The Secret to Seduction E-Book

Ember Casey

• Herausgeber: Ember Casey
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

I'm screwed.

If I want to keep my dream job, my new (and way-too-attractive-for-his-own-good) boss says I have to score an interview with one of the legendary Fontaine brothers of Hollywood.

I know three things about the Fontaine brothers:
1) that they're Hollywood royalty
2) that all four of them are ridiculously, mind-numbingly sexy
and
3) that they never, ever give interviews.

My only chance is to seduce one of them. The only problem? Historically speaking, I'm way more likely to put my foot in my mouth (or generally make a fool of myself) than charm the pants off anyone.

That's where my way-too-sexy boss comes in. He might hold the fate of my job in his hands, but he's also totally willing to teach me the art of seduction. I only hope I can survive his lessons...
 

Leseprobe

Contents

The Secret to Seduction

Copyright

Books By Ember

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

Special Excerpt

Books By Ember

About the Author

The Secret to Seduction

THE FONTAINES

EMBER CASEY

Copyright ©2015 Ember Casey

All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Images used under license from Depositphotos Inc.

Top photo: © valuavitaly

Bottom photo: © lunamarina

You can contact Ember at [email protected].

Website: http://embercasey.com.

BOOKS BY EMBER CASEY

THE FONTAINES

The Secret to Seduction

The Sweet Taste of Sin

The Lies Between the Lines

The Mystery of You

The Thrill of Temptation

THE CUNNINGHAM FAMILY

His Wicked Games

Truth or Dare

Sweet Victory

Her Wicked Heart

Take You Away

Lost and Found

Completely (short story)

Their Wicked Wedding

A Cunningham Christmas

Their Wicked Forever

ROYAL HEARTBREAKERS

Royal HeartbreakerRoyal Mistake

Royal Arrangement

Royal Disaster

Royal Escape

THE DEVIL’S SET

Jackson

STANDALONE NOVELS

The Billionaire Escape Plan

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(embercasey.com/newsletter/)

1

EIGHT DAYS UNTIL CERTAIN HUMILIATION

“Scotch and soda, please.”

The deep voice catches my attention immediately. I look up from my gin and tonic and sneak a peek at the man who just sat down beside me at the bar. He’s a little older than me—maybe early thirties—and he has dark blond hair and a sexy spread of stubble across his jaw. As my eyes travel lower, I notice a little bit of a gut beneath his button-down shirt, but I tell myself that his broad shoulders balance out his shape quite nicely.

In any case, he’s worth a shot.

I take a big gulp of my drink and turn toward him before I can chicken out.

“Scotch and soda,” I say. “Good choice.”

He looks over at me in surprise, as if he hadn’t even noticed me sitting here. His eyes flick down to my drink—which is clearly not a scotch and soda—then to my body. I can’t tell what he thinks. I’m definitely not a supermodel or anything, but I’m not completely atrocious, either. When I bought this top, my friend Amy assured me that I looked hot. But I’m not used to being “hot”—or even trying to be. Or whatever it is I’m doing right now.

“Do you like scotch, then?” he says finally.

“Actually, I’ve never had scotch,” I blurt without thinking. When I realize I’ve just undermined my whole pick-up strategy, I rush on. “I mean, I’ve had whiskey. That’s like scotch, right? Or…” Oh shit.What am I even talking about? “Or is scotch the same thing as whiskey? Or just whiskey that comes from Scotland? I know bourbon and whiskey are the same, and I like bourbon, and…” Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.

The man looks less than impressed with my babbling, but he hasn’t walked away yet, so there’s that. My introduction might have been less than stellar, but this could still be salvageable. I take a deep breath—and a drink—and then turn to the man again.

“I’m Felicia,” I say, flashing what I hope is a flirtatious smile.

The guy clears his throat. “Nice to meet you.”

Before he can say anything else, the bartender arrives with his drink. I wait until the man’s taken a couple of sips before I prompt, “And you are…?”

He pulls his glass away from his lips and gives me one more once-over, as if making a decision.

“I’m going to go sit with my friends,” he says. And with that, he slides off his stool and heads off through the crowd.

Fair enough. Maybe he came here for an evening out with the guys. My optimism lasts for about half a minute—right until I notice him sliding into an empty seat at the far end of the bar. No friends in sight. And to top it off, it only takes him about ten seconds to start chatting up the girl to his left. The bartender shoots me a look of pity as he wipes down the bar in front of me.

