Scandal in the VIP Suite--An enemies to lovers stuck together romance Page 4

  “My mother is dead.”

  The words spilled out without warning. Fragments of her mother’s obit surfaced in her memory. Estelle Taylor, star of A Raisin in the Sun and Porgy and Bess, died of pneumonia in New York City on July 3. She was sixty.

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Ms. Taylor.”

  “Oh, never mind.” Nina dabbed at the corner of her eyes. “It’s been a year. I don’t know why I brought it up.”

  “Does it matter if it’s been a year or ten?” Grace asked.

  “No.”

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Grace said, “but you look exhausted. Get some rest tonight.”

  “I don’t have a room!” she reminded Grace. “I’m on a sofa bed in the study! How restful will that be?”

  “You and Mr. Knight came up with this solution on your own.”

  “I didn’t think it through,” Nina said.

  “Had you let me do my job, I would have offered you accommodations at any one of our hotel partners.”

  Had Grace done her job, she wouldn’t have given away Nina’s suite to JL Knight. But she was too exhausted to belabor the point. “Is that still an option?”

  It was a holiday weekend, and she assumed most hotels were booked solid.

  “It is. But you should know the sofa bed is very comfortable. It’s imported from Italy.” Grace stood to leave. “I’ll leave instructions with the front desk. Whatever you do, don’t delay.”

  “Because of the holiday?”

  “Because of the rain.”

  As soon as Grace spoke the words, a gust a wind swirled through the garden trailing the scent of rain. A clap of thunder had Nina jumping to her feet.

  * * *

  Nina was out of breath when she made it back to the third floor, just narrowly escaping a downpour. She entered the suite through the sitting room. The doors to the balcony were wide-open and there he was, standing with his back to her. Without the added layer of a jacket, she could plainly see the contours of his muscles under his T-shirt, and it was impressive—not that she cared.

  Nina drew a breath for courage and joined him on the balcony, leaning against the rail. He smiled down at her, and she noticed that his soft brown eyes were flecked with gold. How had she not noticed before?

  “There you are, Goldilocks.”

  Nina cringed, but only on the inside. On the outside, she remained cool. “I spoke to the manager. They can put me up at another hotel.”

  “You’d head out in the rain?”

  “I love rain.” It was Miami! Summer showers were part of the package.

  “What do you love? Singing in it? Dancing in it?”

  “None of the above.” The sound of it was enough.

  “Hate to rain on your exit parade, but if anyone is leaving, it’s me.”

  “I just think—”

  “Stop thinking,” he said, interrupting, and yet his voice was gentle. “We agreed to make the best of this. Don’t flake on me now.”

  Her gaze fell to his hands gripping the rail. In the movie, he’d gripped the steering wheel of his sports car in the same way. To take her mind off the soft color of his eyes, his gentle voice, firm grip and sculpted arms, Nina turned away and focused on the view. The palm trees swayed in the rain. Below, a cluster of tourists stood outside the hotel gates. Once dubbed the Playboy Mansion of the South, it was a Miami Beach tradition to pose on the stone steps—even in the pouring rain.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I worked here as a valet attendant?”

  She had read about that online, but she couldn’t tell him that. “When would you have told me, JL Knight? We’ve just met.”

  “Call me Julian,” he said. “Trash this hotel suite if you like. I don’t care. But I insist you call me Julian.”

  “In that case, Julian, I insist you call me Nina,” she said. “Call me Goldilocks one more time and I’ll throw you off this balcony.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” He stretched lazily. “Nina is a pretty name.”

  The unexpected compliment threw her off guard. She felt herself softening and couldn’t allow that. “We’re off topic, Julian. I’ll stay the night, but I’ll probably leave in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s the Fourth,” he said. “Won’t that ruin your holiday?”

  Her holiday was ruined. There was no use pretending that it wasn’t. “I’ll buy a hot dog at the airport. That should do it.”

  “You’ll be missing the pool party,” he said. “Grace says it’s not to be missed.”

  This day had been so draining, so bizarre, that she hadn’t even made it to the hotel pool. How sad was that?

  Julian’s phone rang in his pocket. He reached for it and answered right away.

  “I know, I know,” he said, laughing at whatever the caller had said. “Soon! Promise! But tomorrow won’t work. How about the day after that? Would you be up for it?”

  Nina turned away, pretending as if she weren’t listening. The winds picked up and tossed her braid about like threadbare rope. Julian wrapped a hand around her elbow and steered her inside, still carrying on his conversation. “You don’t have to sell me on it. I want to come, and I miss your cooking.” He shut the door behind them. “All the flowers you want. Promise.”

  Nina crossed the sitting room to her door. Julian’s conversation was taking an intimate turn, and it made her uncomfortable. But when he spoke up again, she knew he was addressing her.

  “Have you eaten?”

  She turned in time to see him pocketing his phone. “I’m not hungry.”

  She had a couple protein bars and airline pretzels stashed in her purse. She’d make a meal out of it. More than anything, she wanted to lock herself in her room, fold out the bed and sleep for twelve hours straight. She wanted to say good-night and disappear behind a shut door, but a nagging feeling kept her rooted in place. She had something to get off her chest.

