Jason Read online

  “A snow storm blew in while the assistant was shopping for the jacket that could have been shipped, mind you, but Jason Blackthorne wanted it first thing in the morning. The assistant’s flight was grounded.”

  “Okay. Super inconvenient.”

  “It was three days before he could get back. His plants died. His dog didn’t recognize him. They’d declared him dead and rented out his apartment, and he got post-traumatic stress, and then, Jason Blackthorne fired him.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Mallory said, scowling. “I see what you’re doing.”

  “I’m just saying,” Inez said, and picked up her fork. “There’s something else, too.”

  “Let me guess—he hates babies. He kicked a cat.”

  “No. He’s super good-looking.”

  Mallory perked up. “You have no idea.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen him. And I know how you get.”

  “How I get?”

  “Yes. You turn into a spineless doormat when you’re attracted to handsome men and organize the shit out of their lives. It’s bad enough you do my laundry.”

  “That is ridiculous,” she scoffed. “And you’re mixing your metaphors.”

  “Sam Harris.” Inez punctuated that by stuffing an enormous bite into her mouth.

  “That was different,” Mallory said. “He was very good at making me believe he liked the things I did for him.”

  “Carlos.”

  “Carlos is your cousin! I didn’t do anything for him.”

  “He said you were ironing his T-shirts.”

  Mallory sensed the theme. “I wasn’t doing it on a regular basis, I did it once. Because they were ridiculously wrinkled.” She leaned forward and said low, “He never takes his clothes out of the drier. He actually pulls clothes from the drier and wears them.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Inez said. “But you are the only one who started doing his laundry. You do everything for everyone, and then you’re, like, super helpful if they’re hot, and you end up getting used, Mallory.”

  “For the record, it is really hard to date someone in wrinkled shirts. Instant turn off. But here is the difference. I am not planning on dating Jason Blackthorne. I’m not even going to look at him. I will not be doing his laundry.”

  “Sure. I’m just saying, he’s the kind of guy to run right over a woman, and you’re the kind of woman to be run over, especially if he’s hot.”

  That might have been insulting to hear from anyone else, but Mallory could not deny there was some truth to it. She held out her hand. “If I regret even a moment of it, you have my permission to say I told you so. Pinky swear.”

  Inez wasted no time in taking advantage of that swear with her pinky.

  Mallory clasped her hands together in prayer pose and bowed her head. And then she speared a tomato from Inez’s plate.

  “I’m going to go ahead and get a jump-start on this,” Inez said, picking up her fork. “I told you so.”

  In the weeks and months that followed, Inez never missed an opportunity to tell Mallory I told you so. And she didn’t just say it, she gloated. She laughed roundly when Mallory complained about Jason, which Mallory did a lot, usually spurred on with lots of wine.

  Because Inez was right—Jason Blackthorne was hell on wheels. He was demanding, he was disorganized, he had no respect for Mallory’s time, he asked what she thought then dismissed her opinion. He wanted the impossible and never seemed to fully appreciate when the impossible was accomplished.

  That was enough to make her almost hate him. He could be insufferable, even when Mallory could see his vision and how important this show was to him. He’d said more than once he had a lot riding on it. He was a driven man.

  But Inez was right about something else—he was a very handsome man. He smelled like honey and lemon and something else that was entirely masculine and could rev up Mallory’s mojo like she was on steroids. Couple that with his great ideas, and the passion he had for filming stories that matched her own, and Mallory had developed a not insignificant crush on him. And she wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t developed one on her. She was probably imagining things, but it seemed like every time they were in a room together, the air sizzled. And there was the time she was copying a script, and he’d had to squeeze by, and he’d squeegeed his package across her ass. He apologized profusely, but the way he looked at her and she looked at him was pretty thrilling. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

  Inez loved to remind her, “You just can’t pull yourself away from all that luscious, beautiful man, can you? Told you.”

  “Not true,” Mallory would insist. “I’m waiting for a chance to kill him. It has to be the right moment so I don’t get caught.”

  That was somewhat true. She was learning so much about how to put a show together. It was invaluable experience that was translating into her own work. And the more she learned, the more ideas she had. She kept a running list, and when she caught Jason alone for a moment, she’d spring into action, suggesting ways to streamline production, ideas for scenes, her thoughts on character development. She believed if she could convince Jason to give her a shot at directing, he would see just how in sync they were about the vision for this series and perhaps even other projects.

  Unfortunately, Jason tended to take her suggestions and sort of nod them away. “Great idea, Mallory. Is there any yogurt in the office fridge? Could you run out and get some?”

  She was often confused by how one minute she wanted to punch him in the face and in the next breath want to kiss him. Like all over his ridiculously fit body. Not that she would ever. He was her boss, and he was impossible, and it would be playing with fire.

  Oh, that fire. It was a glowing ember in her. Sometimes, she would catch him looking at her in a way that made her feel a little weak in the knees. Once, after a particularly difficult episode with a lot of stunts ended without injury or cost overrun, they had shared a look that had been almost orgasmic. It was obvious, they both loved this gig.

