The Thrill of Temptation E-Book

Ember Casey

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Maggie Blankenship is a hot mess—broke, unemployed, and down on her luck. So when she’s offered the chance to fill in as an extra in a movie, she wonders if her luck is changing. At the very least, she sees it as an opportunity to inject some excitement into her oh-so-dull life, if only for a day.

She has no idea how much her life is about to change.

It turns out that the movie is being directed by Orlando Fontaine—the intense and mysterious youngest brother of the Fontaine family. Sparks (and underwear) fly between the pair of them from the start, but Orlando has a strict no-fraternizing policy on his sets.

He wants her, but he won’t touch her.

She wants him, but she can’t have him.

As the heat builds between Maggie and Orlando, only one question remains—what’s the cost of giving in to temptation?

Leseprobe

Contents

The Thrill of Temptation

Copyright

Description

Note from Ember

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Books by Ember

About the Author

The Thrill of Temptation

THE FONTAINES

Book Four

EMBER CASEY

Copyright © 2018 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 © konradbak and © f11photo, licensed through DepositPhotos.com.

You can contact Ember at [email protected].

Website: http://embercasey.com.

THE THRILL OF TEMPTATION

Maggie Blankenship is a hot mess—broke, unemployed, and down on her luck. So when she’s offered the chance to fill in as an extra in a movie, she wonders if her luck is changing. At the very least, she sees it as an opportunity to inject some excitement into her oh-so-dull life, if only for a day.

She has no idea how much her life is about to change.

It turns out that the movie is being directed by Orlando Fontaine—the intense and mysterious youngest brother of the Fontaine family. Sparks fly between the pair of them from the start, but Orlando has a strict no-fraternizing policy on his sets.

He wants her, but he won’t touch her.

She wants him, but she can’t have him.

As the heat builds between Maggie and Orlando, only one question remains—what’s the cost of giving in to temptation?

THE FONTAINES SERIES

The Secret to Seduction

The Sweet Taste of Sin

The Lies Between the Lines

The Mystery of You

The Thrill of Temptation

A Message from Ember

Orlando Fontaine was, for the longest time, something of a mystery to me. When I originally planned out the Fontaines series, I had clear pictures in my head of Dante, Luca, and Rafe—but Orlando was always a wild card, the one brother I couldn’t quite decipher. He showed up a handful of times in the other books, answering a few of the questions in my head, but it wasn’t until I sat down to write The Thrill of Temptation that I really got a chance to know him. And I have to admit, I completely fell in love with the complex, sexy, challenging man he turned out to be. He’s a man of contradictions, but I’ve never been able to resist a complicated hero. I hope you love him just as much as I do.

Maggie, on the other hand, came to me easily. I think there’s a little bit of Maggie in all of us, and I hope you enjoy her misadventures and sense of humor.

If you’re wondering about all the references to the Georgia heat, it’s because I wrote the majority of this book while sitting on the balcony of my apartment in Atlanta, sweating and sweltering through the hottest months of the year (but I have such a pretty view of the little nature preserve next door that I’m willing to endure the humidity. We writers are sometimes crazy like that.). Whether you’re enjoying this book in the summer heat or curled up next to a fire in the heart of winter, I hope Orlando and Maggie’s story warms your heart the way it did mine. And that it inspires you say “Yes!” to all the thrilling little adventures that pop up in your life.

xoxo,

Ember

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CHAPTER ONE

I hate summer.

Don’t get me wrong—I love sunshine. I love fireflies and clear, starry nights and drinking iced tea in the shade. I’m not usually a grouch, I swear. But people who believe that’s what summer is—the iced tea and fireflies and all that—haven’t experienced a real Atlanta summer. Or at least they haven’t inherited the overactive sweat glands that I did. Thank you, Blankenship genes.

You see, I’m what they call a “hot mess.” And sadly, I don’t mean that in the romanticized, glamorous way. I mean that in the haven’t-had-a-real-job-or-real-boyfriend-in-more-than-a-year way. I literally spent most of yesterday lounging on my brother’s couch in yoga pants and an old T-shirt with a popcorn butter stain on the chest, binge-watching a reality cooking competition while trying not to think about how important today’s interview is.

I adjust my blazer as I step out of the car, trying to ignore the suffocating humidity. Some days, it feels like someone has wrapped a warm, damp towel around your face the minute you step outside—and trust me, that’s the last feeling you want minutes before a big interview. I lift my elbows, trying to air out my armpits as I hurry toward the office building in front of me. Not that my sweat glands appreciate the effort. It’s like they have a checklist for all the worst times to do their thing:

First date in months? Sweat!