  “Julian, I’m not a crazy person in real life.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You just play one on TV?”

  “Something like that.”

  Nina might never be able to correct his first impression of her. Back in Hollywood, he’d likely entertain his friends with the story. “Did I tell you about the time I walked into a hotel room in Miami to find a woman taking a selfie on my bed?” And they’d all laugh.

  He sat on the arm of a wing chair and leveled those golden-brown eyes on her. “Why did you do it?”

  “You mean sneak into your room, climb on your bed and pose for a selfie?”

  He nodded. “That sums it up.”

  “Who wouldn’t? It’s a gorgeous room, don’t you think?”

  “No. Not really,” he said. “Too many gold knickknacks for my taste.”

  She agreed. There were way too many knickknacks, period. She wished she could leave it at that, but the truth was clawing at her throat. It would choke her if she didn’t speak up. Nina had to share the burden with someone. Julian was right there, watching her, waiting for more. She might as well tell him. “It was my mother’s dream to stay at this hotel. She’d go on and on about the Oasis. Her idols had all spent the night here—Elizabeth, Marilyn, Diana, Aretha... My mom had extravagant dreams.”

  Nina had planned this trip to mark the one-year anniversary of her mother’s passing. She had wanted to do something to honor the late actress’s life, something other than showing up at her grave with flowers.

  Julian’s gaze softened. “Want to switch rooms?”

  “No,” Nina said firmly. She’d gone too far with this already. “And don’t argue with me. I’m too tired.”

  “Want to come in and take that selfie?”

  Nina smiled despite herself. “No, thanks.”

  She opened the door to her room. The brass doorknob jammed, so the movement wasn’t as smooth as she would have liked. “Good night, Julian.”

  He was still watching her with that same unwavering interest, as if she fascinated and confused him all at once. “Good night, Nina.”

  She shut the door and collapsed against it. She was hungry and a little light-headed. That was all. However, the feeling stayed, even after she’d eaten, showered, detangled and braided her hair.

  Nina pulled out the bed and sat up cross-legged. A minute later, she got up and poured herself a glass of water. Outside, it was raining still, and the wet windowpanes glistened in the moonlight. She picked up her phone from the charger and took it to bed with her. Earlier, she’d skipped past the more revealing photos of her roommate online. Now she believed they were worth a second look. She found a trove of glossy photos taken on location in Italy’s Amalfi Coast for a British Vogue editorial. Some of the photos were candid shots taken during breaks. Nina tapped on one to enlarge it. Wearing dark sunglasses and a towel flung around his neck, skin baked to a golden brown, Julian stood palling around with the crewmen. In another, he was stretched out on the hard, flat sand, one arm across his eyes shielding them from the sun. He looked thoroughly relaxed, not pressed for time, not pressed for anything. His long limbs looked heavy.

  Nina hoped his skin tasted like salt.

  Five

  Julian’s car pulled up the drive to the Coconut Grove estate. Nestled among mature oaks was the modern home of Francisco Cortes. Julian asked his hotel-appointed driver to come back around in a couple of hours, then climbed the steps leading to the porch. A housekeeper greeted Julian at the door and led him to a back patio. The silver-haired man with the profile that ought to be minted on coins steered forward in a motorized chair. His lips split into a smile. “This is an honor. Welcome to Miami.”


  Over lunch, they discussed the California wildfires, at last under control. “With the sea levels rising,” Julian said, “you must worry—”

  Francisco interrupted him midsentence. “You and I are not going to solve climate change, not today. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

  Julian took a gulp of water. This would be the first time he discussed his project with anyone, and he was nervous. “I’m here to shoot my first film.”

  “Going independent,” Francisco said. “JL Knight Productions... That’s got a nice ring to it.”

  Julian didn’t dispute it, but he’d settled on Knight Films.

  “Good luck to you,” Francisco said. “I mean it. In my day, when the business spit you out, you were done. So I admire what you’re doing. But here’s the thing—if you’ve come to offer me the role of the grandpa with the heart of gold, you can forget it. I’ve retired. I don’t play grandpas. I sure as hell don’t play characters with hearts of gold.”

  Julian sat back in his chair and considered the clear-eyed man opposite him. He’d come to the right place. “I’ve come to ask you to direct.”

  “You might have inhaled a little too much smoke in the fire,” Francisco said, deadpan.

  “Back in ’91, you made a short film that debuted in Toronto.”

  Francisco dismissed his words with a wave of a hand. “That was just for fun.”

  “Fun is what I’m after,” Julian said. “I watched it five times. As I’ve watched all your films.”

  “Not all of them, I hope,” Francisco said with a chuckle. “Some of them were trash.”

  Francisco Cortes had played the quintessential Latin lover in countless films. He was magnetic on camera, commanding every scene he was in. But a near-fatal car accident had left him disabled and killed his career.

  “Wouldn’t you have liked to direct given the chance?” Julian asked.

  “Well, now.” Francisco ran his fingers along his well-trimmed goatee. “If anyone had predicted that I’d be having this discussion with JL Knight, I wouldn’t have believed them.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re not.” Julian felt compelled to reintroduce himself at every turn, like some parody of James Bond. “I’m Julian. You can forget JL.”

