting at the top of that list? What’s the very first thing Mason Stark wants to do with his imaginary sex slave?”

“Do you really want to know?”

I smile and say, “Of course. I’m curious about this little fantasy of yours.”

“I was going to have you strip on my doorstep, leave your clothes there, and just remain naked for the entire week. But seeing how ridiculously sexy you look tonight, I’ve changed my mind. First thing on my list now is to take you shopping and have you try on slutty clothes for me.”

I wait, aware of the lump suddenly forming in my throat.

“Then again, maybe I’ll just have you leave your clothes at home and drive to my place already naked.”

I try not to blush, but on the inside I’m secretly excited by the idea of being ordered to do such an insane thing.

“That’s it?” I try to be nonchalant. “I expected something more deviant from you. Are there many items on this to-do list?”

Stark gives me a dirty smirk that sends a shiver through my body. Damn, he’s handsome.

“It’s a mental list,” he says. “I don’t really have anything written down on paper. But yes, there are dozens of items. Maybe hundreds.”

“How adorable! You’re actually making plans to take advantage of me, aren’t you?” I ask teasingly right as the waiter approaches.

While our plates are being removed, I look across the table to see Stark staring deeply into my eyes and confidently nodding.

When we’re alone again, he says. “I’m planning to ravage you, totally, in every way you could possibly imagine.”

This little cat-and-mouse game is fun, but by the time my entrée of boeuf bourguignon arrives, I’ve begun to realize I’m seriously attracted to this man. Sexually, at least. I also know that all this sex talk is painting me into a dangerous corner if I don’t win that bet, but I can’t seem to help it.

Maybe accepting this dinner invitation was a bad idea. I attempt to steer the conversation away from sex.

Rolling my eyes at Stark, I try to sound bored. “Let’s talk about something else now.”

He grins smugly. “What else is there to talk about? The weather?”

T
hough it started
out as Drake’s idea of a joke, this dinner is going even better than I’d hoped.

I laugh when Claire makes an abrupt attempt at changing the subject. I know I’m getting to this woman. I can feel it. Although I chose my wager as a joke, I’m now convinced it will be a once-in-a-lifetime treat to have a woman this hot at my disposal, to fuck her any way I can think of for an entire week. Her being a key business rival just makes it that much sweeter.

I lean forward in my chair. “So what would you prefer to talk about?”

“Anything except the bet. I feel guilty because you’re getting your hopes up,” she says, but it sounds forced. “What’s the biggest deal you’re working on at the moment?”

“So you’re a size queen?” I ask, teasing her by refusing to drop the topic of sex.

“Only when it comes to business,” she says with a snarky tone. “I’ll go first. Just yesterday I got Terrance Massey locked down with Paramount for the
Incubus
trilogy. Done deal – minimum fifteen million per film, with incremental raises for parts two and three based on the grosses.”

It’s a terrific deal, though I won’t tell her that. I had one of my actors up for the
Incubus
lead, but word had it Paramount was leaning toward someone else. I had no idea Terrance Massey was that person.

Now it’s my turn, and as I think about what to say to up the ante, I again glance at how her tits push against that dress. The fit of that dress alone would make me want to fuck her, even if she weren’t so goddamn beautiful.

“I’m negotiating a new shoe endorsement deal for Marcus Jennings. I’ve got Adidas up to one-seventy-five over ten years and we’re still talking.” Okay, so I’m exaggerating a little.

“I didn’t realize his contract was up,” Claire says. “I could get him a lot more than that, though.”

I give her a derisive smirk. “Sure you could.”

“I’m not joking. It wouldn’t be easy, but I could get it done,” she says. “First of all, we do way more athletes at CT than MAU does. Hell, I’ve got two full-time agents doing nothing but sports work. Secondly, I’ve got Derek Brodhurst at Nike, and his deal expires next year. If Marcus Jennings were my client, I’d convince Nike to go to two-hundred over ten just to keep relations good because they can’t afford to lose Brodhurst. He’s their prime NFL guy and they’ll bend over backwards to keep him from walking.”

All of that makes perfect sense, which annoys me immensely. I had forgotten that Claire negotiated that Brodhurst deal. Still, I have serious doubts she could get Nike up to two-hundred million for Marcus, regardless of what leverage she may have.

“Third, I’ve been friends with Chance Gainey since we were both at USC. We’ve got a great relationship. I worked with him directly on the Brodhurst deal.”

Like a lot of other agency people, I always wondered how CT had managed to get Nike to agree to the terms of that blockbuster contract for Derek Brodhurst, who was a huge college star but had yet to prove himself capable of playing at the pro level. Now it makes sense. Chance Gainey is Nike’s Executive Vice President of Global Marketing, the guy who makes the final decisions regarding those huge endorsement deals you hear so much about.

I look across the table at this stunning blonde bombshell and see a cocky expression that practically dares me to challenge her. The problem with contesting her on this is that she might just be right. I know she’s got me, and she knows I know it. It irritates me that I have nothing to come back with, so I change the subject.

“Why did you start an agency?” I ask. “What do you get out of this?”

“The same thing you get out of it.”

“Tons of pussy?”

Claire is unfazed by my comment. “I’m in this business for power and money. In that order.”

I’m quite surprised by the sudden realization that I like this woman. Not because of her beauty, but because we’re much alike, personality-wise. I never expected to get this kind of buzz from a simple conversation with her.

“I’ll tell you what, though,” she says, “there are parts of the business I hate.”

“Of course there are. Same with me. Building business alliances bores me to tears. Like the thing you’ve obviously done with Nike, and apparently with Trident as well. Having to oversee diversification into sports, online, digital media… I don’t mind the strategizing part, but I hate having to follow through on it. It’s tedious bullshit.”