Chance encounter with my turd of an ex-boyfriend in the supermarket? Sweat!

An opportunity to get a real job and finally move out of my brother’s apartment? The sweatiest sweat I’ve ever sweated!

I’m dealing with a major perspiration situation right now, and it’s only going to get worse as my nerves kick in. The worst part is that I don’t even want this job. I mean, I want a job, and this one has a decent salary and benefits, but it was never exactly in my life plan to work as someone’s executive assistant. When I finished my master’s degree in visual marketing last year, I thought I’d have endless career opportunities ahead of me. The reality has been underwhelming.

Frankly, the entire past year has been underwhelming. My long-term boyfriend, Hunter, dumped me two weeks after my graduation, and my love life has been abysmal ever since. Add to that my dad’s declining health, and…well, my life pretty much sucks.

But that changes today, I tell myself as I look up at the mirrored windows on the office building. Today is the day my luck turns. Three days ago, I found myself watching some slick-haired motivational speaker on TV at two o’clock in the morning, and his words stuck in my head: If you want to turn your life around, you have to start saying “Yes!” to every opportunity that comes your way. Say “Yes!” to all the possibilities, no matter how unexpected they are!

The next day, I got the call about this interview. It felt like a sign.

I only wish that saying “Yes!” was a little more exciting. And less sweaty.

“Damn it,” I curse, looking down at my shirt as I enter the building’s lobby. I knew I shouldn’t have worn my white blouse, not today. There are some massive pit stains happening under my blazer.

I glance around, looking for the bathrooms. The lobby is surprisingly busy for mid-morning, and there’s a moderately sized crowd gathered to the side of the elevator bank. My gaze skims right past them, and I finally locate what I’m looking for—a little silver sign marking the restrooms.

I hurry across the lobby and duck inside, then dart straight to the mirror, surveying the flood damage. My blazer still covers up the worst of the sweat, but the shirt’s fabric clings to me between my breasts. Boob sweat is the worst.

I glance at my fitness tracker. I’ve still got fifteen minutes until my interview. I like to show up ten minutes early—early enough to show I’m punctual but not so early I look desperate. That gives me a few minutes to mop up.

I pull my blouse away from my skin and try to fan a little breeze down there. My blond hair has a thousand flyaways, but I don’t think it’s too noticeable. I’m just frustrated I spent so long tying it back into a smooth, professional ponytail this morning.

Once my breasts have started to cool, I reach over and grab some paper towels. I gently pat down my neck. After a moment’s hesitation, I shove my hand down my shirt and try to mop up the rest of my boob sweat, too. And the swamps that have formed under my armpits.

At least my period hasn’t started yet, I think. It’s set to show up sometime today—which is why I’m wearing a pair of huge, grungy granny panties under my pencil skirt—but it’s holding off for now. That’s one less thing to worry about during my interview.

You’re going to rock this, Maggie! I tell my reflection. You’re going to say “Yes!” to exciting new opportunities! That’s all any of us want, isn’t it? Exciting new opportunities. The chance to live a fulfilling, extraordinary life. I’m not sure a job as an executive assistant will get me there, but I know that spending another year unemployed and living with my brother certainly won’t.

Tossing the last of my used paper towels in the trash bin, I give myself one last look. The girl in the mirror appears confident and put together. The interviewer never has to know that I’m practically swimming under my clothes.

I put on my game face and spin around, ready to rock my interview, when the bathroom door swings open. And in walks an absolutely stunning man.

Everything about him is striking—the broad shoulders, the perfectly tousled hair somewhere between dirty blond and light brown, the chiseled jaw. But his most arresting feature is his eyes, which shine with intelligence and an intensity that stops me right in my tracks, even though his gaze is elsewhere.

It takes me a few seconds to realize what his sudden appearance means—that in my rush to reach a bathroom and clean up, I walked into the wrong one—but it’s too late to do anything. The man stops just short of running into me, and he blinks as if just noticing I’m here. Those intense eyes shine into me. They’re a remarkable golden brown, like dark honey, and I swallow involuntarily.

The correct thing to do here would be to mumble an apology and run from the bathroom as fast as I can in these work-appropriate heels. But I can’t seem to move, not while he’s looking at me. After a moment, he backs up a step, his gaze traveling down my body and then back up again. Satisfaction gleams in his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” he says.

