Carlos tossed another T-shirt into his small duffel, then took it out. A week with Dakota Starr didn’t call for casual old ratty shirts. With a sigh, he went to his tiny closet in his tiny apartment and grabbed three dress shirts from the hangers. The labels said they were from discount big-box stores, not the designer places the kind of men Dakota Starr dated probably shopped.
He was glad she hadn’t insisted on coming with him to pack up for the week. She’d made the offer, but he’d declined. He’d needed an hour to be alone and get his head clear. Upon entering his apartment, he called his mother back to tell her he would be sending money. Then he texted a few friends to cancel tentative plans.
No phone calls or he knew he’d be dodging questions about Dakota that he didn’t want to answer. He wasn’t comfortable lying to his friends. If he’d spoken to them first thing this morning, it would’ve been an easy convo. He’d had an amazing night with an amazing woman. Period. Full stop.
He wasn’t one to kiss and tell. No gossip. Bartender’s code. Even if the woman was a celebrity.
But now…the whole relationship was weird and fake. He wasn’t an actor, but he’d better learn pretty damn quick if he was going to survive a week in the spotlight with Hannah. No, not Hannah. Dakota, he reminded himself. Hannah was the real woman. Warm, witty and surprisingly down-to-earth. A woman he could fall for.
This week he had to be with Dakota, a woman who’d offered to pay for his time rather than simply ask him on another date or wait for him to ask her. The joke was that he would’ve spent the week with her for free. Instead, she’d tainted their amazing night together and any future they might’ve had by offering to pay him to date her. He was disgusted with her and mostly himself for accepting the deal, but four K was big money to him and his family. He’d told her he was a student, but he hadn’t mentioned his tuition bill was due yesterday.
No dude wanted to tell a pretty girl that he could barely afford to take her for dinner let alone cover his other primary bills. It sucked that he’d had to swallow his pride and accept her job offer rather than simply dating the woman. But her offer had been too tempting to turn down.
Principles didn’t pay tuition or rent.
Two hours later, Carlos was lounging poolside, sharing a double-wide chaise with Dakota. He was in board shorts, feeling strangely naked even though all his important bits were covered. Next to him, every inch of Dakota’s skin glistened as if polished and buffed. Her black bikini was little more than strings and a few inches of fabric.
“You look like you could use sunscreen,” she said, shifting slightly so his entire right side lit up with awareness of her skin brushing his.
“I’m good. Sunscreened up in the room when I changed.”
“Los,” she said, pinching the skin on his forearm gently. “You need sunscreen.”
Oh? Oh. “Yeah, I’m getting a little burn,” he agreed, swallowing back the discomfort at this first gauntlet in their fake week together. They needed to touch each other in public, and he needed not to pop wood with her hands rubbing lotion over his body. The pool area of the hotel was private property, but two men with long-range lenses pointed in their direction waited on the beach.
He sat up and gave Dakota his back and closed his eyes as her soft hands rubbed his back and neck.
“Now your front,” she said, in a voice he almost didn’t recognize because it was loud, high-pitched and rapid-fire, different than the throaty, husky voice that had cried out his name last night.
He took a breath and prayed she’d gotten hit with the ugly stick in the last five seconds. Maybe when her face was close to his, she wouldn’t be as pretty with those damn kissable lips. He turned. Fuck. She was better.
With her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head, and kick-ass sunglasses hiding her eyes, her full glossy pink lips were a magnet for his gaze. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, and a bead of sweat glistened on her neck, sliding down on its way to her clavicle. He wanted to lick the drop with his tongue.
Her palms flattened on his chest, and he bit back a groan. “Sister Mary-Louise, the pope, Abuela Theresa,” he muttered under his breath, listing the least sexy things he could think of.
Dakota laughed. “What are you saying?”
“If I think of non-sexy things, I won’t get a hard-on while you touch me. Trying not to embarrass myself on camera.”
Her hand dipped lower. “Oh, honey, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. If anything, you’d worry other men.”
He sucked back a hiss when her hand got a little too close to the end of his goody trail. “Dakota,” he warned.
Her hand moved. “Sorry.”
“I said we wouldn’t have sex this week, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune to your charms.”
Her hand remained in place. “Oh?”
He grabbed her hand, freezing it from moving any lower. “Don’t be cruel.” He didn’t like that she was sexually teasing him all for the benefit of the cameras. She was an actress, and he’d have to remember that you didn’t know what was real with her.
She grinned and hummed a few bars of the Elvis song, then stopped and moved her hand. “Sorry. I’ll be good. Get me?” She turned and gave him her nearly bare back.
He squirted a handful of white lotion into his palm. It was some brand he’d never heard of, and not a bottle he’d seen on the shelves of his local drug store. Each squirt of this lotion probably cost more than a top-shelf drink at his club.