Ugh. It’s bad enough getting shot down, but having a witness definitely adds to the humiliation. I almost think about calling it a night and just heading home, but I can’t. I’m desperate. Desperate and more than a little tipsy. Aren’t I the catch of the day? But I can’t help it. I only have eight days—eight measly days—to get my shit together before I must declare myself Completely Pathetic. Okay, so maybe that’s a little melodramatic. But there’s more than just my dignity at stake here. My job is on the line. My dream job—as a staff writer at Celebrity Spark magazine—which I only got after years of “paying my dues” as an underpaid intern.

I take another long sip of my drink. I’ve never liked gin, but drinking it makes me feel more sophisticated. And much braver than my usual beer ever seems to. I need every bit of bravery I can get tonight.

I close my eyes as the alcohol burns its way down my throat. Eight days. I can still do this, assuming I don’t wuss out now. I just need to up my game.

Three stools down from me, I spot a guy in a navy sportcoat. He looks young—not too young, but probably fresh out of his MBA program—and he’s tapping his glass and looking around as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Briefly, his eyes meet mine, and I glance quickly away, trying to be coy. That’s how this flirting thing works, right?

I stare at my glass and count to three before shooting another glance in his direction. He’s not looking at me. He’s staring at some blond woman farther down the room. She laughs at something the man beside her says, and her perfectly-highlighted hair catches the light. She doesn’t seem to notice Mr. MBA, so after a moment his eyes begin roaming again.

This time, when his gaze lands on me, I smile. Only for a second, but long enough that I hope he gets the hint. I was too forward with the first guy. This time, I’m going to let Mr. MBA come to me.

I look back at the bar and take another drink. God, I hate gin. It tastes like I’m sipping the blood of a Christmas tree. When Mr. MBA gets over here, maybe I’ll ask him to order me my usual lager.

But a full minute passes, and no one appears at my shoulder. I glance down the bar again. Mr. MBA is still drumming his fingers against his glass, and now he seems to be studying the rows of bottles behind the bar.

Maybe he’s waiting for someone, I tell myself. A friend. Or a woman.

Or maybe my smile wasn’t clear enough. One of those articles on flirting I read this afternoon mentioned that the “rules” of seduction have changed so much in the past two decades that modern men aren’t likely to approach a woman unless they have some overt encouragement. Maybe I haven’t been obvious enough.

I try to watch him without being completely creepy. I just need him to look my way again. One look. One more smile from me. Easy peasy.

But as the minutes tick by and he doesn’t even turn his head my way, I’m forced to consider that I might need to find another target. If he were the least bit interested, he’d at least glance my direction, right? I take another drink, and in my frustration it turns out to be a bigger one than I intended. I cough, nearly choking as my throat burns with the fire of a thousand angry fir trees, and somehow my hacking gets Mr. MBA’s attention. He looks over, and I wipe the tears away from my eyes and fight back my coughs, trying to look sexy again. This is my chance, and I won’t blow it. As soon as I have everything under control, I shoot him another smile. A big one this time. My eyes lock on his, hopefully making my intentions more than clear.

My throat still burns. Another cough tries to weasel its way out of my lungs, but I swallow it back. Mr. MBA hasn’t looked away, so I keep smiling at him, even though it feels like he should have gotten the hint by now. He can’t have any doubts that I’m interested in meeting him. So why is he still in his chair?

Maybe I should go over there. Maybe he still wants me to make the first move, I tell myself. But the other part of my brain is quick to talk me out of it. I’ve already made the first move. I’m smiling at him, aren’t I? If he’s interested in pursuing more, then he will.

Hopefully before my cheeks start to hurt.

But just when I think he’s about to slip off of his stool, I’m suddenly aware of someone behind me.

“You’re going to scare him off if you keep grimacing at him like that,” says a deep, familiar voice in my ear.

I drop my glass. It hits the bar and tumbles over, spilling gin everywhere—including down the front of my shirt.

I jump up and spin around, but I don’t have to look to know who sneaked up behind me. It’s none other than Roman Everet, my boss and the whole reason I’m doing all of this in the first place.