It takes a moment to process his words. I’m…what? But before I can ask this handsome stranger why he thinks such a thing about me, he’s already turning around.

“Wait right here,” he tells me as he strides toward the door. “I’m getting Karen.”

I still have no idea what’s happening. And who in the blazes is Karen?

He’s only gone a handful of seconds when the door swings open again and a smartly dressed woman in her forties walks in. She has a headset in her ear and she’s typing something into her phone, but even as her fingers are still moving across the electronic keyboard, she looks up and begins studying me. She has an air of professional authority about her. Her eyes flick over me, just like the man’s did.

Finally, she gives a satisfied nod. “He’s right. You’ll do.” She gives me another visual inspection. “We might have to do something about that ponytail, but it’s nothing we can’t fix.”

“Excuse me?” I say.

She types something into her phone. “Can you follow directions?”

“I…think so,” I say, still completely confused. “Yes. But why—”

“How would you like to make a hundred dollars?” Abruptly looking up at me again, she reaches out and grabs me by the chin, tilting my head to the side. “You’ll need a little more mascara, too. And a touch of bronzer. Easy fix. Will your boss mind if we steal you for a few hours? We can put in a good word for you.”

“I don’t have a boss,” I say. “Not yet. But—”

“Even better.” She smiles. She’s very pretty, but either she doesn’t know it or doesn’t care—despite her insistence that I need a “touch of bronzer,” she doesn’t appear to have a stitch of makeup on. Her warm brown hair is tied back in a loose bun—what my mom likes to call “taking-care-of-business” hair.

She releases my chin. “A hundred bucks. Wait right here—I have to pee.” She whips away from me and into the nearest stall without waiting for me to answer.

And honestly, I’m not sure what to answer. I still have no idea who this woman is—or even if we’re in the women’s bathroom—and I have somewhere to be. It takes me a moment to recover.

“Uh, actually,” I say awkwardly, starting for the door. “I’m heading to a job interview. Thank you for the offer”—for whatever it is—“but I can’t be late.”

“Hold on!” the woman calls after me from the stall. The toilet paper dispenser squeaks. “We can go as high as a hundred and twenty for the day.”

A hundred and twenty dollars sounds like a fortune to me right now, but I’m still not sure it’s worth risking a real, full-time position. Especially since I still have no idea what that hundred and twenty dollars would be for.

But sue me, I’m curious.

“What sort of job is this, exactly?” I ask her.

Her clothes rustle. “One of our featured extras didn’t show up. We need to find a replacement. Fast.” The toilet flushes, and a second later she emerges from the stall. “So? What do you say?”

I still have no idea what she’s talking about. “A featured extra? What’s that?” And what happened to that incredibly attractive man who was just in here?

“For the movie.” She gestures toward the door before quickly washing her hands. She even does that efficiently and professionally. She must see the confusion on my face because she goes on. “You know—that hoopla going on in the lobby. We’re shooting a couple of scenes here today. A featured extra is just an extra who gets a little more screen time. We need someone to act as Mr. Walson’s assistant for a couple of scenes. No lines. You just need to know how to walk and pretend to take notes.” Her gaze gives me another sweep. “We might need to find you some higher heels, but we’ll see what Orlando says. So? Are you in?”

I still don’t know what to say. They want me to be in a movie? A real movie?

One of the names she just said suddenly sinks in. Walson? As in Omar Walson, the star of Passion Heights Hospital? I’ve had the chance to binge-watch a lot of TV in the past year, and that included six seasons of the gritty medical drama set at Passion Heights. Omar Walson is a huge part of why that show is so good.

“I’ve got to get back to set,” the woman says. “You in or out?”

I start to tell her again that I have an interview to get to, but then I remember that motivational speaker’s words: Say “Yes!” to all the possibilities, no matter how unexpected they are! This movie thing is certainly unexpected. And how often in life do you get the chance to work with Omar Walson?

The answer spills out before I have the chance to stop it. “In.” Is this stupid and reckless? Of course. But I can’t help myself. I’ve been praying for something exciting, something extraordinary, to happen in my life, and this sounds infinitely more exciting and extraordinary than a job interview. Maybe there’s a reason this opportunity fell into my lap. Maybe my luck is changing after all.

The woman nods again, her eyes back on her phone. “Good. Follow me.”