“Your skin is soft,” he couldn’t help saying as he rubbed the lotion into her back. She shivered under his touch, and he was glad she seemed to be as affected by him as he was by her. Maybe.
“I have a weekly treatment,” she said.
He had no idea what that meant, only that the end result was skin he wanted to caress and lick and feel under his body.
“Los?” she said when he’d stopped rubbing in lotion for a long minute.
He jumped back to attention and slapped another bit of sunscreen on her lower back, this time rubbing a bit rougher. He kneaded a spot above her hip and she moaned. “Is one of your part-time jobs a massage therapist?” she asked.
“No, why? It feel good?”
She swiveled and their faces were inches apart. It’d be the easiest thing to lean forward and take her mouth, but he couldn’t. A kiss would lead to more. Last night had proven he had little control when it came to this woman.
He inched closer, but a shadow fell over them and he looked up to see one of the poolside waiters standing right there. “Ms. Starr, would you like a drink or anything to eat?”
Dakota pulled back and flashed the waiter a wide smile. “Yes, that would be amazing. Can I please get an icy bottle of Pellegrino with a slice of orange?” She turned to him. “Los, you want anything?”
“I could eat.” He made a show of looking at the menu and placed an order for a BLT sandwich, extra bacon, extra mayo. “And a can of Budweiser.” The look on the waiter’s face told him that some poor sap in the kitchen would be running across the street to buy a six-pack. “Or any beer is fine,” Carlos amended. No need to be a dick to the low man on the totem pole in the kitchen because he was feeling sexually frustrated. He’d dug his own grave about not sleeping with Dakota this paid week, and now he’d get to lie in it.
“I’m going to swim,” he announced abruptly. Hopefully, a cold dip in the pool would sort him out.
“Sounds good. It’s hot,” Dakota said and rose, giving him and all the other oglers at the pool a great view of her banging body.
“Fine,” he said, wrenching his gaze away from her tits, and raced to the pool and plunged in two-thirds of the way to the deep end. Dakota took the long way, sauntering around the edge all the way to the shallow-end steps where she got to the bottom step, then dove in headfirst. Figured she’d look like a fucking mermaid swimming underwater toward him.
The damn water wasn’t cold.
Who in Miami heated a pool? If he were in the mood to swim laps or enjoy the water, it was the perfect temperature, but no. He was here to cool down and tell his dick to stop its hopeful thoughts. Hard to do at a perfect eighty degrees.
Dakota popped up next to him, treading water while he stood in water that came up to his chest. He knew what was coming next. She’d grab his shoulders and cling to him while their bodies floated together underwater. If they were a legit couple, she’d wrap her legs around his waist, and he’d cup her ass and enjoy grinding into her. But they weren’t a real couple, and he had principles. No sex for money. Not even really, really good sex.
As predicted, she swam up to him, getting too close for his dick’s comfort.
“Dakota, who’s your boyfriend?” a loud voice from behind them yelled.
He spun as Dakota whispered, “Paparazzi.” Then in a louder voice, she called, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She was all smiles and flirtations for the lone member of the media who was bravely strolling alongside the pool, drink in hand.
“Who’d you pay off to get in this time, Tony?” Dakota laughed.
The reporter smiled and deftly took a one-handed camera shot with another. “Paid for a room. You’re big news these days, Starr.”
Dakota looked delighted, and Carlos winced as her hand squeezed his side under the water. “If Celebrity News Daily is willing to pay for a room at this hotel to cover me, it’s working,” she whispered delightedly to him.
“Already?” Carlos asked, shocked that hanging with him for a night would change anyone’s fortune.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he reciprocated, her enthusiasm contagious. “Don’t sell yourself short, Los. You’re a sexy man.”
He couldn’t resist her grin and found her lips with his, giving her a too brief open-mouth kiss. He had to force himself to push back, or he’d be taking a lot more than her lips. “Not as sexy as you, Dakota,” he said.
Her eyes shadowed. “You’re not calling me Hannah anymore?”
“Not this week,” he said.
In full view of everyone at the pool, she lowered her hand to cup his bits and pieces and gave a caress as she leaned up to kiss his cheek. “You’re killing me, Smalls.”
He groaned as he fell a little bit in love with her. She’d quoted from one of his favorite movies. How did an ordinary man resist a rock star of a woman who could make you laugh or shudder with pleasure?
Hannah closed her menu, wishing a burger were at the top instead of seared Hamachi with a ponzu aioli dipping sauce. Whatever the hell that was. But her publicist had made them a reservation at some place called, Okto, which was the place to be seen in Miami.
“Do you like sushi?” she asked Carlos. “Sorry I didn’t ask.”