He’s not supposed to be here, in this bar. Sure, we’re only two blocks away from the Celebrity Spark offices, but this place is about as hole-in-the-wall as bars come on this side of town. And Roman Everet is not a hole-in-the-wall kind of guy. He’s a designer-suits kind of guy. A Ferrari-and-mansion-in-the-Hills guy. Which means he should be somewhere swanky rubbing elbows with other Hollywood bigwigs.

But he’s here. And I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he’s seen more than enough to convince him I’m screwed. So I do what any self-possessed twenty-seven-year-old does when she realizes every last shred of her pride is on the floor.

I let out a squeak and run to the bathroom as fast as my discount-rack stilettos will take me.

And now, as I’m locking myself in a stall and trying not to hyperventilate, I guess I should probably explain what of all this is about.

2

AN EXPLANATION

I’m not normally a spaz, I promise. And I’m not normally the sort of girl who makes a fool out of herself trying to pick up guys at the local bar. Usually, I’m just Felicia Liddle, an all-around normal sort of person.

Except that I write for Celebrity Spark, one of the country’s premier celebrity news publications. Working there has been my goal from the moment I graduated from college—where I doubled up in Journalism and Psychology—and my dream ever since I was old enough to read the tabloid covers at the supermarket.

Yeah, I’m that girl you’ve seen buying an armload of celeb magazines and frozen dinners at the checkout counter. And no, I’m not ashamed of it. I make no secret of the fact that I’m fascinated by celebrity culture (and fascinated by our culture’s fascination with celebrity culture) even if it’s not exactly something most people go around bragging about. But I worked my ass off to land this job. It took me five years of busting my butt at internship after internship (a.k.a. ferrying my weight in coffee to editors and making so many copies I’m probably personally responsible for the destruction of a couple of forests) but finally my hard work paid off. Six months ago, I was offered a position as a staff writer and junior editor for Celebrity Spark magazine. It was everything I’d ever dreamed.

And then, last week, everything came tumbling down. The sale of Celebrity Spark and its subsidiaries was finalized, and they started cutting jobs left and right. Even the Editor-in-Chief is on his way out, and in the meantime, Roman Everet, the CEO of the company that now owns us, has set himself up in the Celebrity Spark conference room to oversee the magazine’s transition. Apparently he’s the “hands on” type of mogul and likes to handle these things himself. In other words, he’s a complete control freak.

I still remember the first time Roman Everet walked into the office. I’d heard his name a hundred times before—after all, it’s my job to know all of the big names in entertainment, and his company has been hailed as one of the fastest-growing in the business—but I’d never seen the media mogul’s face. People in my job see thousands of pictures of actors, musicians, heirs and heiresses, but we aren’t typically clicking through photos of the people working “behind the scenes” in this town.

But naturally, I had a certain image in my head of Roman Everet: middle-aged, silver-haired, slightly wrinkled from a life spent beneath the California sun—you know, just your typical CEO of a media company. Instead, the man who walked into the Celebrity Spark offices could have easily held a place among the inhumanly attractive celebrities that grace the covers of our magazine. For one thing, he was much younger than I expected. Mid-thirties, tops. His hair was the rich brown of milk chocolate, and his broad shoulders rivaled those of all of the athletes in this month’s “Quarterbacks & Supermodels” roundup. He was, in short, most definitely drool worthy.

But then he started firing writers and editors left and right, and the glow wore off pretty quickly.

And the worst part of all? The day he showed up, I’d just bagged the biggest interview of my career so far. I’d been on top of the world, imagining how I’d catapult the feature into a better position at the magazine. But that sort of excitement dies pretty quickly when you suspect you’re about to be sacked. Because even though I’d managed to get an exclusive interview with Emilia Torres—yes, that Emilia Torres, the star of the upcoming Cataclysm: Earth and the on-again, off-again girlfriend of megastar Luca Fontaine—I was still the magazine’s most recent hire. And in spite of my years of interning, I knew I didn’t have nearly the number of “sources” as some of the other writers at the magazine. The Emilia thing was just luck. A fluke. My landlady’s brother’s boyfriend is friends with Emilia’s driver. I’m not an idiot. I know I can’t build a career on miraculous connections like that.

But fluke or not, I’d gotten something. Something big. Something that could be used as leverage. At least that’s what I told myself when I was called to the conference room for my inevitable meeting with Roman Everet.