  When she came into work, his gaze would flick over her, and he’d say something like, “Nice dress. Did you have to hire someone to paint it on?” And she would say, “No. But I’ll be looking for volunteers to scrape it off.” His eyes would go dark, and run down her body, and then he’d turn back to his work and she would run to the ladies’ room and grip the edge of the sink and chastise herself in the mirror. “What are you doing?”

  There were little touches here and there, too, more than was necessary. It was like the day at the copy machine, but much more subtle. Their fingers would tangle when she handed him a paper. He’d bring something to her desk and put his hand on her shoulder to lean over her.

  She had the full Monty of all crushes on him, and she hated that she did, because she had learned so much, her short films were beginning to get some traction in contests and on YouTube.

  And then one night, Mallory set the embers on fire, and the fire spread.

  She and Jason had been working late, watching the rough cuts from that day’s shooting and, because it was late, there was wine involved. Jason was teasing her. He admired how she had arranged the Post-its on his whiteboard so it was clear what changes had to be made to what scenes, and then commented that the motivational posters she’d put up around the room had finally motivated him.

  She was laughing about something one of the crew had said, in an unguarded, unprofessional moment, Jason said, “Has anyone ever told you how sexy you are in a totally uptight prosecutor kind of way?”

  Funny how ridiculously pleased Mallory had been made by the compliment. She’d said, “Has anyone ever told you how sexy you are in a totally demanding asshole kind of way?”

  Jason had leaned back, smiling at her. “I think that is the most honest thing anyone has ever said to me.” He grinned, and he tapped her knee with his fist. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me, Mallory Price.”

  She was on the verge of admitting it, but Jason laughed, and his sparkly, Christma
s light smile had shot into her, and he said, “Kidding.”

  “I have a major crush on you,” Mallory blurted. The words just tumbled out of her mouth. They just fell, right there between them, and at the time, Mallory didn’t care. She was smiling, she felt light and buzzy and they were at a boring part of the dailies that she absolutely would cut as it didn’t advance the plot of this particular episode one iota if anyone would listen to her.

  “What?” Jason had asked uncertainly. He’d sat up, both feet on the ground, his hands clasped between his knees.

  “Should I not have told you? I mean, didn’t you guess?”

  “I think,” he said slowly, “that you were the one who reminded me, in the middle of that issue with the craft services, that the Human Resources manual strictly forbid workplace fraternization.”

  “Yes, that was me. I thought you needed to know.” She was looking at his mouth and thinking what an odd word fraternization was. “Is fraternizing the same as flirting? I was trying to flirt,” she said, pressing a hand to her heart. “I think technically, they are two different things.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Jason said as his gaze was drifting down her body. “I leave that sort of thing to you. I assume since you are so by the book, you know what you’re talking about. What is the proper response when someone in the workplace is flirting with you?”

  Well, she hadn’t memorized the Human Resource manual, for God’s sake, and downed the rest of her wine and tossed—or dropped—the glass aside. She inched her way to the end of her chair. She could remember how alive she’d felt in that moment, because Jason was looking at her like she was chocolate cake buried in ice cream. “I think you should turn a blind eye.” And then, the spirit moved her. Moved her all the way over to his chair. She brazenly straddled Jason, like she was the star of her own little movie and did things like this (she did not) and he let her, his hands landing on her hips, a light shining somewhere deep into his deliciously hazel eyes.

  “Miss Price, I really like your initiative.”

  “You know what I like? Your mouth,” Mallory said in the sultriest voice she could manage, and touched her lips to his.

  “That is so weird,” Jason said. “Because I like yours, too.” He kissed her back, but in a much better way than she had kissed him. His hands found their way under her blouse and began a slow slide up her rib cage to cup her breast as his tongue slipped into her mouth.

  She could taste him, taste the wine. She’d felt a sparkle erupting in her and spreading quickly, shimmering down her veins. It was pure brilliance shining between them. She was straddling him like she knew what she was doing, and he was getting hard, and he was the best kisser in the world, and she was melting inside, her body melting from all the sparkling and want, and she wanted desperately for him to slide right on inside her.

  Maybe Jason wanted it, too, because he suddenly stood up with her, which she would not have thought possible, and sat her on the conference table. He caught her chin in his hand and held her head still so he could really kiss her. Kiss her so deeply and so thoroughly as shocks of pleasure waved through her. Mallory had no choice but to grab on to him before she melted onto the floor. If she’d known that kissing him would be this electric, she would have found an excuse to kiss him a long time ago.

  Jason stepped in between her legs, and her pencil skirt rode up to her hips, exposing her red lacy thong panties to him. “Jesus,” he said. “Mallory, this is…very unexpected,” he said again, and had begun to kiss her all over again.

  Mallory could look back on that kiss now and easily say it was the most exciting kiss she’d ever experienced. Maybe because it was technically forbidden by standard workplace decorum. Maybe because she never thought a man as handsome and accomplished as Jason Blackthorne would be interested in her. And she had no doubt she could have had it all, but then…but then…

  Her damn conscience had pierced the fizzy pleasure and had reminded her that Jason was her boss, and she needed this job if she was ever going to get a leg up in this industry, and it was so clichéd to be doing it through sex. So in spite of feeling incredibly sexy, and the certainty that it could have been one of the best nights of her life, Mallory slid off the table and out from underneath his touch.

