I made my way across the lawn to the dance floor. It was a gorgeous night in a spectacular location, and I’d done a million nights like this before. But Miss Hart over there was already making tonight far more interesting than it should have been.
I settled in behind her, enjoying the view of those long legs and that shapely ass gyrating in front of me. She was going forit like she should have been wearing pasties and a thong. I had a totally irrational pang of relief that this was her reality: that she was here, alive and vibrant and free and not being abused by her creepy boss in some fucking tiny British town.
We found a rhythm. Or, she kept doing her thing, and I followed her lead, loving that she seemed oblivious to my presence. She pulled her hair over her shoulder, and I got an eyeful of the flawless skin of her back, tiny beads of sweat shimmering under the disco lights. God, I could so easily dip my head and brush my nose along the curve of her shoulder. Lick the sweat off her back.
But I didn’t. I stayed where I was, and she rewarded me with a quick glance over said shoulder. Her adorable bangs almost brushed the long eyelashes through which she stared at me. She looked shocked, then tickled, and the way her lips parted when she clocked me was immensely gratifying.
She turned away before I had a chance to fuck up and sweep those bangs out of her eyes, and kept dancing. I followed suit. The track changed toWork, and I went for it, matching her rhythm as she pretty much ground herself against me. As my girl Rhi-Rhi worked, so did we.
I was as high on Ellery as I was on coke right now.
I was transfixed.
My focus narrowed to this beat, and this woman, and this moment.
As she flicked her incredible body up and down in front of me, I felt myself growing hard. Just a little, but enough. My hand snaked around her waist, carefully avoiding those weird-ass giant sequins on her dress, and I left it there.
And then her hair brushed my face as she turned to me again. Smiled like she knew exactly the effect she was having on me.
‘See you,’ she said, and off she sashayed like the fucking queen she was, leaving me rooted to the spot.
CHAPTER 4
Josh
I’ve spent the past twenty hours thinking about Ellery Hart. I was still wasted when I sent that douchey reply to Perez this morning, but I know how to laugh at myself. Nearly twenty years in Hollywood have taught me that much.
The Twittersphere has gone wild today—I feel like we broke the internet—but I’ve spent most of the day over on Ile St Marguerite, ignoring it. Mom’s not happy, but I could give a fuck. A few of us chartered a yacht and headed over there mid-morning, where we hung at La Guerite, the iconic restaurant.
That place is sheer magic. The irony that you have to sell your soul and become rich as sin in order to sit at a table with peeling paint and pay top dollar for perfectly grilled prawns straight from the ocean below is not lost on me. But it’s worth every penny. And it’s especially valuable when everyone in the world seems hooked on whether you had a public hard-on last night or when you’re gonna marry a woman you haven’t technically met.
Tonight I’m going to fix that last part. Becausemy moles tell me she’s due here, at amfAR, which is a huge annual gig for AIDS research that Hollywood always comes out in force to support.
Another evening in this most magical part of the world, another crazy Belle Epoque villa. This evening we’re at the Villa Eilenroc, and it’s fucking amazing. When you mention Cap d’Antibes, people think it’s pure glitz, but up on the tip of the cape itself you’re aware only of the majesty of nature.
Sure, you have to be richer than God to stay at the Hotel du Cap or afford one of those wedding-cake villas up here—most of the owners are Russian oligarchs, I believe—but it certainly hasn’t been over-run. The scarcity of built-up areas only adds to its allure. The Eilenroc gardens are a national park, and there hasn’t been an amfAR Gala yet where I don’t escape off into the famous rose garden and wish I lived here in some decadent, F Scott Fitzgerald-esque existence.
But right now, the intoxicating scent of the rose gardens will have to wait, because I spot my target as soon as she comes through the meet-and-greet. For a newbie, she’s cool. I’ll give her that. The bank of photographers screams her name, and I get a sudden rush from the thought that that’s partly because of me. Having her publicly linked with me will hopefully make my job easier: unless she’s mad as hell about my tweet adding fuel to the Twitter fire.
She strolls into the room with a quiet confidence that impresses me. This woman has serious poise. She’s in a strapless, bubblegum pink tulle concoction that’s fucking huge at the back and completely cut away at the front, showing off those great legs. Her shoulders are bare again, her graceful neck glittering with a shit-tonne of diamonds, presumably courtesy of the Cannes Film Festival’s sponsor, Chopard.
I watch her accept a flute of Dom Perignon. I bide my time. She’s with Jackson James and Honor Chapman and another woman. Impressive allies for a first-timer. Thoughthey’re British, I guess, so it makes sense they know each other. I know Jackson, but I won’t ask him for an intro. I got this.
I stuff one hand in my tux pocket and grip my tumbler of scotch more tightly. There’s a crowd between me and Ellery Hart, but I have tunnel vision. I make my way over. Jackson spots me first and nudges her, a cheeky grin on his too-handsome face. But it’s her face I’m fixated on, her lips I watch as they curve up into a smile that’s both amused and curious.
She murmurs something to Jackson.
I wish I could lip-read.
They stand there and watch me sweat as I make my way towards them.
I hold eye contact the whole way over. I feel like bowing down in front of this queen and begging for mercy, but I stick out my hand.
‘I figured we should introduce ourselves properly.’ I give her my most successful, most Hollywood grin. ‘Josh Lander.’
She rewards me with a smile that’s sincere, but definitely not effusive. Shakes my hand. Her fingers are cool and soft. ‘Ellery Hart. How do you do?’
She speaks like the fucking Queen. So that soft, regional accent she had inGraciewas just for the part. I’ve heard two sentences in her real cut-glass accent, and I can confirm it’s fucking sexy.