He didn’t look up when I entered. His head was bent over a tablet, his mouth a hard line as he scrolled through the document on the screen. There was a laptop to his left, two cell phones on his right, and various files stacked across the table. A large coffee and an untouched bagel sat by his elbow. I’d seen one of his assistants—of which there were at least four, by my count—bring those to him that morning. He seemed to keep them endlessly running around on errands. I was only in the room for a couple of seconds before one of the phones buzzed, but he took one look at the screen and then ignored the call in favor of whatever he was reading on his tablet. He still didn’t bother to glance at me at all.

His distraction meant I had a moment to study him from the door, to ogle him without being noticed. He was perfectly groomed—not a hair out of place, not a speck of lint on his suit, not even the whisper of stubble on his clean-shaven cheeks. The last part made it all the easier to notice the strong cut of his jaw, as well as the slight indentation on his chin—which wasn’t quite a dimple, and was a little off center, but somehow all the sexier for it—and I found myself suppressing a sigh. Shame I was about to get sacked. I wouldn’t have minded having a little longer to stare at this guy, heartless bastard though he was.

“Sit down,” he said finally without bothering to look up. His round baritone of a voice was as sexy as the rest of him, even if he did sound completely disinterested in speaking with me. “Felicia Liddle, is it?”

“Yes.” I settled myself in the seat across the table from him and tried not to fidget. I knew where this was going.

“As you know,” he said, still focused on the device in front of him, “I’ve decided to make some changes around here.”

“Yes, Mr. Everet,” I replied.

“It’s purely a business decision,” he said, as if he’d recited this little spiel a hundred times before—which, frankly, he probably had. “It’s time Celebrity Spark fully embraced the digital age. It’s a miracle the magazine has sustained the sales it has for as long as it has. But that won’t always be the case. We’ll continue to publish the magazine for as long as it remains profitable to do so, but our focus will shift to the Celebrity Spark website and our other digital outlets.” For the first time since I entered the room, he looked up at me. His eyes were a strange shade of hazel—almost green—and I probably would have found them intriguing if I hadn’t felt like I was about to throw up. In that moment, the lack of emotion in their depths only made everything worse. By his own admission, this was merely another “business decision” for him.

“As you can imagine,” he continued in his matter-of-fact tone, “these changes require some restructuring here. There’s no reason we need to keep a fully-staffed office, not when most of these jobs can be done from anywhere and most communications done via email. Subsequently, we’ll be downsizing significantly. I’ve looked through your work, and you’re a talented writer, but—”

“I got an interview with Emilia Torres,” I blurted.

It was a stupid thing to say. Of course he knew about that already. But I was watching my dream job slip away from me, and I was desperate to save myself.

Roman Everet sat back in his chair, his hazel eyes assessing. “I’m aware of that. I’ve seen your notes. It looks like a good interview, as far as these things go.”

He didn’t have to finish. “But you’re still firing me.”

“Laying someone off and firing them are not the same thing.”

“It still means I’m losing my job.”

One of his phones buzzed, and he looked away from me and down at the screen.

“I’ll be happy to furnish a letter of recommendation for you,” he said, as he scrolled through whatever message had just arrived in his inbox. “Even put in a couple of calls, if you’d like. The interview with Emilia is a nice addition to your portfolio. I’m sure another magazine will be thrilled to find someone with such connections.”

“But this magazine isn’t?” My tone was more accusatory than I intended. But I was scared and angry enough that I didn’t even think about the fact that I’d just barked at the man who held the fate of my career in his hands.

Until I saw his expression, that is. Then I was suddenly very aware of how I’d spoken to him. He stared at me, though I couldn’t tell whether the way he slightly narrowed his eyes meant he was intrigued or merely shocked that I, a lowly staff writer, dared to address him that way. Mr. Sexy Mogul was probably used to people like me groveling at his feet. I held my breath, expecting him to throw me out without another word.

When he finally spoke, though, his voice was as calm as it had been a moment before. And there was a spark of something in his eyes that looked almost like humor.

“Emilia Torres might be a popular actress,” he said, “but frankly, this magazine can do better.”

I’m pretty sure I gaped at him. “Better?” I couldn’t believe it. Emilia Torres is all anyone is talking about now. Her latest film, Cataclysm: Earth,has a larger budget than any movie in Hollywood’s history—and costars Luca Fontaine, her former/ongoing/future flame and the highest-paid action star in the biz. The two have been fixtures in the tabloids for months—whether they’re “on,” whether they’re “off,” whether Emilia was spotted with a potential baby bump, whether Luca was seen with a mysterious brunette on his arm… it doesn’t matter. The public eats it up. The issues fly off the racks.