She marches out of the bathroom, and I hurry after her, still shocked by what I’ve just agreed to do.

“What’s your name?” the woman asks me, almost as an afterthought.

“Maggie,” I say, then realize she probably wants something more than that. “Margaret Blankenship. I go by Maggie, though.”

“I’m Karen,” she replies matter-of-factly. “The assistant director. Just do as I say today and we’ll be fine.”

We’re halfway across the lobby, and for the first time I take a look at the crowd I rushed past on my way in. A ring of people and cameras are pointed toward a cleared space on the far side of lobby, and at least a dozen men and women dart frantically among it all, ferrying equipment or juggling multiple drink carriers stuffed with coffee beverages.

How did I miss all that? I think in wonder. There’s even a retractable barrier set up around the crew, keeping casual bystanders outside, and a pair of bored-looking security guards stand at either end of the tape. A few people in suits and office wear linger just outside the barrier, watching the bustle with curiosity, but everyone inside the barrier ignores them. Karen leads me right by, undoing the barrier tape just enough to let me through.

My eyes scan the crowd. I’m looking for one person in particular—that startlingly handsome man who stumbled across me in the bathroom. My gaze finds him almost immediately, and my heart flutters as I’m struck once again by how arresting he is. Even from this distance, something about his presence draws the eye right to him. There’s also something vaguely familiar about him, but I can’t put my finger on what. It takes me a moment to notice he’s standing right next to Omar Walson.

Any other day, I would be going gaga over Omar. He’s every bit as tall, dark, and handsome as he appears on TV. More, even. But even though I know I should be freaking out about seeing him in the flesh, my gaze keeps shifting back to the man next to him. To that tousled hair, that square jaw, those golden-brown eyes…

He glances my way, and I quickly avert my gaze, hoping he didn’t catch me staring. Whoever he is, he seems important, and I’d rather not embarrass myself by turning into the creepy, ogling extra girl within moments of walking on set.

Instead, I glance around at the rest of the production. Part of me wishes I had the guts to pull out my phone and sneak a few photos—I’ve spent the last year scrolling through my friends’ social media accounts, drooling over photos of their fabulous lives, and I’m finally doing something cool enough to share—but I suspect that would be frowned upon. Instead, I obediently follow Karen and try not to glance back at my beautiful bathroom guy.

“Where are we going?” I ask her.

“To the makeup tent,” Karen tells me. “We need to get some of that shine off your forehead.”

I frown, touching my face, but considering how much sweat was pouring off me only a short while ago, I suppose a little extra makeup couldn’t hurt.

“We’ll need to clean up that hair, too, at the very least,” she goes on. “And I’ll see if Orlando has anything else in mind. He’s a very hands-on director.”

Orlando…why does that name sound familiar? She can’t be talking about my handsome bathroom guy, can she? In spite of myself, I glance back at him again. He looks way too young to be a director—aren’t most directors old men? This guy appears to be only a few years older than me, but he carries himself with a steady confidence. He’s the sort of man who exudes intelligence, who commands respect.

I’m still staring at him when Karen grabs my arm, giving it an impatient tug.

“Scoot, now,” she says. “Orlando wants this scene done before lunch. And he can’t have you looking like someone who stumbled in off the street.” She doesn’t seem to recognize the irony in that.

The makeup tent is just outside the eastern entrance to the building. Half a dozen area fans keep it at least a few degrees cooler than the asphalt beyond the tent poles. Karen shoves me beneath the awning and begins barking orders in her flat but commanding tone, and I find myself pulled into a chair with a small army of people around me.

Meanwhile, I’m still thinking about my gorgeous bathroom man.

Orlando. There can’t be that many Orlandos in modern America, let alone ones who look like that. And who are talented and trusted enough to find themselves helming an entire movie.

All at once, it clicks into place. And I wonder how I didn’t see it sooner.

There’s only one man it could be. One man who has that name, charisma, and title, all three.

Orlando Fontaine.

It’s obvious, now. Anyone who’s subject to the endless stream of celebrity news on social media or in line at the grocery store knows about the Fontaines. They’re probably the most famous family in Hollywood, and every single one of them is involved in the movie industry somehow. Luca Fontaine is arguably the biggest star—and the only one who pursues acting full time—but all of his brothers are famous in their own ways. Dante, the oldest, is renowned as a screenwriter. Rafe has done everything from modeling to voiceover work to motocross racing. Orlando is the youngest—and arguably the one who’s spent the least amount of time in the spotlight, which is why I didn’t recognize him on sight—but most people still know his name. He’s been focusing on directing, much like his father, the legendary Charles Fontaine.