He shrugged, looking too edible in his pale blue dress shirt which highlighted his golden brown skin. “I like all fish. Raw, grilled, smoked… Anyway, I’m on your dime this week. You pick the places.”
She frowned down at her menu, regretting that she’d ever offered to pay Carlos. After the combustible sexual chemistry between them, she suspected he would’ve spent the week with her free of charge, and merely because he wanted to be with her. Too late. She’d made the offer. He’d accepted, and whatever true romance might’ve blossomed between them had withered.
“I’m ready to order,” he said. “You?”
“Sure.”
Carlos gave an easy wave to the waiter, which she appreciated. He’d taken control but not in an asshole kind of way. In a friendly way. Or maybe he and the waiter were actually friends. A hunch that was confirmed a second later when he and the waiter clapped hands and spoke Spanish to each other. She’d taken high school Spanish, but Señora Perez had in no way prepared her to understand whatever Carlos was saying.
He turned to her. “Is your heart set on something on the menu, or can I order for you? There are a few specials they don’t list on the regular menu.”
She doubted she’d like anything she’d pick for herself anyway. “Sure,” she said, tossing the menu to the side. “Go for it, but please not too high in fat or sugar.”
“I’ve got you covered, Starr.” He grinned at the waiter and finished ordering in Spanish, of which she understood not a word, until he got to the last word, which everyone understood because he’d dropped an eff bomb. He was staring at a point off to her left and his dark skin paled.
“Everything okay? Is there something wrong with our order…” Hannah started to ask, but was cut off by a tall gorgeous woman who stalked over on impossibly high heels and got in her face.
“You puta,” the woman said, ending on a shriek.
Puta meant whore, right? Oh no, she didn’t. Hannah rose, and though she was inches shorter than this angry goddess, she was a trained actress. She had presence. “Do I know you?” Her voice carried, but raising it was unnecessary as the restaurant was deadly silent, all eyes on the ensuing show. Pop star versus angry Latina supermodel. Hannah’s money was on herself.
“Fatima.” Carlos also rose and put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, but she slapped it away.
“Don’t ‘Fatima’ me, you cheater.”
Hannah leaned forward, projecting outward calm, despite her racing heart. “I know what’s happening here,” she announced.
Both Carlos and Fatima turned to her.
“Deal’s off, Carlos,” she told him. “I despise cheating.” She bent for her purse, and discovered her hands were trembling. It was a fact that some guys couldn’t keep it in their pants, especially if offered celebrity pussy, but she’d thought and hoped Carlos wasn’t one of those guys. He’d moved around the table and was at her side before she could make a move toward the exit.
“I’m not a cheater,” he said. “Fatima was my high school girlfriend. Long since my ex.”
Fatima obviously did not like hearing she was the ex. “Whose house were you at last Sunday fixing a ceiling fan?”
“Yours,” Carlos said calmly, “but I helped out as a friend. You know that.” His brow furrowed. “Don’t you?”
“Obviously not, Carlos,” Hannah pointed out. She now believed Carlos when he said he wasn’t a cheater. At least he didn’t mean to cheat. The problem was he was too nice a guy. What kind of ex-boyfriend did a honey-do list? Her sympathy for Fatima died when the crazy woman reached out and grabbed a hank of her hair, wrapping it around her fist, and pulled until Hannah’s head tilted back. Tears sprang to her eyes from the pain.
“Whoa,” Carlos said. “Fatima. Back off. Don’t do this.” He reached for Fatima, but Hannah went country girl on her ass before he could do any rescuing.
She twisted, clawed and stamped, freeing herself easily from the woman’s grasp. She spun, ready to fight some more, but Carlos and their waiter had Fatima log jammed between their bodies. She struggled to get free, and Hannah couldn’t resist. “You lost him, honey. He’s mine now,” she said, giving a saucy smile.
Fatima made a last-ditch effort to come at her, but Carlos and friend strong-armed her to the exit. The place erupted with some cheers, some loud whispers, and distantly she heard one patron express disappointment that the girl-on-girl action had ended with no nudity.
She gave a dramatic wave to the restaurant, curtsied, then sat. She tried to disguise her shaking fingers by playing with her hair.
Carlos returned to the table, breathing hard. “Hannah, I’m so sorry.”
So he could remember to call her Hannah when he was emotional? Interesting. She’d use that to her advantage. She shrugged. “It’s okay. It happens. Fatima saw her chance and took it.”
“Chance?” Carlos asked.
“For her fifteen minutes of fame.”
Carlos’s eyes widened. “You serious?”
She nodded and reached for the drinks menu. She’d planned on not drinking, but the night had taken a turn for the alcohol inclined.
“You don’t know Fatima like I do,” he said. “That’s not her style.”
