The Curvy Voice Coach and the Billionaire Actor (He Wanted Me Pregnant!) (5 page)

I drew in my breath.

The mansion looked bigger than the White House, with pillars and huge front doors through which golden light spilled down the steps. It had three floors and more windows than I could count. Everything was smooth white stone and gray slate tile, surrounded by manicured gardens the size of a small country. Even the huge stretch limo felt tiny as it crawled up the sweeping driveway.
What the hell am I doing here?
I wondered.
This isn’t my world!

There was a silhouette in the doorway. A very big, broad-shouldered silhouette.

The limo driver wanted to carry my bag in for me, but I insisted on taking it myself. Looking up at Tanner as I climbed the steps, I could feel the strength draining from my legs. Part of me was sniffing and wondering what the big deal was.
He’s a client,
that part of my brain was saying.
Nothing more. Just another client.

The other part of me was back in Rome, bent over that balcony.

“Charlotte.” Again, that voice: as hot and low as the throb of an engine, stirring the coals and sending flames licking up inside me.

“Mr. Cole,” I said solemnly, nodding my head.

He ran a hand through that soft, black hair. “I’m going to keep trying to get you to call me Tanner.”

“You’re very welcome to, Mr. Cole,” I told him.

He laughed at that and showed me inside. The hallway could have accommodated my entire apartment, the wood floor endless and shining, like standing on an enormous tray of gleaming caramel.

“You tired?” he asked. “Or wide awake?”

I looked at him, surprised. He didn’t sound teasing. He sounded as if he actually cared. “I’m not sure,” I said truthfully. “It’s morning, to me, but it’s night. I’ve slept but”—I flushed—“I sort of didn’t.”

He nodded. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.” He started walking, but I stayed frozen in place. “What?” he asked.

“I’m staying
here?!”
I asked, horrified.

“I have about twenty bedrooms. Why wouldn’t you stay here?”

I blinked, wondering if I was being stupid. Maybe this was just the way they did things in Hollywood. “But...but it’s completely inappropriate! You’re my client!”

“We’re sharing a house, Charlotte,” he said gently. His eyes twinkled. “Not a bed.”

I reddened. “But...won’t I be...in the way?”

He looked at me blankly. “In the way of what?”

I shuffled my feet. “You know. Don’t you have...
women
coming back here all the time?”

“Women?”

“You know. Starlets. And cocktail waitresses. And lap-dancers.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, Charlotte. That’s just the papers and the gossip sites. You really believe all that stuff?”

My jaw dropped open. “But why would they—”

“I have to present a certain image. You understand?”

“Oh.” And suddenly, I did. “
Oh!”
I laughed. “Oh, God, I see. Oh, well that’s fine, then.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. That makes perfect sense, now.” For the first time since the whole thing started, I relaxed.

He was smiling, but also frowning slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yes! Absolutely! I mean, it’s common, isn’t it? Rock Hudson? Laurence Olivier? I mean, I think it’s sad that you have to stay in the closet, but it’s your choice.”

“My….” His eyes bulged. “No, I’m not
gay!”

“Oh, relax. I get it, now—you have to pretend to keep the female fans happy. Your secret’s safe with me. Hey! You must know who else is gay! Is it true about...you know.
Him?
Because I always wondered—”

“I’m not gay!”

I nodded. “Of course.” I winked at him and looked around for eavesdroppers. “You’re absolutely not gay,” I said loudly.

“No! I’m serious! I’m really not!”

I gave him a disbelieving look. “Mr. Cole, I’m absolutely fine with it. I have gay friends. Relax.” I sighed. “Honestly, I’m stupid for not seeing it sooner. All those muscles, and that ridiculous over-the-top machismo—”

“Ridiculous—”

“No one’s
that
full of testosterone.”

“Look—”

“God, I’m so much more relaxed, now. I was actually nervous before—”

He let out a sigh and grabbed me. One huge hand cupped my waist, the other slid into my hair and supported my head. He lifted me as easily as a doll, my feet kicking as they left the floor and then—

His lips were pressing down onto mine, kissing once, twice on my lips, and the hot, hard
maleness
of him was all around me. I felt my lips flowering open and then the kiss was changing, deepening, his tongue searching out mine. I let out a noise like “
MMFFFFFP!”
but it very quickly trailed off into a groan. He had me cradled in his arms, hanging almost sideways in the air, and for a second I didn’t feel enormous. I felt...delicate.

The kiss changed again, hot and hungry, now, as he devoured me as eagerly as he had at the coliseum. We started kissing with open mouths, panting and intense. Raw lust pounded through my body like a drumbeat. I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted to kiss him forever, draw every breath from his lungs. My dangling leg pressed against him—

I felt it. Hard as rock, throbbing hotly through his jeans, its shape and length easily discernible even through the fabric. My eyes flew open.

He broke the kiss and set me back down on my feet. I staggered a little, my legs like jelly. “Oh God,” I said. “You’re not gay.”

He shook his head slowly.

I touched my lips. “And we just—”

“Just so you know,” he told me.

“Right. Yes,” I said breathlessly. “Thank you, for setting me straight. I definitely know now.” I couldn’t seem to get my breath. I didn’t know whether I should be slapping him or hurling myself back into his arms.

“I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping,” he told me, and walked off down the hall.

***

My room was huge, with a walk in wardrobe that seemed as big as my bedroom back in London. I unpacked the small selection of tops and underwear I’d bought—I’d figured on being in jeans almost all of the time, since we’d be working—and they filled about one percent of the space.