  “Don’t wipe out your legacy. On winter nights we screen movies out here.” He made a gesture capturing the world within the coral rock wall surrounding the estate: his home, the garden with its tangles of tropical plants, a kidney-shaped pool and a hot tub fitted under a pergola. “Thunder is always a crowd pleaser.”

  Julian clasped his hands together. “Happy to hear it.”

  “Tell me about your project.”

  Years ago, a UCLA film school student and waiter at one of his favorite taco spots had pitched Julian a story based on a true crime set in LA. The half-baked pitch was a nonstarter, but it had planted a seed in Julian’s mind. On and off, he’d worked on a script of his own set in Miami. Midnight Sun was a heist film loosely based on the story of a Miami heiress who fell victim to her con-artist boyfriend.

  “Yeah... I read about that,” Francisco said. “He stole her jewels during a solar eclipse.”

  “Hence the title.”

  “And you’d play the con artist.”

  “That’s the idea,” Julian said. “It’s a supporting role. This heiress is the lead.”

  “Very smart. You plan to film here in Miami?”

  Julian relaxed into his chair. Francisco was asking all the right questions. “Can’t do it convincingly anywhere else.”

  “Florida doesn’t offer tax incentives,” Francisco said. “Broward County has a program. You might want to consider filming some scenes there.”

  Julian was open to anything, so long as he could shoot some scenes at Sand Castle.

  “I’ll make a few calls. Find out what kinds of incentives are out there,” Francisco said. “Meanwhile, send me the script.”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” Julian pulled a copy of the screenplay from his leather messenger bag and handed it over. “If you’d like an electronic copy, just give me your email address.”

  Francisco flipped through the pages. “You wrote this?”

  Julian mumbled his answer, fearful of Francisco’s reaction. What if he thought it a joke and withdrew his support? But the older man chuckled good-naturedly. “You surprise me, Julian.”

  For the next couple of hours, they discussed financing and distribution options. Julian had reached out to a production company and had secured some financing. Francisco had not committed to the project, but he promised to help raise more funds and support Julian in every possible way.

  “What are your plans for today?” Francisco asked. “I’m having a family cookout. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Thanks, but I’m meeting with friends.”

  With that lie, Julian ended the meeting. He was not in the holiday cookout or party mood. His driver, a young guy who went only by Pete, was waiting outside. Kat had secured his services for the duration of his stay. On the drive back to the hotel, he asked question after question until Julian slipped on his earphones to signal the Q&A session was over. The rest of the ride was blissfully quiet and, by the time he got back to Sand Castle, he’d received good news and bad news via text message.

  The good news was from Francisco. He’d immediately reached out to friends at a local arts foundation and put in an informal request for grant funding. “They won’t turn me down.” The bad news was from Kat. A photo of him and Nina Taylor had surfaced on social media. It was a grainy cell phone pic of the two of them on the balcony.

  In the photo, they were staring at each other. Julian was dropped back in time to the moment Nina had threatened to toss him over the balcony if he called her Goldilocks again. She was looking up at him with a glint of defiance in her eyes. He’d loved the display of bravado and it showed on his face. The social media caption read: Kiss Already!

  Julian let out a sigh. He only had himself to blame. He knew better than to stand on an open balcony within cell phone camera range in the company of a woman. The cover of darkness plus a veil of rainfall was no cover at all. He’d have to warn Nina. He did not want her to be blindsided.

  This gave him the perfect excuse to knock on her door. Every cloud, a silver lining...

  * * *

  He knocked, but there was no answer. The famous pool party was raging downstairs, and he decided to check it out. Not because he thought it would be fun to celebrate the Fourth with a bunch of drunken strangers, and not because he enjoyed being passed around like a photo booth prop, which was sure to happen, but in the vague hopes that she might be there.

  Downstairs, he was ushered without question beyond the velvet ropes. He ignored the assortment of vodka on display at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a woman elbowing her way toward him, and he readied himself. Holding up her camera, she begged for a photo. “My boyfriend will die. He’s your number one fan.” Women seldom admitted to liking his films. It was always a husband, boyfriend or brother who got them to the theater.

  The bartender volunteered to take the photo. He was a fan as well. With so many fans, Julian wondered how his film had flopped. Then he grabbed his drink and moved away from the bar. From his vantage point on the veranda, he scanned the crowd below. It was possible that Nina had done the reasonable thing—checked out of the hotel and flown home. But then he spotted her on the dance floor, and it was clear to him that reason wasn’t the fuel she was running on.

  Julian didn’t make a move—he couldn’t. In the short time he’d known her, he’d seen her angry, distraught, threatening and resigned. But here was a side of her that he hadn’t guessed existed, and he was riveted. Nina was playful, dancing freely and having fun. But then he noticed the tight set of her jaw. Her movements were forced. He recalled what she’d told him the night before. He’d lost his mother years ago and knew exactly what she was going through. He’d been in Hawaii filming a special crossover episode of Riverside Rescue when he’d learned of his mother’s untimely death. The loss had sent him reeling for months.