Panty Dropper (A Sexy Standalone Contemporary Romance) (6 page)

W
hen I slid
into the back of the black SUV, I expected to find Leo waiting for me. But he wasn’t there.

“Good evening. I'm Steve, I’ll be driving you this evening. Mr. Armstrong will meet you at the restaurant.” Aside from that, Steve the driver said nothing else to me. I watched out the darkened windows as we drove on, to where I had no idea.

I got excited as we pulled onto Sunset Boulevard—finally something to check off the list and tell Delaney—but I should have known that Leo Armstrong would not be so common as to dine on one of the city’s most popular streets. Instead we soon turned off onto a small side street that wound its way up the hills until we arrived at a little place that looked like a small house tucked into the trees. The driver pulled the SUV up to the door, and a valet opened the back door for me, helping me out.

Inside the lights were dimmed and although most of the white linen covered tables were occupied, the noise level was low. Respectable.

“I’m meeting…Leo Armstrong?” I told the hostess, feeling ridiculous. The words sounded ludicrous coming from my lips. But the Amazonian blonde in the tight black dress said, “You must be Ms. Adams? Mr. Armstrong hasn’t arrived yet, but I’ll show you to your table.”

She took two hardcover menus, and I followed her through the dining room. I sat in the horseshoe booth, sliding to the center. I tugged on the dress Mel had provided me from the fashion closet. Rebecca let me take home a few clothes and cosmetics that I need for a story we were working on. Since I didn’t know much about the restaurant when Leo had called, I opted for a rich blue wrap dress that showed off my cleavage and hips perfectly. I just hoped Leo would find it acceptable.

And if his face upon seeing me was any indication, he did.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, that bright smile spread across his tanned face. He slid into the booth and kissed my check, his hand washing down my back, sending instant chills. “I hope you haven’t been here long.”

“Just long enough to get this,” I said, raising my glass of prosecco. I’d never admit it, but I hoped a part of me thought it would become our drink.

The waiter stopped by our table. I paused for his face to light up with recognition of having a big-time movie exec at his table, but he showed nothing when he said, “Can I get you something to drink, sir?”

“No, nothing for me.”

I turned to look at Leo, confused. “Can you give us a moment?” The waiter nodded and turned away without another word.

“Is everything okay?”

“Well, not really,” he said. He turned to better face me, his hand resting on my hip. It felt warm there, comfortable, his hand cupped perfectly around it. “I’ve got a bit of a work emergency on a set up in Seattle. I can’t stay for dinner. I'm on my way up there now.”

I felt myself physically deflate. I wouldn’t admit it, but I didn’t think it was because of the lost opportunity to turn more dirt up on him.

Being near him made me anxious in the most thrilling way.

“But I think you should come with me,” he continued.

“To Seattle? Now?”

“Sure, why not?”

“No, I’ve got to work tomorrow,” I said. Leo turned his head, and I realized my mistake.

“Doing what? Don't tell me you booked an acting gig,” he teased while watching me closely.

“Temp, I got a temp job,” I said quickly. “I think I’m answering phones. Not sure. I have to be there by nine, though.” I prayed he didn’t ask more.

“I’ll have you back in plenty of time, I promise.”

“Go up to Seattle and back tonight?” I asked. “You’re joking.”

“It’s just three hours. You fly up with me,” he said, leaning close enough that I took in his scent, already becoming familiar to me. He ran his fingers down my arm, sending me serious chills. “I’ll stay in Seattle to handle the business for a day or two, but you’ll fly back tonight.”

Confused, I said, “Why would I fly up to Seattle only to turn around and fly right back?” Even if it were first class, as I assumed, it was still a plane. It didn’t sound fun. It sounded the opposite of fun.

Leo leaned in close to my ear, nudging my hair away with his nose. Softly he said, “Did I mention it’s a private jet?”

Realization washed over me. For a moment, a flash of hurt seared my chest. This was nothing but a straight up booty call. He wanted to hook up with me, and then send me right back home like a paid escort.

But as soon as the pain erupted, I quelled it. I reminded myself that we were both using one another, and now that I saw Leo’s intentions, I could stop feeling guilty all of the time.