Then I slumped on the bed. What had just happened? Had that really just been a way of putting me straight (no pun intended)? Or had he just used the excuse to kiss me because he damn well wanted to?

No. That was crazy. This was Tanner Cole—a very clearly straight, dripping with testosterone Tanner Cole—and he could have any woman he chose. He wasn’t going to be interested in—

I caught sight of myself in the mirror and immediately wanted to hurl a shoe at it. He wasn’t going to be interested in
me,
with my curves.

I wasn’t tired, but I knew I should try to sleep and get my body onto LA time. So I took a shower in the enormous en-suite bathroom, crawled under the covers and then lay staring up at the ceiling in a state of shocked disbelief. I was thousands of miles from home, but far, far, further from what I thought of as my comfort zone.

I should never have taken the job.

The previous morning, life had been simple and—well, maybe not actually
happy,
but I was doing okay. Now, a billionaire who I maybe sort of kind of had a thing for had seen me naked and kissed me. It must be hilarious for him, teasing the big girl. But now it was going to be even harder to look him in the eye. It would have been simpler if I wasn’t crushing on him something chronic but, however much of a jerk the real-life Tanner was, the movie version was still absurdly sexy.

The real life version felt pretty sexy, too,
I had to admit.
When he lifted me up and—

I groaned and put the pillow over my head. This week was going to be unbearable.

Chapter 3

My body clock finally recognized that it was time to sleep. I smiled and pulled a pillow to my chest and cuddled up to it.

Five minutes later, the alarm on my phone went off. I lay there for a while, cursing, and then stumbled to the shower.

Downstairs, I found Tanner already at the breakfast table, eating a huge breakfast and looking irritatingly magnificent in shorts and a bright red polo shirt. Sunlight streamed through the window—a full-on, Californian end-of-summer day, very different to the one I’d left behind in London. He was reading some Hollywood gossip rag, but tossed it aside when he saw me. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I looked around. The kitchen, like everything else in the place, was massive, all granite countertops and stainless steel.

“There’s normally a chef—Edgar,” said Tanner. “But I figured I’d cook this week. We’re gonna be busy. And I can live without three course meals if you can.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Edgar gets kind of annoyed if you say, ‘I just want a quick snack.’”

I nodded. He seemed oddly...human. And was he really suggesting that he do the cooking himself? What kind of billionaire was he?

“I can do something for you now,” he offered. “Eggs, over-easy, off the skillet?”

“Eggs what? Off the what?”

He smirked. “Sausage and biscuit?”

“Biscuits? You eat biscuits for breakfast?”

His eyes were doing that twinkly thing again. “Grits?”

“Now you’re just making things up. That’s very kind of you, Mr. Cole, but I’ll make my own breakfast, thank you.” I searched around for a toaster and eventually found one. After a few minutes, I asked, “Where’s the tea?”

“Tea?”

“Tea.
Tea.”

He looked at me blankly and then shook his head.

“You don’t drink tea? Ever?” I probably sounded more aghast than I’d meant to, but...
really?

He shook his head again, smiling now. “You’re so British,” he said in wonder.

I sighed and poured myself a coffee from the pot. One sip and I wasn’t sleepy anymore.

“Too strong?” he asked, smirking again.

“Not at all,” I croaked. “I’m just used to...you know. A gentler start to the day.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he said. “I’m not used to being gentle.”

For some reason, that brought a wave of heat to my face.

***

After breakfast—his culinary independence only extended as far as the cooking, I noticed; there must be a maid somewhere who’d clean up—we went to work in the living room. I tried not to be distracted by the huge windows looking out over the gardens and pool, or the Academy Awards in the trophy cabinet.

It’s just what you normally do,
I told myself.
You’ve done it before.
Except my normal clients weren’t so...
big.
Or strong-jawed. And they certainly didn’t have eyes that did that twinkly thing.

He showed me a synopsis of the movie he’d be shooting, together with a few paragraphs about his character. “Okay,” I said. “So we’re looking at a home counties, upper-class, Victorian accent.”

“Home counties?” he asked.

I tried not to smirk. This was my
eggs, over easy.
“The posh areas around London,” I translated. “Let me hear you say, ‘The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.’”

“The—what?”

“I’m analyzing your vowels.”

He did that thing I’d seen him do in the movies, where he dipped his head and looked up at me almost through his eyebrows, and something hot and needy tightened, deep inside me. I gulped.

“The rain,” he drawled, staring right into my eyes, “in Spain, falls mainly on the plain.”

I swallowed.

“Well?” he asked. “How are my vowels?”

I cleared my throat. “We have a lot of work to do.”

***

Tanner was a surprisingly quick study, once he stopped joking around and got down to it. He understood what he had to do and had no problem following my instructions. He didn’t seem anywhere near as arrogant as I’d imagined a famous actor—especially a billionaire0—would be. Even the minor TV actors I worked with back in London were harder to work with. What did that mean? Was Tanner like this with everyone and the stories were just stories? That seemed like the only explanation, because the alternative—that he was making an effort for me…that made no sense at all.

It was still going to take time, though. However hard he tried, he couldn’t change his voice in a morning. It takes time to unlearn things. It takes time to delve down deep enough into the wiring in your head to really start reshaping things.

And there was another problem, aside from his voice. He was too…unrefined. Not just his voice but the way that he moved, the way he used his hands. He was like a bull or a bear when he needed to be a cat. It was perfect for playing a blue collar action hero, but for an English lord it wasn’t going to cut it. I didn’t say anything, of course. My job was his voice, nothing more. So I held my tongue.