The Hudsons: Max, Bella and Devlin: Bargained Into Her Boss's Bed / Scene 3 / Propositioned Into a Foreign Affair / Scene 4 / Seduced Into a Paper Marriage

He visibly pulled himself together and his eyes found hers again. This time they were hard with determination and devoid of emotion. This was the face of the man she’d seen reduce misbehaving cast or crew members to Jell-O with a few terse lines. She locked her knees to prevent the same thing from happening to her.

“Dana, I won’t let you make me fall behind schedule. My grandmother wants to see the story of her romance with my grandfather on the screen. I will not disappoint her. And I will do whatever it takes to prevent you from sabotaging this project.”

“Sabotaging!” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d known he wasn’t going to take this well, but to threaten her? When she’d started working for him five years ago he’d still been reeling from his wife’s death. She’d done everything except breathe for him until he’d surfaced from his grief. And she’d continued to be his right hand ever since.

This was the thanks she got?

Fury simmered inside her. If she stayed in this suite one more minute she was going to say something she’d regret.

“I am going back to my room.” It had taken everything she had to work up the nerve for this confrontation, and she’d crashed and burned because he was being an idiot. She needed to regroup, to replan. Because she couldn’t go on. Not like this.

She pivoted on her boot heel and stomped out of his suite. A stream of Max’s muttered curses followed in her wake. He called her back, but she didn’t stop and she didn’t go to her room. She couldn’t. A sense of claustrophobia engulfed her. She bypassed the elevator, jogged down the emergency stairs and slammed out the side exit of the hotel. Her long stride covered the parking lot as she headed…somewhere—she didn’t know where, but anywhere away from the infuriating, selfish bastard in the hotel was preferable to here.

“Dana,” Max called from behind her. She ignored him and lengthened her stride. “Dana. Wait.”

She heard his footsteps quicken as if he’d broken into a jog and then he caught her elbow as she reached a corner, pulled her to a standstill and swung her around to face him. “Give me a couple of months. Let me get Honor in the can. And then we’ll talk.”

“There’s nothing left to talk about, Max. I’ve asked you for a bigger role and been refused so many times I’ve quit wasting my breath. I didn’t spend all those years and all that money getting a degree in filmmaking to be an executive assistant.”

“I’ll give you a raise.”

She tilted her head back and glared at him. He could be so obtuse sometimes she wanted to scream. “It’s not about the money or even the project. I believe in this movie with all my heart, and I want to help you finish it. But the chance to produce the indie film won’t wait for me. My friend’s company needs me now. The only reason I have this opportunity is because their last producer died unexpectedly. I’ve already made her wait three weeks for a decision. If I turn them down or try to stall them any longer they’ll find someone else. If anyone understands budget and time constraints as a producer, you should, Max. You know I have to move now.”

She could practically see the wheels turning in his brain. His hand slid from her elbow to her bicep to her shoulder, his long, warm fingers infusing her flesh with heat that seeped through the fabric of her blouse and straight into her bones. It wasn’t a sexual thing on his part. But it was on hers. She felt the noncaress deep inside.

She had a love-hate reaction to his touches. She loved how each caress made her feel all excited and jittery and breathless, but she hated how a simple brush of his fingers could weaken her knees—and her willpower—and turn her into putty in his hands.

And he didn’t even notice.

Talk about adding insult to injury.

“Stay, Dana. I’ll give you associate producer credits on Honor. That will give you better credentials whenever you decide to move on. Not that I intend to make it easy for you to leave. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

His praise filled her with a warm glow, and then reality hit her with a cold, sobering shower. He was talking about her work, not her personally. He’d never see her as anything more than a coworker. And she wanted more—so, so much more. But right now, with his fingertips gently massaging her shoulder, she was too addled to make a decision.

She shrugged off his hand. “I’ll think about it and get back to you before we touch down in L.A.”

“I won’t be returning with you tomorrow. I need another week here, maybe two or three. I want your decision now.”

Frustration and a sense of entrapment made it difficult for her to breathe. He knew if she agreed she wouldn’t go back on her word. Unlike most of the inhabitants of Hollywood, her word was her bond. But if she stayed with him…how would she ever get over him and move on with her life? And if she couldn’t do that, how would she ever have the family or the career she craved?

James, her older brother, her idol, would be so disappointed in her for waffling.

“We both know ‘associate producer’ is a pretty useless title, often no more than a boon given because someone did somebody a favor. I want more than credits, Max. I want hands-on skills. And I know you. There’s enough control freak in you that you’d give me the title but none of the producer’s responsibilities. I’d come away with a slightly better-looking résumé, but without any new abilities.”