This is why I was being paid to write an expose about Leo Armstrong—because he was sleazy and rude and he used women.

My guilt now assuaged, I turned to him, our lips inches apart. “You know, I’ve always wanted to see the Seattle airport,” I said. “It’s on my bucket list.”

“You won’t believe your eyes,” he said, smiling so close to my lips. I wanted to close the inches between us, but in a crowded restaurant…

His lips covered mine before I could finish the thought. They touched me gently but firmly, his fingers just under my chin. I forgot about everyone and everything in those few moments, feeling the kiss he gave me and enjoying it fully.

“Aren’t you afraid someone will see us?” I said. He leaned his forehead onto mine, his fingers still delicately caressing my jaw.

“Let them.” He moved away from me to exit the booth. I followed his lead. He tossed two twenties on the table and said, “One of the reasons I come to places like this—aside from their outstanding filet mignon, is the discretion I know I can count on. Good night, Sylvia,” he said to the hostess as we walked past her.

“Good night, Mr. Armstrong, Ms. Adams,” she kindly replied.

Steve had us at the airport soon after, and I found myself walking up the steps of the Epix Studios private jet—one of them, anyway. This one, Leo told me, was for his use. “Sometimes I let the CFO use it,” he said, “since he handles the money. But this is the good one. Gulfstream G650.” He sounded so proud—or maybe arrogant. I tried to commit the plane to memory for my notes later.

Once the crew had greeted us—two pilots and one flight attendant, Helen—we buckled into our seats and readied for takeoff. Leo and I sat facing each other, and my eyes caught the long couch just across the narrow aisle.

“Don’t worry,” he said, leaning across the table from me once Helen had served us white wine. I could smell rich food warming somewhere in the cabin. “Once we finish dinner, Helen retires to the front and closes her door, and knows not to disturb me unless called. Cheers,” he added, and I clinked my glass to his. I felt a tightening in my throat at the thought of Helen knowing his routine, and when to stay away. It seemed to mean that I was not the first girl to take a ride with him on the jet.

I’d only flown a couple of times. Once Paul and I flew down to New York for a long weekend, but the entire trip was filled with his complaints of the traffic and noise and people and crowds, the very things I loved about the city.

The plane took off and I gripped the armrests tightly, the power of the long, sleek plane feeling so close, as if it were shooting us off like a slingshot. Leo watched me with an amused look on his face. I couldn’t help but smile back.

“You get used to it,” he said. “And then you can’t go back to commercial.”

I wondered if that’s how he felt about the women in his life, but decided to let it go—for now.

“I’m pretty sure I’m not the first girl you’ve taken for a ride on this jet,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” he said.

“Do you always take women with you wherever you go?” I asked. “Tucking them in your pocket like a trinket?” I smiled while I sipped my wine, trying to look like I was teasing when I really I wanted to know the truth.

Leo shrugged. He looked perfectly at ease in the high-back cream leather chair, flying away at a moment’s notice on a private jet. “I like to be surrounded by beautiful things. Is that so wrong?”

“No, not at all,” I said.

He swirled the wine in his glass as he watched me, waiting for me to say more. If he was so willing to answer, I’d be willing to ask.

Obliging my instincts, I went further. “Is your staff—like your driver Steve and Helen back there—carefully briefed on your new girls? Has anyone ever had a slipup and called someone by the wrong name?”

“I like to make everyone feel comfortable,” Leo said, his expression relaxed. “My assistants help to make sure all my guests feel welcomed. No matter who they are.”

“Even if they’re just some failed actress from nowhere Maine?”

“I want to hear more about this place you’re from” he said, by way of changing the subject.

Boy, he was smooth. I had to admire it, even as it angered me a little.

But still, I didn’t want him to know too many details about me. The less he knew about me, and the more I knew about him, the better.

“Don’t change the subject,” I said. I ran my hands over the soft buttery leather of the chair. “I just want to know how many other women have sat here.”

“We’re not doing that numbers game,” Leo said, his tone hardening now. “Sophie, don’t ruin this by asking too many questions.”

I had to get my story somehow. I needed to know more about him. As Helen brought us dinner—scallops and risotto on real china—I told myself to be patient.

