Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,21

smoldering stare up to my face, he cocks a dark, slanted eyebrow. “So, do I get five more, or do I leave?”

“Why do you enjoy digging into people’s pasts, Mr. McCallum?”

“It’s Dominic, and don’t avoid the question.” He looks at me again. It’s just a simple glance, but it carries the weight of an avalanche behind it. If I’m not careful, it’ll bury me.

I clear my throat while fighting to regain my senses. “I’m not interested.”

“Do you have a deep-seated aversion to success, Angel?”

Drawing my eyes up, I collide with his icy stare. “You tell me, Mr. McCallum.”

After meticulously folding both photos, he tucks them back in his pocket and leans closer. “I told you to call me Dominic.”

“And I told you I wasn’t interested in your offer. I guess neither of us listens too well.”

A low laugh rumbles in his throat, and he shifts backward, draping his arm over the back of the couch. “I’ve already warned you about that attitude, cupcake. While I can appreciate a ballsy woman, the public likes their starlets demure.”

“I’m not your cupcake,” I huff.

Suddenly standing, he clears the distance between us in only a few steps. I have every intention of looking him right in the eye and telling him to get out, but the thing is, well, it’s not his eyes I’m staring at. He’s just the right height and my chair is low enough to land my face two inches from his groin.

And judging from the massive bulge in his pants, that’s the only thing that’s two inches.

I want to look away, but I can’t. It’s like I’ve been dickmatized, and the more I stare, the warmer my face gets.

“Angel?” I glance up to find an amused smirk on his face. “My eyes are up here.”

Leaping to my feet, I tip my head back, and glare at him.

At his eyes.

Yep, definitely his eyes.

Dominic glances down at the non-existent space between us. “Don’t give me an answer right now. It’s late, and we both need some sleep. Believe it or not, there’s a decent place to stay nearby that doesn’t have bars on the windows.”

Asshole.

“Take the night to think it over. My producer has to get back to LA, so I’ll have her drop me off at a rental car place in the morning, and then I’ll come by. Say around ten o’clock? We’ll go for coffee. My treat.”

I pretend to swoon. “Such a big spender. Unfortunately, I’ll have to decline. I have to be at the bar at ten.”

“Then make it breakfast, and I’ll be here at eight.” Hooking a finger under my chin, he tips my face up. “I suggest you unlock the door for me, Miss Smith. Unless, you prefer I do it myself.”

“Do it, and I don’t think you’ll like what happens next.”

“Oh, cupcake, you have no idea what I like.” He lowers his head, his lips barely brushing against the shell of my ear. But it’s enough that I have to press my lips together to trap the moan threatening to slip out. “But I know exactly what you like.”

I don’t know why I ask. He’s obviously baiting me, but my mouth refuses to cooperate and gobbles it up before my brain can reel it back in. “Is that right? And what do I like?”

I only vaguely register him moving toward the door, but the wolfish grin he gives me as he cocks his chin over his shoulder permanently brands itself into my memory.

“I guess you’ll just have to open the door to find out.”

Chapter Ten

Dominic

Silence is the gateway to hell.

That’s why after the damn radio won’t turn on, I drive down a dusty road in Chula Vista at seven-forty-five in the morning with the devil on my mind instead of the woman I’m on my way to see.

The devil is a tricky fucker. He operates a lot like a credit card. He’ll lay the world at your feet and ask for nothing in return.

For now.

That’s the thing about making deals with a man who rules the underworld. He waits until you hit rock bottom and then he strikes. And to be honest, his business plan is a lot more tempting than his saintly counterpart.

But there’s an old saying—everything in life comes with a price tag. Eventually the devil will come calling, and just like a credit card, if you’ve fucked around and let the interest pile up, there’s no way out. Your soul is his.

My mom used to have a saying, too—wish in one hand, shit