I blush as the hair and makeup team begins their work. When you’ve been unemployed for as long as I have, you somehow end up reading a lot of clickbait articles about famous people, just to take a break from sending out resumes. Most of the focus is on Orlando’s brothers, but there have been a handful of rumors about him, too. Some of which are…interesting, to say the least. Like the one that he turns into a complete sex fiend whenever he’s working on a movie. They say that the stress gets to his head, and that he eases it by having torrid affairs with supermodels. I wonder how much of that is actually true. It’s only too easy to imagine him as some sort of sexual god, turning that powerful fervor I saw in his eyes toward a night of passion and pleasure…

It’s not until someone bends over me with a makeup brush in hand that I recognize where my thoughts have strayed. I clear my head and try to focus on the here and now. On the fact that I’ve blown off my interview for the opportunity to be in a movie.

The makeup artist working on me is named Penny, and she has bright red hair extensions and eyelashes to die for. She gives me some fake lashes of my own before applying a crap-ton of concealer and powder.

“You actually have great skin,” she tells me. “This is just so all the lights don’t bounce off your face.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I know I sweat like a swamp beast.”

She laughs as she continues her work. Meanwhile a skinny man with a faux hawk puts something in my hair to smooth down all the frizz and then redoes my ponytail. I’m sad that they aren’t doing anything too dramatic to my appearance, but I guess if I’m going to be playing someone’s assistant, I don’t need purple lipstick or big, glamorous waves in my hair. Still, I steal peeks at myself in the mirror beyond Penny’s shoulder, and I’m pleased by how huge my blue-gray eyes look beneath my new false lashes. At some point a frazzled-looking assistant pops by with some form for me to sign, and I scribble down my signature as Penny spreads a pale pink gloss on my lips.

When they’re finally done, I look polished and pretty. Definitely nothing like the hot mess who stumbled into the lobby this morning, the girl who had an unevenly cooked frozen dinner for breakfast and only shaved her legs up to the knee so she didn’t look like Sasquatch in her pencil skirt. Now, from certain angles, I almost look hot.

Karen must have a sixth sense for these things, because she appears in the tent only a moment after the makeup team announces they’re finished with me. With her is a woman with a handful of shirts hung over her arm.

“Take off your top,” Karen tells me. “We’re putting you in a different blouse. One that doesn’t have pit stains.”

My face turns a dozen shades of red. I’d hoped that I was just being paranoid about how bad my armpits were. But there’s no denying it now. I quickly shrug out of my blazer.

No one moves away as I begin unbuttoning my shirt, and I tell myself that people are used to seeing each other in various states of undress on a movie set. Everyone’s a professional here. Still, it’s hard not to feel embarrassed as I slide my top off my shoulders. Especially considering the state of my bra. New bras aren’t exactly a top priority when you’re unemployed and on a limited budget. I’m currently wearing the only one of my bras that still fits me properly, but it’s barely holding together. The underwire has popped out on one side, and the once peach-colored fabric has faded to an old, musty taupe color, with darker patches near my armpits where the sweat has soaked through. Yeah, I know everyone has at least one crappy old bra that still finds its way into their rotation, but it’s not exactly the sort of thing you want strangers seeing.

Karen grabs a shirt from the woman at her side and shoves it in my direction. “Try this one first. And while you’re at it, I need you to take off your underwear. Unless you want a visible panty line in your big film debut.”

She says it without a hint of emotion, as if talking about a stranger’s underwear is just another ordinary, boring part of her job. Maybe it is. But I’m pretty sure I blush even harder. I had no idea my panty line was that obvious. And I thought showing these people my bra was bad, but showing them my panties is even worse. My bra looks pristine next to the five-year-old period panties.

But I’m not about to miss out on the chance to be in this movie—and Karen is right, I don’t want a panty line on camera—so I decide to suck it up and do as I’m told.

I slide my arms into the sleeves of the new blouse, just to cover myself for the moment, then try to figure out how to sidle out of my panties without pulling up my skirt. Maybe I can get them off without anyone getting a good look at them.