“Let’s talk about why you’re really here,” Leo said, setting down his fork. I’d always heard that airplane food was terrible—if you got anything more than peanuts—but the food on that plane was the best thing I’d eaten in months. Better than anyplace Paul ever took me, that’s for sure.

“I thought I was just here to keep you company,” I said, my heart jumping as I once again braced myself for my cover to be blown.

His eyes held mine like they often did. When Leo Armstrong looked at me, I didn’t want to look away. “What I mean,” he said, “was, we need to talk. About the script.”

“The screenplay you gave me to read,” I said, relieved yet again. I’d let myself get caught up in everything else. Talking about the screenplay sounded like much more fun than trying to find out about his other women. I got my bag from behind the chair and pulled out the stack of pages.

“Tell me what you thought,” Leo said.

“I thought it was good,” I said, flipping through the pages.

“Be specific.”

I felt like I was being put on the spot by one of my college professors. But I wanted to impress Leo, so I started again. “I guess it’s just not my kind of movie.”

“Why?”

“Because,” I began. “I don’t know. I’m just not into these revenge stories. Drunk driver kills this woman, and then this crazy guy goes on a rampage of destruction to track down the driver and make him pay for what he did. I mean, did he have to blow up the police station in the process? It seemed a bit much.”

“A man seeking to avenge his wife’s death is a bit much?”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said, as Helen cleared away our dinner plates and refreshed our wine. I leaned down and slipped off my heels, letting my toes feel the soft carpet of the plane. “I just think that I need to know more from this guy. Jake, that’s the killer’s name, right?”

“You mean the man who is seeking revenge? Or the man who killed his wife?”

I cocked my head. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s an important distinction,” Leo said.

“It’s just an action movie,” I laughed, wondering why he was pushing so hard. “What does matter?”

“It matters,” Leo said, “because these characters are real. Or they should feel real, no matter if they’re seeking out a foreign enemy or someone from their hometown. You should feel something from the characters, understand their motivations. It matters, Sophie, because this is my business, and if you’re telling me that this is all just cheesy shit that doesn’t matter, then I have an earnings statement that says viewers all over the world think differently. This may not be
Kill Bill
, but it should be the best movie viewers pay to see on the night they choose to see it. Understand?”

I nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

“These aren’t caricatures and if they are, tell me—and tell me how you’d fix it.” He ran his fingers through his hair, taking in a breath. “Tell me what doesn’t work about it.”

I did as he asked, telling him my thoughts, being so specific I felt like I was a New York Times film critic or something. But Leo wanted to know every detail, every stray thought I had about the script.

As Helen brought out dessert—chocolate raspberry cake—Leo continued to push me, asked me questions. We worked through the script for nearly two hours, making marks on the pages about character development and pacing.

Finally Leo tossed his pen on the table between us and said, “You did well, Sophie. When you push yourself, you really see the heart of things. Of this.” He tapped the screenplay.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Armstrong,” I said. “I’m glad I pleased you.”

“Well,” he said, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” We locked eyes, and I wished for the life of me that the table wasn’t between us.

“You enjoyed the work?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I loved it. I mean, I didn’t do so great on this first go-around but I learned a lot.” It was true. Leo had made me look at the characters I’d normally brush off as one-dimensional in a different way.

I had to admit, I was surprised and impressed by him, by his work ethic, and his willingness to really take me seriously. Something about that fact was more attractive to me than almost anything else.

My desire for Leo had just grown by leaps and bounds in this short time.

Leo nodded, watching me carefully. Helen appeared and asked if we’d like our dessert plates cleared. “Yes, thank you,” Leo said. “And that’ll be all until arrival.”

“Yes, Mr. Armstrong,” she said, and she retreated to the front of the cabin, where I knew she’d stay behind the closed door until we landed. The thought thrilled me so much I felt myself twitch in anticipation.

Once she’d closed the door behind her and dimmed the cabin lights, Leo slowly rose from his side of the table and I almost melted with relief. A part of me had wondered all night if he really did just want to talk to me on the flight to Seattle, but the hunger in his eyes as he walked toward me said he wanted so much more.