Anyone who’s ever said that watching a movie being filmed is exciting is a goddamned liar. It’s exciting for about the first fifteen minutes, when you’ve just arrived, and the crew is busy setting up lights or dressing the set or doing whatever it is that movie crews do.

Then you see how much sitting around it involves. Sitting and waiting and being quiet. And take after take after take.

I’m sure it’s scintillating if you’re in the cast or on the crew. But as an observer? Honestly, it’s mind-numbing.

And yet here I am. Not because I think there’s an immediate threat to Delilah—it’s a closed set with its own security team—but because she’s Blackwell-Lyon’s responsibility, and this is my shift, and I need to understand her routine if I’m going to do my job.

So I’m sitting and watching and learning. I’ve seen three takes of Delilah’s current scene, and while I don’t know much about acting, I have to say I’m impressed with her skill. It’s an angst-filled scene, and she’s managed to kick me in the emotional balls all three times she’s run through it.

But that’s about as exciting as it gets, and since the entire scene is under four minutes and I’ve been sitting here for almost three hours, I’d say the return on investment is low.

“You do this every day?” I ask Jez, when she approaches my chair between takes. It’s a director-style folding chair with a canvas seat and back. It doesn’t, however, have my name on it.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” she says dryly, and once again I’m struck by how much I like this woman. We’re simpatico, she and I.

“As much fun as watching grass grow.”

“Watching action scenes is fun, though,” she tells me. “When the stunt double comes in, especially.”

“Now you’re talking,” I say, willing to hold out for this tiny thrill. “When are they shooting that?”

“They’re not.” A hint of a smile flashes. “That was in the movie she got fired from. This one’s all deep emotion and torment.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Enjoy.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“Back to the hotel. I can’t get a decent signal here, and I have a video call scheduled with Delilah’s agent, then her publicist, and then her accountant. I’ll be lucky if I survive the day without my head exploding. You’re good?”

I want to tell her I’d be better if she stayed. I’ve barely seen her since we arrived, and while I’m here to work, the truth is I missed her last night.

After we got back to my office and finished the paperwork, I’d planned to go back to the hotel with her. But Jez shut me down. “Del’s already tucked away in her room and the floor is secure, right?”

“Right,” I admitted. And that was all well and good, but I knew the real reason was that she wanted time away to clear her head. And as much as I regretted the distance, I had to admit that was probably smart.

“Fine,” I say now. “Del and I will see you at the hotel after the shoot.”

She heads out, and since the cast and crew are pulling long days, I settle in for another nine hours of soul-crushing non-excitement.

Fortunately, I only have to wait an hour before Delilah comes by and flops on the ground beside my chair. “I am so wiped out,” she says. “But I have forty-five minutes until we start up again.” She passes me a wrapped sandwich. “Want? The powers that be are making me eat salad.”

From the tone of her voice, you’d think they were making her eat gruel.

She’s wearing skinny jeans and a Keep Austin Weird T-shirt. Her damp hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing no make-up. I assume she showered in her trailer before heading my way. Presumably, there’s another hair and make-up session scheduled for after lunch.

All in all, she looks like she could be a freshman at UT, and she’s at least as laid back as any local Austin girl. She crosses her legs then peels open the lid from her salad. “I’m ravenous. Tonight, when we get back to the hotel, I’m going to actually eat.” She looks at me. “How about you? Gonna stay for room service? I’m thinking we need to order all the fries. Like, all the fries.”

“No salad and quinoa for you tonight?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t rat me out, okay? I’ll have a hard enough time when I get back to LA and my trainer kicks my ass. But while I’m here, I’m eating when I can. Besides, I’m fully clothed in this movie. No love scenes. No showers. No slow-mo shots of me in a bikini running on a beach. Honestly, it’s nice to just act, you know?”

“Not really,” I admit. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

Del smiles, and that’s when I can really see her star power. It’s bright and photogenic and lights up the set.

“You like her, don’t you?”

“Who?” I ask, though I know perfectly well who she’s talking about. And like Pavlov’s dog, my pulse has sped up just at the mention of Jez.

“My sister. She’s not really a bitch, you know.”

“Sure she is,” I quip, making Del laugh.

“Okay, fine. Maybe she is. But you like her anyway.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I do.”

“Good.” She sounds smug. “And just so you know, Jez has reasons.”

“I don’t think she’s a bitch,” I say, though I don’t mention that I’ve definitely witnessed some bitchy moments. “But what are the reasons?”