“Oh my God, you are so wrong,” Claire says, leaning forward, her eyes even bigger than normal. “I
live
for that bullshit. That’s the most exciting part, sowing the seeds of partnerships that will reap huge rewards over time. The ground-level negotiations are what I despise, the poker game aspect of sitting across from a producer or studio head, bluffing to try to get your client a few extra bucks. I only do that for my biggest clients because I detest it so much.”

I’m baffled by this. I have literally the exact opposite point of view.

“Ah, but I don’t view that part as negotiating, I see it as a contest.” Now I’m animated, too, aroused by both the conversation and my dining partner. “See, I’m not there to work out an equitable solution for all involved parties, I’m there to get my way. It’s about winning, defeating the opponent. Eat or be eaten. I love the poker game. That’s the part that gets me hard.”

Claire gazes into my eyes and I feel consumed by those pools of blue.

“I get you, but I disagree,” she says, then smiles and adds, “And you’ve really got to stop talking about your penis, Mason. You wouldn’t want to get your date all worked up, would you?”

Holy shit, I like this woman.

When the waiter asks if we’d care for the house special crème brûlée, we both decline.

I already know what I want for dessert.

* * *

W
e don’t talk much
on the drive back to Claire’s office. My brain is teetering wildly between her comments about Marcus’s deal and my intense desire to fuck her brains out. It doesn’t help that her dress, already short, is riding high on her thighs in the passenger seat, and she apparently has no interest in pulling it back down.

By the time we pull up outside of her building, I’m ready to act on my desire.

“Invite me up for a drink,” I say. “I’ve never seen the CT offices.”

Claire looks into my eyes, trying to appraise me for so long that it borders on uncomfortable. I hold my ground, though, and eventually she gives in.

“Sure. Why not?”

I’m curious to see my rival’s place of business, and I’m guessing she accepted my suggestion because she’s eager to show it off. Of course I’m also wanting to get her out of that little blue dress later on, so I plan to push things a bit once we’re alone in CT’s empty offices.

We park in the garage and make our way past a security desk to the elevator. Though we’re both facing forward, I see how gorgeous she looks in the polished metal surface of the elevator doors and it reinforces my desire to have this woman now, tonight.

She only turns on some of the lights when we reach CT’s floor, then leads me around the semi-illuminated offices. We don’t spend any time in any one particular spot until we get to her office.

Unlike my own glass-encased office, Claire’s office gives her complete privacy. There’s a single large wooden door with her name on an opaque glass sign to the side. She unlocks the door and holds it open as I pass through. I consider insisting she go first, but fuck it, who cares?

She closes the door behind her, then heads to a table in the corner with several bottles of alcohol on it. “Scotch? Bourbon?”

“Bourbon,” I say.

It’s a splendid office, but not as sleek and modern as mine. As I look around, she pours a generous amount into two tumblers and presents one to me.

“To rivalries,” she says, holding her drink forward. We clink glasses and both take healthy swigs. She’s got great taste; it’s an excellent bourbon.

I walk slowly around the office while she leans back against the desk, her ass resting against the edge. On the side nearest the windows is that large polished walnut desk, with a couple of chairs, and across the office is a gorgeous deep brown leather couch and more chairs surrounding a small coffee table.

“Not too shabby,” I say, turning back towards her.

“You like?”

I let my eyes drift up her body. “Yes. Very much.”

The subdued lighting sets an unmistakably sexy mood. The bourbon warms me and I feel that warmth most in my crotch. I’m standing ten feet in front of Claire as she continues to lean against the desk, and I know this Armani suit looks as good on me as that dress looks on her. I smile at her, filthy thoughts filling my mind.

“Mason, I want to be fair,” she says. “You should know that there’s absolutely no way I will ever be your slave for a week. Don’t get too caught up in that prospect.”

How disappointing. A bet is a bet, and now she’s wavering. I frown as I look into those big eyes.

“I should have known. So you’re backing out of our deal?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Admit it, Claire, you’re chicken.”

She sets her glass on the desk and approaches me, one slow step at a time, shaking her head, her blonde waves gently swaying.

“Nope.”

“Yes, you are. You’re afraid of what I have in mind for you.”

She steps right in front of me and I watch in fascination as those plump lips move with each word.

“Trust me, Mason,” she says, slipping her hand under my tie and running her fingers slowly and sensuously over the silk. “There’s nothing you could force me to do that I haven’t already done willingly.”

I would be all over most women at this point. But Claire isn’t most women, she’s a business rival who would love nothing better than to humiliate me by making me believe something’s about to go down when it isn’t. Despite my burning desire to make it happen right now, I force myself to hold back, waiting to see if this is a trick.

Her hand slides from my tie under my jacket, moving softly across my collarbone. She tiptoes to place her mouth near my ear, her breasts inching closer until they gently touch my chest, then whispers, “I promise you I won’t back out of the bet.” My cock stiffens, spurred on by her tits resting lightly against me. “But here’s a little secret for you: Cheyenne Parris
will
get her money.”

Our eyes are locked, mere inches apart. “I have a secret of my own,” I say, letting my gaze drop from her eyes to her mouth. “Every time I look at those perfect lips of yours, I can’t wait to feel them around my cock.”

She sensuously parts them and slowly inhales.

“These lips?” she whispers.

I nod, struggling to resist. She leans forward even more, her tits pressing harder against my chest and her mouth an inch from my ear.

“And this cock?”

When I suddenly feel her palm on my pants, her fingers closing around my growing erection, I have to act. If she’s toying with me, I’m calling her bluff.

If she’s not, Claire Jarrett is about to get the hardest fucking of her life.