“Tell me,” Roman Everet said, spreading his hands, “when was the last time you saw Emilia on the cover of a celebrity news magazine?”

That had to be a trick question.

“Last week,” I told him. “And the week before that. And every week this summer. Because her face sells magazines.”

“No, her face does not sell magazines.” His gaze was intense now, as if we’d entered some sort of interrogation. “Tell me, when was the first time you saw her face on a magazine?”

That was an even more perplexing question.

“I—I don’t know,” I said, uncertain. “A year ago? When she was cast in Cataclysm: Earth?”

“And is that cover-making news around here? When a B-list actress is cast in an A-list movie?”

“I wouldn’t consider her a B-list actress,” I countered.

He raised his eyebrow. “Not anymore. But she was most definitely B-list back then. Possibly C-list, depending on who you ask. But when did that change? I’ll give you a hint—it wasn’t when she was cast.”

The way his eyes bored into me made me want to shrink back into my chair. But I wasn’t about to let him beat me. Not when he was taking away my job. I straightened my shoulders. If I was going down, then I was going to do so with a fight. And I was not about to let him convince me that I didn’t know what I was talking about.

“She became A-list news when she started dating Luca Fontaine, her A-list costar,” I said. “She strengthened her position on the list when she and Luca broke up. And she cemented it when they got back together again.”

He nodded, though his gaze didn’t lessen in intensity. “Very good. You see my point then.”

Frankly, I did not see his point at all, and my silence must have told him as much.

“Emilia isn’t news on her own,” he said slowly, as if explaining things to a child.

Ah.

“She’s news because of Luca Fontaine,” I said. Not only is Luca a huge star, but he’s a Fontaine, and that name carries a lot of weight in Hollywood.

Another nod. “And how many times has Luca Fontaine given an interview in the past, oh, six months?”

I had to think about that. Because of my job, I make an effort to skim through every celebrity news magazine each week and to keep up with all of the biggest gossip blogs. But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember anyone posting anything more than an occasional sound bite from Luca himself.

Apparently Mr. Everet could see the wheels turning in my brain, because slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up in the semblance of a smile, though his eyes remained as sharply appraising as they’d been the entire conversation.

“Emilia has been quite eager to speak with the press every step of the way,” he said. “When she and Luca are together, she goes out of her way to talk about how much she loves him, to gush about the way he treats her, to make the whole world believe they’re the perfect couple. When they break up, she’s just as eager to discuss the drama. I’m sure that’s what you discovered during your chat with her?”

He was right, of course. When I asked her about rumors that she and Luca had broken up again, she claimed that she wanted to keep the details of her love life private—but she threw out so many not-so-subtle hints about the matter that anyone with half a brain could have pieced together the story. She even warned me to watch out if I ever met him in person—apparently, Luca has a “weakness for dark-haired women.” The whole thing is perfectly calculated, of course. I’m not that naive, and I’ve been studying this industry my entire life. I’m not sure how much of Emilia and Luca’s relationship is real and how much is manufactured to keep the attention of the press and public on their movie. And honestly, it doesn’t matter. It’s all part of the game, and real or fabricated, it still sells magazines and gets tens of thousands of website clicks.

That wasn’t Roman Everet’s point, though.

“I’m sure Emilia was eager to take the active role in this whole performance,” he said. “It’s simpler if only one of them is talking to the press, and Luca has a reputation for avoiding interviews. But by now everyone’s heard Emilia’s side of the story. I could probably write the answers to her next interview myself.”

His condescension was starting to get to me again.

“Predictable or not, those answers still sell magazines,” I reminded him. “I don’t care if we’ve heard them a hundred times before. People still want to read them.”

He looked almost amused by the fact that I’d dared to challenge him. Suddenly he stood up.

“My point isn’t that they don’t get sales or clicks right now,” he replied simply, moving slowly but deliberately around the table. “It’s that sometime in the near future they will get stale, and people will be tired of hearing Emilia talk about Luca. And we shouldn’t wait until that point to seek out a bigger story. We should be working on that today.We don’t want to follow the trends or the sales or the clicks. We want to make them.”