“That stupid book, of course.”

I frown. “What stupid book?”

“That tell-all book that my old bodyguard wrote.”

“Larry?” That can’t be true.

“Oh, no. The guy who came after. Simpson. The prick. He called the book The Stuarts of Beverly Hills. It was total trash—one of those things they published super fast to get in on all the drama with me and Levyl and Garreth—but he said some pretty shitty things about Jezebel in it, too.”

She lifts her shoulder. “They got pretty close, if you know what I mean. So now she’s careful. That’s why we’ve only had a series of rent-a-guards since she fired him. But it’s hard not really knowing the guys who are watching over you, you know?” Her words are flying fast, and I wonder if it’s because as an actress she’s usually scripted, so she’s taking advantage of being off book.

“At any rate,” she continues, before I can get a word in, “sometimes she comes off as bitchy, but it’s only because she’s protecting us.”

I’m gripping the wooden arms of the chair so tight I’m probably leaving dents. And I swear if this asshole Simpson was on the set right now, he’d be a dead man.

“Anyway,” she says, standing up and brushing the dust off her jeans. “I just thought you should know. In case she seems, you know, distant.”

“I’m just working for her, Del. There’s nothing going on.”

“Of course not,” she says, but right then I doubt her acting skills, because she really doesn’t sound convincing.

As soon as she heads off to the trailer to get in make-up for her next scene, I pull out my phone, open a web browser, find a digital copy of the book, and settle in to read.

Immediately, my blood starts to boil. He talks about how their parents died, and how Jez stepped in as head of the family and manager of Del’s career, which was already on track, as the girl had been discovered at age six. He gives details about Del’s dating and how she met Levyl and her interactions with fans. He runs though arguments between Jez and Del. Reveals their conversations, their habits, the details of their lives.

It’s not skanky, but it’s invasive as shit. He’s told the world things that only someone close and with access would know.

In other words, he broke their trust.

Bastard.

I finish the book about an hour before Del wraps for the day, which is good, because that gives me a chance to quit seething before we get into the Range Rover and head for the Starfire.

“I ordered some food,” Jez says when we arrive at the suite. She points to the spread laid out on the suite’s dining room table, and Del squeals and claps her hands.

“These are for me,” Del says, taking the entire basket of fries. “I’m going to go gorge myself in my room and watch bad reality television.” She flashes me a mischievous smile, and I can’t help but think that she’s leaving us alone on purpose. And not so that we can talk business.

“Hey,” I say, after Del’s gone. “How was your day?”

Jez presses her fingers to her temples. “Crazy.”

“Bad crazy?”

“No,” she says, “just busy crazy.” She glances at the table. “We’re going to talk shop, so does that mean you’re still on duty?”

“If you’re asking if I can have some of that wine, I think I can go for it.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to drink alone, and I need one.” She passes me the bottle and a corkscrew. “I didn’t think to have the waiter open it. You’ll do the honors?”

I take the bottle, and open the wine, then pour us each a glass. “Cayden texted me as we were pulling in. He’s gone over security with the staff, and the other two guests on this floor checked out this morning. Blackwell-Lyon now holds those rooms through Thursday.” Which means no one outside of our team and the hotel staff can access this floor. And as far as security goes, that’s a very good thing.

“Really? That’s going above and beyond.”

“Nothing’s beyond if it keeps you safe. And Cayden’s one hell of a negotiator. You won’t find a surprise charge for those rooms on your bill—from us or from the hotel.”

“If paying for those rooms keeps Del out of the middle of the kind of melee you saw the other night, I’d happily pay for them.”

“I know.” I take a seat on the sofa, then indicate the cushion next to me. “You’ve proven over and over again how much you’re willing to sacrifice for your sister.”

“I have,” she says, sitting beside me without hesitation. She’s wearing a white V-neck T-shirt and a gray skirt made out of some sort of stretchy material. Her feet are bare, and I get the feeling this is Jezebel’s typical work-at-home uniform. Still professional, but not as buttoned up as the pantsuit she’d been wearing on set this morning.

“Not that I think of any of it as a sacrifice,” she continues. “It’s just—”

She cuts herself off sharply, then turns to look at me, frowning. “I’ve proven over and over again. That’s what you said.”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, she’s silent, her brow furrowed as if she were trying to solve a knotty math problem. Then it clears, and she says, “Fuck,” so softly I almost don’t hear her. She puts her glass on the table, then stands, then turns to look at me.