A nerve in his upper lip twitched, drawing her attention to the mouth that had monopolized so many of her dreams—a mouth she had yet to feel against hers in her waking hours. A September breeze cooled her skin and stirred his thick hair. She fisted her fingers against the need to smooth those dark glossy strands back into place.

“With the deadline we’re facing, you’ll be working around the clock if you take this position, and I promise you, this won’t be a meaningless title. You’ll get your new skills.” And you’ll regret it, his challenging tone implied.

She could feel herself slipping toward acquiescence and tried to pull back from the ledge to weigh the positives and negatives. As he’d said, any Hudson Pictures product carried clout and a guaranteed cinematic release. An indie film did not. The best she could hope for was acclaim at the Sundance or Toronto film festivals and possible success if that happened and the movie got picked up. But the market for independent films was exceptionally tight right now. Few were selling without big name stars. Her friend’s flick had no box office draws in the cast.

Slim-to-none chances versus a sure thing. Some choice.

Focus on the outcome, her brother always said. In this case, the outcome was a chance to get named credit for working on a major feature film, one she truly believed in, and a credential for her résumé.

She sighed in defeat. She was only twenty-eight. Her dream of a family, of someone to come home to and a career she could be proud of, could stand a few months’ delay.

Although she’d probably live to regret it, this was a chance she just had to take.

“I’ll do it.”

Friday evening Dana palmed the key to Max’s Mulholland Drive house in her damp and unsteady hand, but she hesitated to slot the key into the frosted-glass-and-iron front door.

It was stupid to be nervous. She’d been to Max’s house dozens of times since he bought the place four years ago, but never while he was here. He usually sent her to pick up or drop off something while he was tied up at his office, on a set or away on location. She’d been here several times since the day two and a half weeks ago when she’d left him in France. But tonight felt different.

Should she let herself in or ring the bell? He had to know she’d arrived. Not only had he summoned her the moment his plane landed and told her to drop everything and get over here, but she’d had to stop at the end of the driveway and punch in the security code to open the electronic gates. Whenever the gates were activated a chime sounded in the house. Had he slept through the summons? Or was he working? Either way, she didn’t want to disturb him. She lifted the key.

The door opened before she could shove it in the slot and her heart tripped. Max, with a dark beard-stubbled jaw, a faded blue T-shirt and a pair of snug, worn jeans, stood barefoot in front of her. She’d never seen him dressed this casually before. He tended to dress for success at work, and he’d always demanded the same of his staff. Today’s sleepy-eyed, just-out-of-bed look made her want to drag him right back to the rumpled and possibly still-warm sheets.

Don’t go there.

She dragged her brain back from taboo terrain and studied his pale, drawn face and mussed hair. His body was probably still nine hours ahead on French time and thought it was the middle of the night. After several months in France it had taken her a few days to adjust. “Jet lag?”

“I’m fine. Come in. We have a lot to do.”

Typical male. Refusing to admit weakness and stupidly ignoring the fact that he needed rest. “I take it you didn’t sleep on the plane or nap when you got home?”

“No time. I could use a pot of coffee.”

“You don’t drink coffee, Max.”

“I will tonight.”

“I’ll make it.” She instantly wanted to kick herself. Taking care of him was her past role, not her current one. If she wanted him to give her new duties, then she had to stop doing the old ones.

“Thank you.” He turned and headed back into the house, leaving a subtle trail of his cologne, Versace Eau Fraîche. She knew because she’d had to buy a bottle when he’d forgotten to pack his for a previous trip, and she loved the lemon, cedar and herb notes.

Her gaze traced the tired set of his broad shoulders. When she caught her eyes taking the old, familiar journey down his straight spine to his tight butt, which looked totally yummy in the jeans, she abruptly averted her eyes, tightened her grip on her briefcase handle and mentally shook herself.

Get over this obsession already. He’s not yours. He never will be yours. Move on.

The two-story marble foyer echoed her footsteps as she followed him toward the elevator with her gaze firmly fastened on the back of his head. The doors enclosed them into the paneled space. She focused on the numbered panel until he leaned against the wall—another testament to his exhaustion. Max never leaned on anything. He was too dynamic for slouching.

“Max, you’d think more clearly if you slept a few hours.”

“Later.”

The doors opened onto the second floor. His multilevel house clung to the side of a hill. She knew the layout from her previous visits. The kitchen, living and dining rooms were on this level. His office, the screening room and his private den occupied the third. His massive bedroom and two others sprawled across the fourth floor.