“Oh? So it’s a normal thing for her to charge into a nice restaurant and attack strange women?”
“Uh…”
“Carlos, you’re a nice guy and all. Probably too nice, but if all she’d wanted was you back, she would’ve texted or called you. No, she wanted a boost to her local modeling career and saw her chance and took it. No biggie.”
“How did you know she models?”
She threw him a look. “Come on, dude. This ain’t my first rodeo. She saw a chance and took it. I would’ve done the same thing in her shoes, as evidenced by my relationship with actor, Tyler Taylor.”
Carlos slumped slightly in his seat. “You’re kind of blowing my mind here, Dakota.”
“Hannah,” she whispered. “You called me Hannah before.”
His expression hardened and he glanced away before looking back. She forced herself to keep her gaze on him, though it was one of the harder roles she’d played. Carlos affected her like no man had. Ever. She stretched her leg slightly, hoping to graze his leg, and was rewarded with the feel of his khakis on the bare skin of her thigh, then punished when he pulled back as if burned.
“Don’t,” he said. “I’ve told you my stance. I’ll play the boyfriend in public, but I have my pride.”
“A boyfriend would play footsie in public,” she challenged, holding his gaze.
He narrowed his eyes, then deliberately put one leg, then the other forward, clasping her leg between his calves. The touch was practically virginal, yet she shivered as if his fingers were deep between her thighs finding her damp panties.
“Are you still hungry, or did you want to get out of here after Fatima’s tantrum?” he asked.
“Still hungry, and I can’t run out with my tail between my legs. I need the photos to read that the girl-on-girl fight didn’t put a damper on our romantic dinner. I need to be the classy one. I’m auditioning for a movie, not WWE.”
He smiled. “Good, because here comes our food.”
She looked up to see two dishes coming their way. “A burger?” she said, grinning at Carlos. “At a sushi bar?”
“Not any burger. A Kobe beef burger with the chef’s special sauce. You better get that movie role, or we’re doing dishes to pay for that imported beef.”
She laughed, then examined the dish set in front of Carlos. “You didn’t get a burger.”
He picked up a bite of his food with chopsticks with an ease Dakota envied. “Nope. It’s pork belly. Want to try?” He held out a bite to her.
It seemed like a romantic thing to do so she leaned over and let him feed her. “Yum. That’s amazing.” It was true, and she was shocked she liked something in a fancy restaurant. Perhaps she needed to take Carlos everywhere with her. She liked that idea more than was healthy.
He shoveled in a bite. “Yep. Wasn’t sure you’d like it given the glue soup you ate for breakfast. Thought I’d keep it simple for you.”
“Are you saying I’m a simpleton?”
He laid his chopsticks down with a wooden clack. “No. Hell no. You’re anything but simple, but I think you’re eating weird food because you think you’re supposed to, not because you like it.”
She froze, her skin crawling with uncomfortable awareness. He’d known her two days. Two days, and he saw right through her. Shit, she really was a terrible actress. “I like a lot of foods,” she said lamely.
“What foods do you like best? I’m betting it’s real food. Burgers, pizza. Not whatever weird green smoothie Hollywood is pushing.”
She hated green smoothies. What was wrong with strawberries, bananas, and a shot of frozen yogurt? Or better yet, skip the fruit and add some chocolate. But drinking a non-green anything within the three-one-zero area code was like taking out a billboard on Sunset Boulevard declaring you’d given up on becoming a movie actress.
“I like this burger,” she said, once again deflecting.
“You took it off the bun,” Carlos said, scowling at her plate. “That’s sacrilegious.”
“Do you know how many calories are in that white bread?” she asked.
“Do you?” he shot back. “Eat it. We’ll go for a run on the beach tomorrow.”
The only thing she hated more than green smoothies was running. But… “Will you be wearing a shirt on this proposed run?”
He smiled slyly. “Do you want me in a shirt?”
“No shirt.”
“Will you be wearing one of those jog bras with no shirt?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Do you want me in a shirt?” The other diners disappeared from her consciousness as she flirtatiously asked the question. She forgot that Carlos was only here because she was paying him. They were two people out on a great date. A date which would end with a kiss and nothing more.
“No shirt.”
His smile did funny things to her belly. And lower. Things that made her want to toss the most delicious burger ever aside and go straddle Carlos, damn the rest of the curious restaurant diners. Miamians were cool, but not cool enough to ignore a celebrity giving her date a lap dance in the middle of dinner.
“Dakota,” Carlos said. Then, “Hannah,” he said, quieter. “Stop worrying about your weight. Honest opinion. You’re perfect.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, making her vision blurry. What the hell? She’d had video directors yell at her and call her a fat no-talent wannabe, and hadn’t blinked. Carlos said one nice thing, and she was a sappy mess.