“You read the book.” The words are an accusation, and she doesn’t specify what book. Clearly, she knows she doesn’t need to. “Del shouldn’t have told you about that,” she says, not waiting for me to answer.

“I read it today,” I admit. “And I think Del was trying to help.”

“Help?” Her brows rise. “Help how?”

“Help me,” I clarify. “She realized that I want to get to know you better.”

“Great. Just great. Because that book’s certainly the way to do that. Fuck,” she repeats, and this time I hear her just fine.

“He was an ass,” I say. She’s turned away from me, and now I gently take her elbow and urge her back to face me. “Simpson was an ass who broke your trust.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” She thrusts her fingers in her hair, lifting it up before letting it fall back in waves around her face. I know the gesture came out of frustration, but the look is sexy as hell, and it’s all I can do not to gather her close.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She shrugs, then goes over to the table and plucks a tortilla chip out of a ceramic bowl. She dips it in salsa, then takes a bite. I assume that’s her way of saying no, so I’m surprised when she carries the chips and salsa to the couch and puts them on the coffee table. She sits again, this time tucking one foot under her so that she’s facing me.

“I didn’t have my guard up,” she says. “I’d gotten so used to trusting someone, that I just let down all my walls.”

“Larry,” I say, and she nods.

“He was like a dad to me. It was easy, you know? And then he retired and moved to Orange County, and I hired Simpson. And I guess I was primed to trust.” She licks her lips, then takes a sip of wine. “I let him get too close.”

I nod. I’d guessed as much.

“And then when the book came out—” Her voice breaks, and I take her hand. I’m not sure if I should, but right now, I need to touch her, not just for her, but for me. “I wanted to go cry to Larry, but the accident—he was already dead. And—” Her voice breaks, and she visibly gathers herself. “And I thought, well, at least he can’t see my humiliation.”

“Jez…”

“I complained to him. Simpson, I mean.” She laughs harshly. “Isn’t that a nice way of putting it? I lost my shit. I ranted and screamed and I think I threw a book at him.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. I squeeze her hand, and when she squeezes back, she looks at me gratefully.

“He flat out told me that since everything in the book was true, I couldn’t do a thing about it. And then—” Her breath hitches. “And then he said that I was lucky he didn’t talk about how lousy I was in bed.”

She makes a noise like a gasp and leaps to her feet, her hand going over her mouth. I stand behind her, my hands on her shoulders. “If I ever meet him, I swear I’ll put him in the ground. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

Her shoulders start to shake, and I gently turn her so that she can press her face against my chest and cry while I hold her.

“I’m sorry,” she says after a while, as she pulls away. “And oh, man, I got your shirt all wet.”

“It’ll dry.”

She flashes a watery smile. “You’re—unexpected.”

“Am I?” I turn the word over in my head. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“Good.” She brushes a finger under her eyes, drying her tears. Then she nods, as if reassuring herself. “Yeah, good. Although why the hell I’m telling you any of this, I don’t know.”

“Because I brought it up,” I suggest. “Because you need someone to talk to. Because Simpson’s bullshit was part of the price you pay for celebrity, and so was that mess we ran into at the Crown the other night.”

“All true,” she says. “And all so goddamned unfair.”

I take her hand and urge her back to the sofa. “Stretch out,” I say, and when she does, I put her feet in my lap. Her toes are painted a pale pink, and she looks like she hasn’t gone a day without a pedicure. And when I rub my thumb along her arch, she tilts her head back and moans.

I want to hear that moan again—and not because of a foot massage.

“Why unfair?” I ask. “I mean, other than the obvious.”

“Nothing. I shouldn’t even—Hey,” she snaps when I take my hands off her feet.

“Truth,” I say. “Or no massage for you.”

She scowls at me, but nods. Then she tilts her head back and closes her eyes. “You read the book, so you know what happened. Our parents died in an accident, and instead of starting college, I stepped in as Del’s manager. I didn’t trust anyone else, and my mom had been doing it for years, so I sort of knew the ropes. And I knew Mom would want me to. Plus, I love my sister. I do.”

“But?”

“But I never had the chance to figure out what I want to do. And all I know is that I don’t like this life. I don’t like living in LA. I don’t like being in the spotlight.”

She opens her eyes and shrugs. “So that’s it. That’s my guilty secret.”

“Why don’t you stop?”

“I will, but not until Del’s ready. In a lot of ways she’s mature, but she’s also been incredibly sheltered. Leaving her now would be a recipe for disaster.”

