Читать книгу Spotlight On Desire - Anita Bunkley - Страница 12

Taye drove away from Bon Ami with both hands tensed on the steering wheel of his truck, as if holding on to it kept Jewel Blaine’s image from slipping away too soon. Damn, she was hot! He could still feel her luminous brown eyes engaged with his, smell the delicate perfume that drifted from her beige-tan cleavage, hear the titillating chime of her voice in his ears. The heat of his reaction filled his gut, simmering there like hot coals banked to hold their warmth. Flushed with a strange sense of anticipation, he was not surprised that just thinking about her initiated the beginnings of an arousal that had no business existing and definitely no place to go.

She was more beautiful in person than she was on TV. Soft sable-brown hair, pulled back into a cascading upsweep of curls that created a sophisticated yet playful appearance. Smoky brown eyes that could flash with intelligence or simmer in sexy seduction. Skin like satiny sweet toffee—candy that he’d love to feel melting in his mouth. A diminutive powerhouse of a woman with gorgeous curves and the electric chemistry that put her slightly out of reach, even though her low-cut blouse had exposed sufficient cleavage to tease him, to dare him to try to shatter that proper-public image she presented to the world.

Taye smiled to himself. Jewel Blaine might not know much about him, but he sure knew a hell of a lot about her. Before their meeting today, he’d scoured the Internet for information about the mega soap star, checked out her Web site and viewed hours of past episodes of P & P. He knew that she came from a small east Texas town where she’d worked as a teenage model in a local department store before coming to Los Angeles to attend UCLA. Her first job after graduation had been as a pool secretary at Metro Artists United, a talent agency where she caught the eye of an agent who put her in a TV commercial and launched her career. She had never been married, had won two Daytime Emmys, a BET Award and an NAACP Image Award. She was devoted to her fans, whom she referred to as her family and in more than one interview she’d stated that a husband and children were most likely not in her future, as they would complicate the career goals she’d set for herself.

But is she happy? Taye wondered as he tried to throw off images of his lips easing down over hers, his hands spanning her tiny waist. Had she felt the sexual magnetism radiating between them every time they’d locked eyes? His heart turned over. Was hers doing the same? A quiver of arousal slid through him, making him shudder with startling need. God, how wonderful it would be to make love to her! But that was an impossible dream.

Jewel Blaine was smart. Professional. Driven. Secure. And certainly not easily swayed. He shouldn’t have been surprised that she would question if he was the right man to direct her show.

But she’ll come around, Taye told himself, sensing that he was just the man to handle a woman like her. It was going to be an incredibly exhilarating and possibly slippery experience, but he could hardly wait to get started.

It wasn’t the single glass of white wine that Jewel had had with lunch that made her miscalculate the distance between her car and the utility van that suddenly stopped in front of her. She stomped on the brakes and held her breath as the mind-fog fueled by thoughts of Taye Elliott broke apart and dissolved.

“Damn!” she cursed as her front bumper connected with the spare tire riding on the back of the van—thankfully, the hunk of rubber cushioned what could have been a major impact. Jewel slumped back in her seat, angry with herself for losing control and allowing this to happen. She was a good driver with a spotless record, and the last thing she needed was a moving violation or an angry driver screaming in her face.

Through her windshield, she saw the driver of the van—a wiry Asian man in a white jumpsuit—hop out and go to the rear of his vehicle. While he inspected the damage, three more men, who looked as if they could have been the driver’s brothers, emerged from the passenger side of the van and joined him. They began chattering away in a language that Jewel did not understand. However, she could certainly tell by the tone of their voices and their hand gestures that they were upset about the accident.

“Oh, hell, I gotta deal with this,” Jewel muttered, flipping open the storage compartment in the dash to retrieve a card with insurance information on it. Grabbing her purse and flinging her car door open, she jumped out and looked around.

Luckily, she had turned off busy Wilshire Boulevard to take Windsor to West Eighth, and was on a side street dotted with small shops, a gas station and a huge abandoned warehouse.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she began, hurrying toward the front of her car, thankful that no one was around who might recognize her and initiate a paparazzi frenzy.

“You hit me, lady!” the driver shouted, pointing to the back of his van. “You hit me hard.”

“I know, I know. It was all my fault. I’ll take care of any damage.” Jewel offered him her insurance information, which he snatched out of her hand, glowering more hatefully at her. Jewel sucked in a deep breath, stepped over to inspect the damage and was pleasantly surprised to see that the only vehicle injured was hers—a deep scrape that ran the length of her bumper. The spare tire on the back of the van had protected the other vehicle from damage.

“Well, that’s good,” she said with an audible sigh of relief, using hand signals to demonstrate to the man that hers was the only vehicle with a problem. “My insurance will cover my car. No reason to call the police,” she said, raising her voice. “No damage to you, thank God. No problem, right?”

The man rolled his eyes and glanced, three times, from the dent in her bumper to his unscarred van while his fellow passengers crowded around. Immediately, a rapid exchange of conversation erupted—short guttural bursts thrown back and forth, sounding very angry to Jewel, who stepped away in alarm.

Easing back toward her car, she began to worry. What were they talking about? Why were they waving their arms and screaming? Deciding that she’d better call the police after all, Jewel leaned into the open car door to get her cell phone, but when she raised her head, the driver of the van was standing in her face, screaming. He clutched his left shoulder with his right hand and bent over. “Problem, lady. Big problem. Hurt. Hurt real bad.” He kept rubbing his hand back and forth over his shoulder and groaning low in his throat. His companions patted his back in sympathy making pointed frowns at Jewel.

Jewel felt her mouth go dry and the muscles in her throat clamp shut. Was this some kind of a scam? Had she been drawn into a situation that was about to turn ugly? As the realization settled in, she made a quick decision: no way was she going to fall for whatever con job or sting these men planned to pull.

Revising her approach, she turned to the driver and, using her most intimidating voice, yelled, “What in hell are you talking about?” A pause long enough for him to understand that he’d chosen the wrong sister to tangle with today. “You’re hurt?” she snapped. “I did not hit you hard enough to hurt you and you sure as hell didn’t have any trouble jumpin’ outta your van.” She almost spat the words at the man. “I hit the spare tire. I was going only twenty miles an hour, at most!”

“Bad. Hurt bad,” the driver insisted in a more urgent groan, eyes swiveling toward his fellow passengers, who nodded their agreement.

Determined to maintain control over the situation, Jewel sniffed and then squinted suspiciously at the moaning man. “Fine. If you’re really injured, I’d better call an ambulance. And the police, too.” She whipped out her cell phone and held it up, almost like a gun, thumb poised, ready to launch a 911 call. Taking care to enunciate slowly and clearly, she told him, “I am calling the police. Police? Hospital? Okay?”

The driver’s eyes widened in apprehension. He let go of his shoulder and waved both hands back and forth. “No. No police, lady. No hospital. You pay me cash money, okay?”

Infuriated, Jewel laughed in his face, unable to believe this brazen demand. How dare he try to shake her down? In broad daylight? She snorted in disgust and jabbed the air with her cell phone. “Pay you cash money? I don’t think so. You gotta be out of your mind. I have insurance. If you’re really injured, my insurance will take care of you. I’m gonna call 911 and we’re gonna stay right here until the ambulance and the police arrive, then we’ll see how hurt you are.”

The man shouted something at his companions, who scurried back into the van. The driver spat on the pavement, hurled sharp words at Jewel and then returned to his van, taking off in a squeal of hot rubber.

Shaking with outrage, Jewel got back into her car and started the engine. Driving slowly, she paid better attention to the road and did not let her mind drift back to Taye Elliott, who’d already caused enough drama for one day.