His words were like a punch right to my gut. If that was what he was looking for, then no amount of arguing my case was going to save my job. I’d thought I’d hit the big time by snagging that Emilia interview. He was talking about something in another stratosphere.

“You understand, then?” he said, moving toward the door.

Yes, unfortunately, and even his sexy chiseled jaw and broad shoulders didn’t keep me from wanting to kick him.

I knew that was my cue to get up. To go back to my desk and pack up my things and leave the office for the last time ever. To revamp my resume and start chasing that next dream job. Mr. Everet’s hand was already on the door handle, his body half-turned toward mine, ready to usher me out. But the anger and desperation were still alive inside of me. And instead of moving, I heard myself say, “What if I can get that bigger story?”

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, and his hand froze on the door. After a second, that amusement that had been teasing at his lips spread into something deeper.

“What exactly are you proposing?” he said, and it was clear by his tone he was only asking me for his own entertainment.

I wasn’t sure. Honestly, I think I was hallucinating a little. So I said the first logical thing that popped into my mind.

“An interview with Luca Fontaine,” I told him.

Now he gave me a true smile—but the sort of smile a cat gives its prey when it decides to play with it for a little while before devouring it whole. The kind of wicked smile that probably got him between his fair share of women’s legs—it would certainly have done all sorts of twisted things to my insides under different circumstances.

“That would be a feat, considering his general attitude toward interviews,” he said, walking over to the table and leaning against the chair next to mine. “How exactly do you plan to do it? I’m assuming he hasn’t already consented?”

God, I hadn’t realized how tall he was until he was towering over me. Between that and those eyes, my voice wanted to die in my throat. Besides—this was where my plan got sticky. But Roman Everet was asking me questions, which meant he was at least entertaining the idea of letting me try. I just needed to give him a reasonable answer and then I could work on the real plan later.

Unfortunately, no answer—reasonable or otherwise—was popping into my brain. It was hard enough to get Emilia to agree to an interview with me, as unimportant as I am, and as Mr. Everet so kindly pointed out, she was usually eager to talk to the press. But as the silence stretched on and I saw the amusement in Roman’s eyes start to fade, I knew I was losing him. I needed to say something—anything—to keep his attention.

“He has a weakness for dark-haired women,” I blurted.

He sat up slightly. “Excuse me?”

“Luca Fontaine. He has a weakness for dark-haired women,” I said quickly. “Emilia said so in her interview.”

My answer must have intrigued him, because he was leaning slightly toward me. “And how does that matter?”

“I—well, I’m a dark-haired woman,” I said. Though admittedly, having to point that out to him didn’t say much for the potential effectiveness of my plan.

Nor did the way Mr. Everet immediately burst into laughter.

My cheeks went hot, and I considered bolting from the room. But something kept me glued to my chair. After a moment, he calmed himself again, but now humor pervaded his entire person.

“So you’re planning to seduce him into an interview, then?” he said.

When he said it out loud like that, it sounded ridiculous. But I was still here, still holding onto my job by a thread, and I wasn’t about to let go.

“Why not?” I said. “Women can seduce men into doing all sorts of things. And it’s not like I’m trying to get him to give up national security secrets or something.” The more I spoke, though, the more I realized exactly how absurd all of this sounded. As I mentioned before, I’m not a troll, but I’m also not exactly movie-star gorgeous, either. I like my smile. And sometimes people will compliment me on my thick hair (a gift from my Greek heritage on my mom’s side). I’m that girl who glides through life without most people noticing her one way or the other. I don’t get catcalled walking down the street—especially not here in good ol’ L.A., where I don’t exactly fit the “look”—but it’s not like I have people making snide comments about my appearance behind my back. I’m just… average. Just me.

Which was fine, at least until I told Roman Everet that I was going to seduce one of Hollywood’s hottest bad boys.

The CEO looked like he was on the verge of laughing again. But he hadn’t sent me from the room yet, and I took that as a good sign. Instead, he was now looking me up and down. His gaze moved slowly across my body—from the top of my head, to my breasts, then down my legs to where my feet were tucked beneath my chair—and I suddenly wished I’d chosen something a little more flattering to wear to work that day. Things were usually pretty casual around the Celebrity Spark offices, so most of the time I just threw my hair up in a ponytail and tossed on a button-down shirt and black pants. Not exactly the “honeypot” look. His expression revealed nothing about his opinion of what he saw.

