Nervously, Tasha looked around the huge, plush, palatial suite and searched her mind for something to say and eventually came up with, “Very nice, Jim. You have very good taste.”
“That I do. Which is why you’re here, the good taste.”
His line should have come across as cheesy, as though he was trying just a little too hard, but it didn’t. Although, his awkward expression and apologetic shrug of his shoulders seemed to suggest it hadn’t sounded as good to him as it had to her. Yes, she was in well over her head and had no way of knowing what to do, especially as his words had her smiling so much her jaw ached while he stared down at her with a predatory glint which made her blush slightly. The danger was greater than she’d first assessed. She could still be considered very naïve, or as she preferred to view it, stupid. The fact she was here, in this very powerful and influential movie executive’s hotel suite, alone, and all before the possibility of work or the parameters of that had even been discussed confirmed her diagnosis of stupidity.
“So, dinner?” Tasha hoped Jim was about to suggest getting freshened up, him getting freshened up, alone, before heading down to the dining room, restaurant, whatever it was.
“Yes. Of course. Later. A drink first. What can I get you?”
“Just a soft drink, please.” She already knew that a clear head might be the one thing she could ensure.
He didn’t argue or try and change her mind, but passed her a drink.
“You look more like a white wine or champagne kind of girl to me.” He smiled as he sat next to her on the velvet sofa.
“I don’t mind wine with a meal, but I’m more of a beer girl when I go out.” The truth was that she didn’t drink all that often and only very occasionally to excess.
He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “And champagne?”
“It’s not something I drink frequently or have any real knowledge of, but yes, for special occasions.” She smiled to herself as she thought that her only real memories of champagne usually involved a bed and Gerry. Immediately, she wished she hadn’t allowed her mind to go back there, to that painful place.
“Something amusing about the champagne you drink?”
“No. Sorry. A private joke I guess.” She blushed, cursing her pale complexion as she desperately tried to brush off her own comments and his smile, but did make the decision not to think of Gerry and the things they’d shared. It was all in the past and needed to stay there.
“I guess we all have those private jokes with champagne, honey.”
She felt a little embarrassed as she realised she was inadvertently discussingchampagne sexwith James Maybury. Sex, full stop. She was back on dodgy territory that was going to see her being swallowed whole into a real and metaphorical shit storm.
“Next time you’re in L.A. call me and I’ll show you around my vineyard.”
She looked surprised by the offer, but then so did he.
“Right, dinner.” Jim reached for the phone and called for several courses of a room service dinner meaning no dining room, no restaurant and no safe location with other people. This was turning more and more precarious with every word and detail that transpired. “I could have just sent you some scripts and stuff via your manager or agent, but I, the studio, like the personal touch.” The personal touch currently involved the brushing of his fingertips across her hand.
This was beyond perilous if the burn and tingle his touch incited were anything to go by. Tasha blushed again at her reaction to him as well as her thoughts about him, but nodded in acknowledgement of his need for the personal touch.
He smiled at her rosy hue and clear liking of his touch, of the reaction it caused on the most basic level.
The tension between them remained, however it was tempered slightly as they began to talk, which is when she succumbed to the white wine. So much for keeping a clear head.
Jim explained how he’d started life as an accountant and how as a very young man he’d found himself working in the studio he now ran. He’d worked his way up the corporate ladder, making investments that had allowed him to become the major shareholder. He told her stories of dramas and tantrums from producers, directors, actors, but mainly actresses. She was impressed by the fact that at no point did he name any of them. She didn’t doubt he was a ruthless, hard-nosed business man who didn’t take prisoners, but he was also scrupled and fair. He made several references to his wives.
Once dinner arrived they sat opposite each other. From nowhere she suddenly asked, “So how many Mrs Mayburys have there been?”
He looked at her slightly taken aback but laughed. “Straight to the point, Natasha. Six Mrs Mayburys, all of them no longer Mrs Maybury.”
Shitwas her immediate thought and she just hoped it had remained in her head. Six of them. He must be a really crap husband to have got through six of them. Briefly, she wondered why six women had agreed to marry him with his track record but then decided that although he might be a crap husband, she was sure he was a great lover. Shocked at that thought Tasha shook her head at herself as she didn’t usually look at men as old as her dad and consider their prowess as lovers, but this wasn’t any man. This was James Maybury and she knew without a doubt, he was different.
“Why?” She had what she was sure was a false sense of bravery courtesy of the second, or maybe the third glass of wine she’d consumed.
He laughed at her directness again. “Why have there been six, or why are they former Mrs Mayburys?”
“Both.” She kicked her shoes off, propelling them under the table but not before she managed to bounce one off his shin.
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you? You may need to put those sexy shoes back on later.” He rubbed the area the shoe had hit. “Six of them because I believed I was in love with each of them, kind of.”
“Kind of. I see.” Tasha reused his own throw away phrase but knew she saw very little and his arched brow seemed to suggest that he doubted her claim too.
