When Da Silva Breaks the Rules. Эбби ГринЧитать онлайн книгу.
son and a villainous lover who didn’t want to let her go.
It was a dark, tragic tale, and the director was acclaimed. This film was very important to her—and not just for professional and economic reasons. One scene in particular had compelled Lexie to say yes, as she had known it would be her own personal catharsis to act it out. But she didn’t want to think of that now.
After a series of soulless but financially beneficial action movies, this was Lexie’s first chance to remind people that she could actually act. And hopefully move away from that hideous Luscious Lexie image the tabloids had branded her with. Not entirely unjustly, she hated to admit.
The young woman stopped outside a massive door and knocked. Lexie’s mind emptied. Her heart went thump and her throat felt dry.
She heard the deep and curt ‘Sí?’ And then the woman was opening the door. Lexie felt as if she was nine again, being hauled up in front of the head nun at her school for some transgression.
But then Cesar Da Silva was standing in the doorway, filling it. The woman melted away. He’d changed. Washed. Lexie could smell his scent—that distinctive woodsy smell. But without the earthy musk of earlier. It was no less heady, though.
Wearing a white shirt and dark trousers should have made him appear more urbane. It didn’t. The material of his shirt was fine enough to see the darkness of his skin underneath. He stood back and held out an arm, stretching his shirt across his chest. Lexie saw defined hard muscles. Heat flooded between her legs.
‘Come in.’
Lexie straightened her spine and walked past him into a massive office.
She was momentarily distracted by its sheer grandeur as he closed the door behind them. It was shaped like an oval, with a parquet floor, and it had an ante-room that looked like a library, with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books upon books.
Something very private and poignant gripped her inside.
‘Please, take a seat.’
Da Silva had moved behind his desk, hands resting lightly on top, but not disguising his obvious tension. The desk was huge, awe-inspiring. A very serious affair, holding all sorts of computers and machines and phones.
And yet less than two hours ago she and this man had mutually combusted and she had been oblivious to who he was.
Feeling uncharacteristically awkward, she started, ‘Look, Mr Da Silva—’
‘I think we’ve gone beyond that, don’t you?’ His face was mirthless and hard.
Lexie wondered for a crazy moment what he would look like if he smiled. Genuinely smiled.
She burned inwardly at that rogue little thought, and in rejection of his autocratic tone. ‘I...well, yes.’
Her big slouchy handbag was slung over her shoulder. She let it slip down now, and held it in front of her like a shield. Something was telling her this wouldn’t be a quick meeting.
A bright colour caught her eye then, and she glanced down to see a photo of herself on the ground. Frowning, she bent to pick it up. When she registered the image, her insides roiled. She’d been twenty-one. Completely naive. Cringing inside with embarrassment. Not that you’d know it from the picture. She’d been hiding behind a well-developed wall of confidence and nonchalance that hadn’t come easily.
She held the picture between thumb and forefinger and looked at Cesar across the desk. He was totally unrepentant. Something hard settled into her gut. The awareness she had of his sheer masculine physicality made her feel like a fool. And very vulnerable—which she did not welcome. It had been a long time since she’d allowed anyone to make her feel that way.
Then she saw the open file and all the other cuttings and clippings and pictures. She didn’t have to read the lurid headlines to know what the characters said even from here, upside down. Luscious Lexie.
She went icy. Her bag slipped to the floor unnoticed.
‘What is this?’
‘This,’ Cesar da Silva offered tautly, ‘is your life, I believe.’
Lexie looked at Cesar and right at that moment despised him. She’d barely exchanged more than twenty sentences with the man, and he’d displayed not an ounce of charm, yet she’d blithely allowed him to be more intimate with her than any other man had ever been.
Her conscience mocked her. That wasn’t technically true, of course. But the other experience in her life hadn’t been consensually intimate. It had been a horrifically brutal parody of intimacy.
Lexie forced her mind away from that and raged inwardly at the injustice of his evident blind belief in the lies spread before him. She hated that a part of her wanted to curl up and cringe at how all this evidence was laid out so starkly across his desk. Ugly.
She forced her voice to be light, to hide the raging tumult. ‘And do you believe everything you read in the papers, Mr Da Silva?’
He gritted out, ‘Call me Cesar.’
Lexie smiled prettily, hiding her ire, ‘Well, when you ask so nicely...Cesar.’
‘I don’t care enough to give the time to believe or disbelieve. I couldn’t really care less about your tawdry sex life with married men.’
Lexie saw red. She literally saw a flash of red. She forced air into her lungs. Clenching her jaw so tight it hurt, she bit out, ‘Well, then, perhaps you’d be so kind as to let me know what you want to discuss so that I can get on with my tawdry life.’
* * *
Cesar had to force back the urge to smile for a second. She’d surprised him. Standing up to him so fiercely. Like a tiny virago. Or a pocket Venus.
It took an immense physical effort not to let his gaze drop and linger on the swell of her breasts under the clinging soft material of her top. Or to investigate just how snugly those worn jeans fitted her bottom.
When she’d walked in he’d taken in the slim, shapely legs. The very feminine swell of her hips. She was the perfect hourglass, all wrapped up in a petite, intoxicating package. Her hair was loose and wavy over her shoulders. Bright against the dark wood of his office. Against the darkness of the castillo. Something lanced him in a place that was buried, deep and secret. He didn’t welcome it.
He didn’t like that he’d also noticed her beauty spot was gone. The artifice of make-up. It mocked him for believing himself to have been in some sort of a dream earlier. For thinking she was some sort of goddess siren straight out of a Greek myth.
But she was no less alluring now in modern clothes than she had been in a corset and petticoats. In fact, now that Cesar knew the flesh her clothes concealed, it was almost worse.
And he’d just been ruder to this woman than he’d ever been to another in his life.
He could actually be urbane. Charming. But as soon as he’d laid eyes on her again he’d felt animalistic. Feral. Even now his blood thundered, roared. For her. And she wasn’t even remotely his type.
He ran a hand through his hair impatiently. His conscience demanded of him that he say, ‘Look, maybe we can start again. Take a seat.’
Lexie oozed tension and quivering insult. And he couldn’t blame her. Even if her less than pristine life was spread all over his desk.
‘I’m fine standing, thank you. And where, might I ask, did you get your hands on what appears to be a veritable scrapbook of my finest moments?’
Her voice could have cut through steel it was so icy. Cesar almost winced.
‘Someone working on the film compiled information on the cast and crew.’ His eye caught another lurid shot of Lexie pouting over the bonnet of a car. His body tightened. He willed himself to cling on to some control. ‘It would appear that person was a little over-zealous with the back catalogue of your work.’
Lexie