“She might surprise you.”

“She might. But that’s not a risk I want to take. She’s too important to me.”

“So you have a plan,” I say, taking my hand from her foot and moving to massage her calves.

“That feels amazing—you’re so hired. And yes, I have a plan. And until then, I’ll just suck it up and live with the drama.”

“You can manage.” I’m barely paying attention to my words. Instead, I’m sinking fast into the feel of her. The smoothness of her skin. The heat of her body.

“And it’s crazy,” she continues, “because as much as I hate it is how much Del loves it. She thrives on this life. Even the scandal doesn’t bother her. She just wants to act.”

“What about you? What do you want?”

She sits up, then pulls her legs back and tucks them under her, as if the question has made her uncomfortable. “I honestly don’t know.”

Her voice is soft, barely a whisper. But I hear the truth in her words, and I want to pull her into my arms and hold her close.

“No? Not even a little thing?” I tease. “Dark chocolate with sea salt? More tortilla chips? World peace?”

“Honestly, right now I just want—”

“What?”

She sighs. “I just want to take a shower and crawl into bed. It’s been a long day.”

Her words shred me. I didn’t realize how much I wanted to stay until she yanked the possibility out from under me. “Sure,” I say. “Of course.”

I rise. “I’ll let you rest. Tomorrow’s a night shoot, right? I’ll call you in the morning and we can talk time and logistics. In the meantime,” I add as I head for the door, “you know the protocol. Don’t leave this floor without coming to get me. “I’m going to crash in the room on the end.”

“Pierce?”

I hesitate, my hand on the knob. “Yeah?”

“I lied.”

I turn, something in the tone of her voice firing my senses and making my cock grow hard. “Did you?”

She stands up, then takes a step toward me. “I don’t want to sleep.”

I take a corresponding step toward her. “No? Then what do you want?”

I hear the tremor in her breath. Then I watch as she comes one step closer. Then another and another, until she’s just inches away from me. She meets my eyes, and her gaze never wavers. “I want you to kiss me,” she says.

Her words ignite inside me, and I have to shove my hands into my pockets to keep from yanking her into my arms. And it just about kills me to say what I have to. “I told you. I don’t sleep with clients. And you don’t sleep with anyone on your payroll, remember?”

“I’m not asking you to.” She comes closer, and I can smell her vanilla scent. And that’s not good, because right then, I want to devour her. “I just want a kiss.”

“Jez…”

“Here,” she says, pressing her index finger to the corner of her mouth. “Just one little kiss.”

Her eyes are locked on mine, and right then I’d swear she had super powers, because I have no will to fight. I can only lean in, my lips brushing softly over the corner of her mouth.

“Good?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, but she’s shaking her head no. And her eyes tell me that she wants more.

I lean back, my pulse pounding as I look at her. Her parted lips. Her heavy lids. Her tousled hair.

Her chest rises and falls with each breath, and I’m certain that she’s as turned on as I am. She swallows, and I watch the way her throat moves, fighting the urge to lean in and kiss that little indentation at the base of her neck.

I let my gaze dip lower, taking in the curve of her breasts and her nipples, hard beneath the thin material of her bra and T-shirt. It’s hemmed at the waist and not tucked in, and I know that if I were to reach out, I could press my hand against her abdomen and feel her muscles tremble as she sucks in a breath.

And if I went lower…

Well, I can’t help but wonder what she’s wearing under that skirt. A thong, I imagine, or nothing at all, because the material clings smoothly to her hips and legs. And if I slip my hand between her thighs, would I find her already wet?

I think I would, and the thought makes hard.

I should walk away—I know that. But when you get right down to it, I’ve never been one to follow the rules. And sometimes, doing the right thing is highly overrated.

“Jez,” I whisper, and then I don’t even give her time to respond. Because, dammit, I can’t risk her saying no. So I swoop down, claiming her mouth, holding her close. She tastes like wine and sin, and I want to get drunk on both. Intoxicated by her touch. Her taste.

“Kisses,” I murmur, holding her chin as I look deep in her eyes. “That’s what you want? Like this?” I ask, brushing my lips over hers. “Or like this?” I demand, trailing a line of kisses down her neck to the soft indentation at her collarbone.

She trembles under my touch, and the only sound she makes is a soft, breathy, “Yes.”

“Jez,” I murmur, but her name is muffled by my mouth on her breast, over her bra and shirt. She arches back, her shoulders resting on the wall behind her, the angle of her body now giving me better access. But I want to taste her, not the shirt, and I slide my hands up, taking the shirt with me, until I’ve exposed her white, cotton bra.

