Valentina liked Tatiana’s agent a great deal. While he was incredibly slick when he needed to be, and was a master of negotiation, he didn’t feel compelled to wear his agent hat all the time. More than once the two of them had gotten a little tipsy celebrating one of Tatiana’s successes. The fact that he was g*y helped, too, if only because Valentina knew she’d never need to worry about whether her sister was safe with him. It was a large part of why she herself had let her guard down with him several years back.
Unlike, she thought with a twist of her lips, the way she constantly felt she had to add new layers of bricks to her walls whenever Smith was near.
Valentina was as sensual as the next woman, and certainly enjoyed sex when she found the time and the right man to have it with, but she’d never brought her sensuality into the workplace. Ever. Only, it seemed that whenever she and Smith were in the same room, no matter how hard she tried to focus on business, she couldn’t stop the heightened awareness that took her over one cell at a time, from her heart that beat too fast to the tips of the toes that curled in her shoes every time he so much as said her name.
“Filming is going fantastically well,” she told him. “And Smith has been a dream for Tatiana to work with.”
George made a sound of approval over the line. “Of course he has. That man is a dream, period. You know,” George added in a thoughtful voice, “he wouldn’t be a bad choice.”
“For what?”
“To break your extremely unfortunate dry spell.”
The phone almost dropped from her hand. “You’re crazy.”
But she’d said it too quickly, too forcefully. She who doth protest too much, and all that.
She could all but see George’s smile as he said, “He’s always had good taste in women. Unfortunate for me,” he said with a playful grumble at Smith’s sexual orientation, “but good for you. And from what I remember about our casting meeting, his eyes kept circling back to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said in as light a voice as she could manage, as if they were joking about something that would never, ever happen in a million years.
“Well,” George said after a pause that was just a little too long for her comfort, “I think we both know that if the beautiful and talented and filthy rich Smith Sullivan is smart enough to try to stick his hands up your skirt, you won’t stand a chance.”
She hated knowing her friend and colleague was right, hated it so much that as she grabbed a stack of notes on her desk, she tried to put a stop to all of his nonsense by saying, in her sternest, most businesslike tone, “If you’re done speculating over whether or not Smith Sullivan wants to stick his hands, or any other body part, up my skirt—or if I have strong enough superpowers to resist him—perhaps we can discuss the details of Tatiana’s recent commercial offer.”
A creak from her office’s doorway made her finally lift her gaze from her paperwork...to stare straight into Smith’s amused eyes.
Oh God.
Oh no.
Could he have heard what she’d just said? About her skirt, and his hands, and....
Yes, she realized with a hard thunk of her heart as it careened down to the bottom of her stomach. Of course he’d heard every last word of it.
Why else would he look so amused...and, quite possibly, delighted?
“George, I’ll need to call you back in a few minutes.”
“Oooh, you sound tense. And more than a little breathless. A movie star must have walked into the room.” George was obviously giddy over it. “Why don’t you just leave your phone on speaker so I can hear his voice—just in case he says all those naughty things I know we’re both hoping he’ll say.”
She hung up on Tatiana’s agent and immediately stood up so that she and Smith would be on even ground. Well, as even as they could be, given the six or so inches he had on her even in her heels.
“You didn’t need to hang up so quickly for me,” he drawled in a voice that didn’t try to be sexy. It just was.
“I know how busy you are,” she replied. And it was true. As star, director, producer, and screenwriter of Gravity, she wasn’t sure how he’d managed more than a handful of hours of sleep a night since production began. And yet, he didn’t look the least bit tired. Instead, he looked even more handsome than he usually did.
Clearly, he wore smug well. Because she knew damn well just how smug he had to be feeling after what he’d heard her say to George.
Even worse, though, than the mortified flush that still hadn’t left her cheeks, was the fact that she had to clasp her hands tightly in front of her as she asked, “What can I help you with this afternoon?” It was either grip her fingers tight enough to leave marks on her palms or give in to the urge to reach for him...and find out if the dark shadow on his chin felt as deliciously sexy against her fingertips as it looked.
He moved from the doorway into the trailer, which suddenly seemed tiny with the two of them in it. A vision hit her of Smith backing her up against her desk and putting one leg between hers to open her up to him before he slid her skirt up and—
“—asked for your number so she could thank you herself.”
His voice finally penetrated her too-vivid daydream and she found herself blinking up at him.
When had he moved even closer?
Her heart raced at his nearness, and as she inhaled a deep breath to try to pull some oxygen into her lungs, she accidentally took in his scent instead. Pure, clean, and so male that her heartbeat only ratcheted higher, to the point where she was sure that he would be able to see the pulse racing beneath her skin if he looked.
Which, she suddenly realized when she caught the direction of his gaze on the pulse point at the side of her neck, was exactly what he was doing.
It felt like the fog outside had come in through the trailer window to wrap around her brain. She couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about, had barely heard what he’d said. But she still had enough sense to realize that if she didn’t say something soon, there wasn’t going to be much room left for talking anymore. Not when he looked—and smelled—so darn good.
“Someone was asking for my number?” she asked him in the crispest voice she could manage under the circumstances.
She’d been cursed—although some women would probably have felt blessed—with a voice that made men think of sex, even if her conservative outward appearance rarely had. It had taken years of practice for her to school that huskiness out of it, much the way British actors often erased their accents to play American roles. But when she was nervous—or worked up—that huskiness would creep back in.