Focus on the outcome, her brother always said. In this case, the outcome was a chance to get named credit for working on a major feature film, one she truly believed in, and a credential for her résumé.
She sighed in defeat. She was only twenty-eight. Her dream of a family, of someone to come home to and a career she could be proud of, could stand a few months’ delay.
Although she’d probably live to regret it, this was a chance she just had to take.
“I’ll do it.”
Friday evening Dana palmed the key to Max’s Mulholland Drive house in her damp and unsteady hand, but she hesitated to slot the key into the frosted-glass-and-iron front door.
It was stupid to be nervous. She’d been to Max’s house dozens of times since he bought the place four years ago, but never while he was here. He usually sent her to pick up or drop off something while he was tied up at his office, on a set or away on location. She’d been here several times since the day two and a half weeks ago when she’d left him in France. But tonight felt different.
Should she let herself in or ring the bell? He had to know she’d arrived. Not only had he summoned her the moment his plane landed and told her to drop everything and get over here, but she’d had to stop at the end of the driveway and punch in the security code to open the electronic gates. Whenever the gates were activated a chime sounded in the house. Had he slept through the summons? Or was he working? Either way, she didn’t want to disturb him. She lifted the key.
The door opened before she could shove it in the slot and her heart tripped. Max, with a dark beard-stubbled jaw, a faded blue T-shirt and a pair of snug, worn jeans, stood barefoot in front of her. She’d never seen him dressed this casually before. He tended to dress for success at work, and he’d always demanded the same of his staff. Today’s sleepy-eyed, just-out-of-bed look made her want to drag him right back to the rumpled and possibly still-warm sheets.
Don’t go there.
She dragged her brain back from taboo terrain and studied his pale, drawn face and mussed hair. His body was probably still nine hours ahead on French time and thought it was the middle of the night. After several months in France it had taken her a few days to adjust. “Jet lag?”
“I’m fine. Come in. We have a lot to do.”
Typical male. Refusing to admit weakness and stupidly ignoring the fact that he needed rest. “I take it you didn’t sleep on the plane or nap when you got home?”
“No time. I could use a pot of coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee, Max.”
“I will tonight.”
“I’ll make it.” She instantly wanted to kick herself. Taking care of him was her past role, not her current one. If she wanted him to give her new duties, then she had to stop doing the old ones.
“Thank you.” He turned and headed back into the house, leaving a subtle trail of his cologne, Versace Eau Fraîche. She knew because she’d had to buy a bottle when he’d forgotten to pack his for a previous trip, and she loved the lemon, cedar and herb notes.
Her gaze traced the tired set of his broad shoulders. When she caught her eyes taking the old, familiar journey down his straight spine to his tight butt, which looked totally yummy in the jeans, she abruptly averted her eyes, tightened her grip on her briefcase handle and mentally shook herself.
Get over this obsession already. He’s not yours. He never will be yours. Move on.
The two-story marble foyer echoed her footsteps as she followed him toward the elevator with her gaze firmly fastened on the back of his head. The doors enclosed them into the paneled space. She focused on the numbered panel until he leaned against the wall—another testament to his exhaustion. Max never leaned on anything. He was too dynamic for slouching.
“Max, you’d think more clearly if you slept a few hours.”
“Later.”
The doors opened onto the second floor. His multilevel house clung to the side of a hill. She knew the layout from her previous visits. The kitchen, living and dining rooms were on this level. His office, the screening room and his private den occupied the third. His massive bedroom and two others sprawled across the fourth floor.
She’d had a few brief stints in his bedroom, but sadly only to pack his suitcase or retrieve a file or a forgotten PDA. She’d never even dared to sit on his king-size bed, let alone crawl between the sheets the way she did in her dreams. And she knew from being asked to pack for him in the past that he didn’t own any pajamas. Did he sleep nude or in his boxer briefs?
Not a journey her mind needed to take.
When she reached the sunlit kitchen she headed straight for the high end stainless-steel coffeepot sitting on the black-marble countertop. She’d overheard Max tell one of his brothers that he’d bought the appliance because most of the women who slept over couldn’t wake up enough to leave without their caffeine. She didn’t want to think about the parade of anorexic blondes through his life. Or his bed. They were a reminder that with her dark hair and eyes and olive skin she could never be what he desired.
“Where’s the coffee?” she asked.
“Freezer.” He sat in a chair at the glass-topped table with his back to the extraordinary view of the city, the distant ocean and the heated pool and spa below the window. Most of the rooms in his house overlooked the same spectacular vista. He dropped his head into his hands, exhaustion dragging his frame downward. The evening light streaming through the glass highlighted every tired crease in his handsome face.
She squashed the sympathy rising within her. He was the one who’d chosen not to sleep. But honestly, sometimes he reminded her of her two-year-old nephew who pushed himself harder when he started to tire rather than risk collapsing if he stopped moving. “The filters?”
He pointed to a dark wood cabinet above the machine and massaged the back of his neck. She yearned to step behind him and do that job for him, to tangle her fingers in his short dark hair and massage the warm skin of his neck. But she didn’t dare. She’d done a lot of personal stuff for him as his assistant, but nothing that personal.
Instead, she retrieved the coffee and then opened the cabinet and located the paper filters. Within moments the energizing aroma of coffee filled the air. She heard the rumble of his stomach from across the room over the gurgling pot.
“Have you eaten, Max?”
“On the plane.”
Apparently, even first-class food hadn’t sated his hunger. “Can I fix you something?”
Old habits died hard. She’d have to work on breaking them after he recovered from his trip. Better yet, she’d hand those duties over to her replacement, if personnel ever found someone who could meet Max’s exacting standards, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. That thought made her stomach twinge in an odd way. Who was she trying to fool? She’d always worry about Max.
“There should be some food in the fridge,” his deep voice rumbled without its usual resonance.
“Max, we’ve been out of the country for months. I canceled your catering service, remember?And when I left you in France, you weren’t sure when you’d be home. Since you didn’t let me know you were returning until your plane touched down today, I haven’t reinstated the caterers.”
She checked the Sub-Zero refrigerator even though she knew she’d find none of the precooked meals she used to have delivered on a biweekly basis. As expected, the unit was empty except for condiments and a few bottles of beer. Nothing edible occupied the shelves or bins. The cleaning crew would have followed her instructions to remove any perishables the day after the film team left for France.
She’d have to take care of reinstating the caterers and the maid first thing in the morning. For money,