“It’s an… admirable plan,” he said finally. His eyes met mine again, and I felt my flush deepen. It was one thing to meet his gaze when I thought he was just firing me. It was another after he’d just evaluated whether or not I was attractive enough to seduce Luca Fontaine. Someone with Roman Everet’s looks and money certainly has his pick of women—and he’s not even a famous actor. I knew I probably didn’t even live up to his standards, let alone Luca’s.

“Let’s say you do have the… ability to convince Luca to give you a private interview,” he continued. “How exactly do you intend to get close enough to do so in the first place? The Cataclysm: Earth set is closed to the press. And most members of the Fontaine family are quite adept at avoiding reporters when it suits them to do so.”

The fact that he hadn’t completely thrown out the idea shocked me. But now I suddenly had another impossible question to answer. My mind fumbled for a response.

And then it hit me.

“The Hollywood Saves! event next weekend,” I said. “Many of the Fontaines show up every year.” There would be a red carpet before the event, and my Celebrity Spark press badge could get me in. It wasn’t an event someone in my position would normally attend—celebrities rarely haul out the drama and scandals at charity functions—but it would give me a good chance to get close to Luca Fontaine. I was pretty proud of myself for remembering it.

He seemed impressed by my answer as well.

“I can see you’ve thought this through,” he said.

We both knew I hadn’t, but I’d made my case. Either Roman Everet bought it or he didn’t.

And for a long moment, he said nothing. He continued to look down at me, and I fixed my eyes on the bridge of his nose, trying to appear confident without actually meeting his unsettling gaze—or without getting distracted by that sexy little non-dimple on his chin. I needed to be steady, firm. He needed to see that I was serious about this.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said finally. “I like your creativity, so I’m willing to give you a shot.”

I couldn’t believe it. My desperate plea had worked. “You are?”

“It’s a probationary period, of course,” he continued. “I have a strict budget to adhere to, and I can’t just keep an employee on a whim. You have until the day of the event, no longer. If you fail, you’ll need to start looking for new employment. If you succeed, you can stay, though your longterm fate here will be left to the discretion of the new Editor-in-Chief. I should have one in place by then.”

I nodded, still in disbelief that he was letting me go through with this. “I understand.”

“I’ll even give you a little freedom,” he said. “Secure an interview for Celebrity Spark with any of the Fontaines and I’ll say you’ve proved yourself good enough to stay. Does that sound fair?”

I continued to bob my head. “Yes. Yes, that’s fair.” And then, “Any of the Fontaines?”

“I know you’re smarter than that. I mean the Fontaines of a certain…”—he waved his hand—“level, shall we say. A-list only. Second cousins and uncles and all that don’t count.” His eyes fixed on me. “If the average person on the street couldn’t tell you which one it is, then you’re on the wrong track.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Then that’s settled.” He indicated the door. “We’re done.”

I wasn’t about to wait around to see if he changed his mind. I got up, thrilled beyond belief that I’d somehow miraculously been able to keep my job, and tried to ignore the way my skin prickled at the feeling of his gaze on my back.

It wasn’t until about ten minutes later, when the glorious shine of my victory wore off, that I realized the Hollywood Saves! event was a mere ten days away. And that I was insanely, ridiculously, royally screwed.

3

EIGHT DAYS LEFT (AGAIN)

Okay, so that brings us back to me dry-heaving in the bathroom of a dumpy bar.

In the two days since my meeting with Mr. Everet, I’ve racked my brain for ideas of how I’m going to pull this off. And honestly? Against all odds, I’ve come to the conclusion that my best chance of getting an interview with Luca or any of the Fontaines will be to go with my original spur-of-the-moment (incredibly insane) plan to somehow charm my way in. I have nothing else to offer them—nothing they need, anyway. When you’re Hollywood royalty, you’re pretty much set in terms of money, fame, and connections. And the Fontaines are more than just royalty—they’re a multi-generational dynasty. If you can name a position in the film industry, a Fontaine has been there. And won all the awards. And probably caused a lot of trouble—and broken a few hearts—along the way.

In other words, they are the wet dream of every celebrity news outlet in existence. Except you don’t become as big as the Fontaines without learning a few tricks about how to manage the press to your advantage. They’re masters of the PR game, which means it can be nearly impossible to pin them down for an interview.