As I pinch at the fabric around my hips and try to wiggle my panties down my thighs, I’m aware that I’ve started sweating again. I pray that it doesn’t soak through my new blouse. It takes a few tries, but I finally manage to push my underwear down my legs, and once they get past my rather curvy thighs, they fall into a sad little pile around my high heels.

“Okay, Karen, where is she?”

The sound of that deep voice makes me freeze with my hand halfway down to my ankles. I know who it belongs to even before I find the courage to glance up.

Orlando Fontaine stands just inside the tent, his sharp eyes on his assistant director. After a moment, his gaze shifts to me.

Just like before, I find myself frozen beneath those eyes. Now that I know who he is, I can really see the family resemblance. He’s easily as good-looking as his brother Luca, but there’s something a little more rugged about his features. Instead of the fairy tale prince, he’s more like the handsome woodcutter who saves you from the witch. With eyes that seem to gaze into your very soul.

And I’m standing here with a pair of granny panties around my ankles.

I panic. I try to smile at him, and at the same time I try to reach down and grab my underwear before he can see it. But the panties get caught on one of my heels. I give them a desperate tug, still smiling as if I’m completely at ease, trying to keep from looking down and drawing any extra attention to what are by far the most embarrassing piece of clothing I own.

It almost works. With one more sharp tug, I get the panties free of my shoe, but I use a little too much force. And while this particular pair of underwear is old, the elastic waistband still has plenty of spring to it, because before I even realize what’s happening, it sling-shots its way from my grip and flies across the room.

Hitting Orlando Fontaine right in the chest.

Everyone in the tent is dead silent as my sad, stained period panties fall to the ground. Orlando stares down at them with a slight frown.

And I want to die. Or at least run far, far away from this tent. And maybe hide in a bunker for a few years.

Slowly, Orlando’s eyes come up again. I straighten my shoulders, trying to pretend that I’m not the least bit embarrassed by what just happened, but that’s when I remember that my new blouse is still open.

So this is it, I think. This is when I learn that people can actually spontaneously combust from embarrassment. I’m standing half naked in front of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in real life—a man who reportedly has raging hot sex with supermodels every night—in a sweat-soaked bra. While my dingy panties sit like a limp, stained rag at his feet.

And while all of this is going on, there’s still enough blood flowing through my veins to remind me that it’s been a little while since I’ve had sex, and that my body, at least, would have no complaints about fixing that with this man in front of me.

The way those golden eyes of his bore into me, I’d swear he can read every one of those thoughts. Before I can apologize, though, his lips curl into a charming smile.

“I knew she’d be perfect,” he says without taking his gaze off me.

I try to ignore the tiny flutter in my chest at being called perfect. That’s not a word that’s used to describe me…well, ever. Except he’s used it twice now.

I don’t get to respond before Karen breaks in.

“Good,” she says. “We’ll have her out on set in a few minutes, just as soon as she’s done getting dressed.” She gives me a meaningful look, and I quickly begin doing up the buttons on the blouse.

“Great,” Orlando says. He starts to step toward me, then stops, bending over and picking up my panties instead.

“You don’t have to—” I begin, but he’s already moving toward me, my underwear in his grip. Anything I could say would just make this worse.

“I believe these are yours, Miss...?”

“Blankenship,” I say, and after a quick and only mildly awkward hesitation, I drop my still partially unbuttoned shirt to reach out for my panties. “Maggie.”

“Orlando Fontaine,” he says. “But everyone just calls me Orlando around here. I prefer that we all use first names—it makes us feel more like a family.” His gaze falls to my underwear still in his hand. “Very close family.” When his eyes meet mine again, those golden depths are bright with humor.

Oh, God. He’s laughing at me. But there’s something else in his eyes, too—a simmering heat that sends shivers all the way down to my toes. Any doubts I had about those “sex fiend” rumors fly right out the window. This man radiates passion and intensity from his every pore.

Karen clears her throat, and I remember my chest is still half bare. I quickly snatch my panties from his hand and resume buttoning my shirt. I’ve started sweating again—attractive men always do it to me, and Orlando is turning me into Niagara Falls—but I can’t do anything but pray it doesn’t soak through this new blouse before my scene is done.

“We’ll have her out to you in a minute,” Karen tells Orlando again, and he nods and turns away. My heart nearly stops when he pauses right outside the tent and glances toward Penny, the makeup artist.

“A touch of red lipstick on her, I think,” he tells her. “Not too dark, though. I like her innocence.” He twists his head further, his eyes finding mine again, still shining with silent laughter and pulsing heat. I must look worried, because he winks at me.