It’s unlined, and her nipples are like pebbles against the thin material. I close my mouth over one breast and suck, then use my teeth to tease her nipple. She cries out, then whimpers when I pull back, releasing her.

But I’m not letting her off that easily. On the contrary, I’m still on my quest for skin, and I use my teeth to pluck up the edge of the bra and yank it down, freeing her breast.

She’s gasping, her fingers sliding into my hair as she presses me closer, forcing my mouth where she wants it, and I use my tongue to tease her nipple until I feel her start to tremble and I know that there is no way—no way—that I am going to let her come without tasting her sweet pussy.

She whimpers when I pull away, then blow a stream of air on her now-wet breast. “Please,” she begs as I brush a line of kisses right at her bra line. “Pierce, please.”

“Shhh.” I lift my mouth from her skin long enough for a single command. “Not a word,” I order as I slide my hands down to the waistband of her skirt. It’s a pull-on style, but I don’t push it down over her hips. Instead, I inch the material up—higher and higher until the skirt barely covers her, and I press my hand against her inner thigh and slowly stroke my way up.

She’s trembling, and her soft noises are making me crazy, and I’m so fucking hard it’s painful. But right now, all I care about is touching her. I want to feel her, hot and slick on my fingers, and I’m so, so close.

Mostly, I want to taste her. To flick my tongue over her clit. To suck and kiss and tease until she explodes against my mouth.

Just a kiss, just like we said.

But it’s the most intimate kiss of all.

Slowly, my fingers rise. She’s wearing a barely-there thong, and I impatiently yank it down, uncovering her slick heat. And at the same time, I keep my kisses coming, lower and lower, until there’s no more skirt, just flesh, just her, and she’s waxed and smooth and wonderful.

“Please,” she begs as I close my mouth over her. As my tongue finds her clit. As my fingers thrust inside her in time with my intimate kisses, my tongue laving her. My lips tormenting her.

Her hips start to move, and she’s riding my mouth, her hands in my hair guiding me. And I’m getting harder and harder as I hear her raw, passionate noises. And all I want to do is make her come. Make her explode.

And know that I’m the man who took her over the edge.

“Yes!” she cries, and her body trembles, her pussy clenching tight around my fingers.

I’m already on my knees, but now her legs give out, and she tumbles to the ground, pulling me down with her.

My hands are all over her. Touching her. Stroking her. Listening to her soft sounds, her needy murmurs. “I can’t get enough of you.” And it’s true. I’ve tasted her—now I want to claim her. Hard and hot and fast, then softly. Tenderly. I want to feel her break into a million pieces, and I want to be deep inside her, her body tight around my cock, when I come.

“Good,” she says. “Because I want more, too.” Her face is buried against my chest, but now she rises, her face and torso lifting as she meets my eyes. “I want so much more.”

She unbuttons my shirt, then brushes a kiss on my breastbone. She starts to kiss her way down, lower and lower until my already stiff cock is so hard against my jeans it’s almost painful. Her hand cups me through the denim, and I arch back, trying to steady my breathing. And when her fingers unbutton my fly, it’s a goddamned miracle that I don’t come right then.

She shifts her position, and I know she’s about to pull out my cock and take me in that hot little mouth, which sounds like a slice of heaven. Except it’s not enough. Dammit all, it’s just not enough.

I reach down and cup her face. Her eyes flicker in confusion. “More,” I say.

She licks her lips, looking so damn tempted. “We both have rules.”

“I think we’ve bent those rules so much, they’re twistier than nautical knots.”

Her teeth drag over her lower lip, and I chuckle.

“A woman with integrity,” I say. “I can’t fault that.”

“Pierce—”

“Fire me.”

Her eyes go wide. “What?”

“I want you. I’m desperate to be inside you.” I brush her mouth with the pad of my thumb. “So fire me, and after you’re soft and spent on the bed, you can hire me again.”

Her eyes go wide, and I can’t get a read on what she’s thinking. I hold my breath. I’m pushing the envelope, I know it. But damned if I don’t want this more than I’ve wanted anything in recent memory.

After a moment, her face clears, and I’m sure she’s going to tell me I’m an ass. That we shouldn’t have done this, and we damn sure shouldn’t break our own rules. She’s going to tell me to go home, take a cold shower, and see her in the morning.

Instead, she says, “You’re fired.”