  The next day, of course, she’d been completely mortified by her behavior. She had wanted to say something about it, to address the ten-ton elephant in the room. But she never did. In fact, neither of them ever mentioned it. They simply carried on with that crackle and sizzle following them around and casting tension between every look, every touch.

  In other words, Mallory had been playing with fire ever since that night.

  But she was not doing his laundry.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SEVERAL MONTHS later

  * * *

  In the beginning, Jason had to pinch himself that, at long last, he was really running a production company and producing a television show. Against the odds, he’d gotten his shot.

  It had been a long time coming—a lot of hard work, a lot of jobs on productions that had gone nowhere. A lot of begging and pushing back when doors had closed.

  But it had paid off and it was definitely happening. The first three episodes of Bad Intentions had been distributed to critics. The first episode had aired to reviews that were good for the most part. He was pleased and relieved that his vision for a series around a detective that skirted on the edge of the law and life was not rejected out of hand.

  The pre-production phase for season two was done, and production would begin in about ten days for the second season. The first season had been shot in a studio in Culver City, but the lease was expensive and Jason and the crew felt it lacked atmosphere. So the second season would include scenes shot in King Harbor, the summer home of the Blackthornes for decades.

  Jason had come last week with his Director of Photography, Neil Tarelli; the production designer, Maleeka Johnson, who developed the visual style of the series; and Cass Farenthold, the director. Together, they had scouted location. But Cass being Cass—difficult, in other words,—had, at the last minute, changed his mind. It was bothersome—the cast and crew were on hiatus until production began in earnest. And maybe it was Jason’s imagination, but Cass seemed more difficult than normal. Like he was picking arguments for the sake of arguing.

  In the end, it was decided that Neil and Maleeka would return to L.A. and their hiatus, and Jason and Cass would stay and work out the last couple of locations.

  Jason had invited Cass to stay at the family compound, but Cass had refused. “I do most of my work at night,” he’d said. Whatever that meant.

  In spite of Cass’s perennial displeasure with everything and everyone, all was going great. So great, in fact, that Jason should have known a shoe would drop. More like a steel-toed work boot, and right on his head.

  At the Blackthorne family estate in King Harbor, Jason laced up his tennis shoes for a run. It was so early that the sun was still a slender pink line on the edge of the ocean. Ross would say Jason was crazy, running this early, and maybe he was. But he needed to sweat off some energy. He hadn’t slept well last night. He really hadn’t slept at all—he’d received some significantly bad news late afternoon yesterday.

  He ran down the path, away from the house, to the shore. There was a path that followed the coastline around, up on to a promontory, and down again. About two miles out, he’d come into King Harbor, where he’d turn around and run two miles back to the estate. He would need all four miles to pound out the anxiety and anger that had flowed in his veins all night.

  It was maddening that shit like this kept happening, but Darien Simmons, the star of his show, a veteran actor with several Emmys and a few Tonys under his belt, and for whom Jason had paid an exorbitant sum because he needed that kind of talent, had been credibly accused of sexual assault by a production intern on the show. His show. An eighteen-year-old intern at that. Darien was the same age as Jason’s uncle Graham. Why were men such dicks? And h
ow was it that some men could force themselves on women who didn’t want it? Jason didn’t get it. If the feelings weren’t patently mutual, he was never interested.

  When Jason had called Darien in Vegas, Darien said, perhaps predictably, that the young woman had started it. And perhaps just as predictably, the young woman and Gloria Allred, the famous attorney inclined to take on cases like this, said Darien cornered her and stuck his tongue down her throat and shoved his hand up her skirt. Charming.

  Jason fired him. Cass had accused him of responding in a knee-jerk fashion, but Jason didn’t think so. There was no room for that behavior on his show. None. Cass was beside himself. He said Jason was responsible for the shit show they were about to film.

  The news did not get better from there. Netflix was already questioning Jason’s decision to film on location in Maine. The brass there was not happy when he called them to let them know about Darien.

  He paused running up the hill to catch his breath and looked back at his family’s summer home. He’d come back to Maine because he’d grown up here. This is where he’d turned to movies when his parents had died in a plane crash when he was twelve years old. This is where he and his brothers and cousins had made themselves a family. It seemed natural to come back here.

  The studio didn’t like the idea at all. It would cost too much, they said. But Jason convinced them that it was the right thing to do. King Harbor was perfect. It was beautiful here, there was no question. But with the right filters and lighting, with the right locations, it could also look like a dark, scary place. Jason could trade on his name here, use it to access places that might otherwise be inaccessible.

  In their tour of places around town, Neil and Maleeka had agreed with Jason on the places they’d found for filming specific scenes. Only Cass had disagreed. He had wanted to use the Vault, a pub attached to the whisky distillery his family owned. But the Vault didn’t seem right to the rest of them. For Jason, because it was too attached to his family. They hung out there when they were in town, and it seemed too upscale for the series. They had talked Cass out of the Vault, but he was digging his heels in at every turn, and Jason had begun to wonder why. There was no team player in that man.