“Don’t worry—we’ll take care of you, Maggie,” he says, and his gaze suggests that that’s a personal promise. “Welcome to the set of Death and Deadly Night.”

CHAPTER TWO

There’s no time for any of this to sink in. One minute I’m buttoning up my shirt while Penny slaps some cranberry-red lipstick on me, and the next I’m being ushered unceremoniously back inside by Karen, my granny panties abandoned in the tent. I’m still sweating profusely, but the minute we step into the lobby, a cold blast of air conditioning slaps me in the face. Hopefully that will nip the problem in the bud for now.

I glance around. Orlando is standing near the windows, talking to Omar Walson and a second man who’s too handsome to be anything but another actor. Both Omar and his costar are wearing pristine, well-tailored suits, and both appear to be listening intently to their director. Orlando emanates a powerful energy that I can feel even from here, and even some members of the crew seem to be under his spell, trying to watch and listen to him instead of going about their work. I’ve only been here a moment and I can already see that Orlando has this entire production tied up in his web.

As if my thoughts trigger a vibration in that web, Orlando turns his head and looks at me. A jolt shoots down my spine as our eyes meet, and that look flashes in his expression again—heat and amusement, tangled as one. I realize I’m licking my newly reddened lips and quickly stop.

He wouldn’t tell the others about the whole panty thing, would he? I wonder in horror as Karen leads me toward them. Fuck, everyone’s going to know me as the “Panty Girl” by lunch.

Omar and his costar notice Orlando looking my way, and they turn to follow his gaze.

“Here,” Karen tells me, shoving an electronic tablet into my hands. “In this scene, all you need to do is walk along behind Mr. Walson and pretend to be taking notes. Use the stylus there.”

The easiest thing to do is to pretend the whole panty thing never happened. I slide the stylus from its elastic loop, aware that all three men are still watching me. “Pretend to take notes. Got it.”

“Walk when he walks, stop when he stops,” she continues. “Don’t look at the cameras for any reason, but pay attention to where they are. You never want to get between the camera and Mr. Walson. Or Mr. Grand, for that matter.”

Mr. Grand must be the other suited man. I can’t place the name, but now that I’m closer, I think I recognize him from something. Maybe a commercial? Or a TV movie?

Orlando is still watching me. I let my gaze meet his again, bracing myself for the sudden rush of blood, and the corner of his mouth twitches as he abruptly turns away.

“Okay, guys,” he says to the room, clapping his hands once. “Let’s take this from the top.”

The already-bustling crew members seem to speed up, leaping into their positions and quickly making their final adjustments. A makeup artist runs in to dust a little extra powder on Omar’s nose while another young woman grabs the coffee cup out of Mr. Grand’s hand and carries it away.

Karen gestures me toward the men, and I scurry over, taking my place behind Omar.

“A little to the left, Maggie,” Orlando calls as he slides into a canvas chair next to one of the big cameras.

Hearing him say my name sends a happy little shiver through me, but I manage to regain my composure quickly. I slide to the left, trying to look like the serious assistant they hired me to be. Neither Omar nor his costar even glance back at me.

“And…action!”

And that’s it—no other instructions, no guidance. Not even half an hour ago, I was just a girl in a bathroom. Now, because some late-night motivational speaker on TV told me to say “Yes!” to things, I’m about to be in an Orlando Fontaine movie. I might have no idea what I’m doing—I feel like they’ve thrown me into the deep end of the pool without stopping to ask if I knew how to swim—but I’m not about to blow this awesome opportunity. The two actors in front of me begin walking, and I diligently follow behind, praying I don’t trip over my own feet. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. This past year, I’ve been enviously lusting after my friends’ lives—it seems like every day one of them is getting promoted, or getting married, or traveling to some exotic place, or something equally amazing and exciting—all while feeling trapped in an endless cycle, just waiting for my life to begin. Finally I’m doing something exciting, too.

I keep my gaze focused on the tablet in my hands, but out of the corner of my eye I watch both the camera and the two actors in front of me. Absently, I move the stylus across the tablet screen, writing nonsense scribbles. And, since I’m supposed to be the alert assistant, I occasionally give a nod as if I’m listening intently, even though I’m so focused on what I’ve been told to do that I don’t even hear half the lines the actors say.

Suddenly the actors stop, and I stop, too, just short of running into Omar. No one seems to notice the near-collision, though.