Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
It’s full frontal.
Farrow decks Ace in the face with skilled, enraged force, a massive amount of power going into that single blow. And I hear a sickening crack in his cheekbone, and the porn star hits the stone porch.
My pulse jackhammers—I was about to swing at Ace, but Farrow beat me to it and now that it’s done, all I want to do is get this goddamn camera crew out of here.
“Leave,” I growl at them while Ace stays on the ground, moaning in pain.
A hipster-looking guy with a handlebar mustache holds out his hand. “Wait, we only want to leak a couple of these photos with your permission. We can even pick the tame ones for you.”
“What?” I breathe hard, confused as fuck.
Farrow grips the edge of the door. Seconds from smashing it in their face.
“You both get to be in the press,” he explains. “It’ll increase your social media following, and in exchange, you’ll drop some hints on an Instagram Live or two about Sensual Flixxxs. How it’s your favorite website. It’s good marketing and a win-win for all of us.”
What the hell…
“Get the fuck out,” Farrow says through gritted teeth, “or you’ll join your friend on the fucking ground—”
“We could film a chaste kissing scene,” he adds quickly, taking a step back. Afraid of Farrow. “No sex or penetration. We’ve got the crew here. We could do it right now. We’ll pay you twenty million.” His gaze swerves to Farrow at the talk of money. Like he knows that’d be his incentive.
Fuck him.
Fuck this.
Farrow lets go of the door, about to throw another knockout punch. But I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from starting a drag-out fight with five men. Doing what he’d do for me.
And then an SUV slams to a stop onto the pebbled path. We both go still.
“It’s not a bad offer,” the hipster tells us, but we’re looking behind him. “Other celebrities would have taken it.”
“Redford!” Oscar yells from the car. His curly hair blows in the wind. He’s the only guy here from SFO. Bruno and the rest from SFA file in and close around the camera crew.
“Confiscate their phones,” Farrow tells security before the words leave my mouth, and I watch six bodyguards all descend upon the trespassers to protect us.
“We’re leaving,” Ace chokes out, picking himself up. His hand to his face. “We’re leaving.”
“You’re not leaving,” Farrow sneers. “I already gave you that chance. Now you’re going to stay until we’ve—they’ve combed through your equipment.”
“And then we’re pressing charges,” I say, my voice stilted.
I don’t know what I feel. Grateful that the full frontal is of me and not him. I know I feel that.
Farrow kicks the door closed, and it shuts with a loud thud. I back up a few feet, and as soon as he turns towards me, we latch onto one another. Our arms slide around each other’s shoulders.
Chest to chest, we tighten the embrace, and his heavy pulse thumps against mine. We’re okay.
His hand warms my neck. “Maximoff,” he breathes.
He stops there.
Because he knows.
Like I do.
There’s such a small chance that those photos won’t be leaked. I don’t know who else has them, and if they were smart, they would have already sent the pictures to their bosses. Once a photo is taken, the line between a leak and privacy is so damn thin.
I can only hope that my lawyers will be fast enough to file cease and desists. That they’ll obtain the photos before it snowballs out of control.
And the last thing I think, I can’t propose today. Somehow, that hurts the most.
32
MAXIMOFF HALE
Being with family should have taken the edge off what happened at the villa, but last night we boarded the mega yacht in the Med; and with twenty-seven family members on the ship, I’m feeling the heat of almost everyone’s whispers and silent sympathy.
It’s heavy.
And not what I wanted to bring onto a family vacation. On the main deck, sleek white cushions and couches cluster around a five-foot deep pool. Cooling off in the waters, I perch my elbows out of the pool on a towel.
My thumb marks the place in a paperback: Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, but I train my eyes straight ahead. Where an overhang shades a circular table with fourteen plush chairs, and right behind that seating area, sliding glass doors lead to the main saloon.
SFO had a debate on the pronunciation of saloon, but Oscar shut it down quickly and let everyone know it’s pronounced “salon.”
I have a good view inside that saloon, and I see Farrow side-by-side with Dr. Rowin Hart. Both treat severe sunburns. Red fiery blisters are puckered on Winona’s shoulders and arms. Ben looks worse, fire-engine red legs swollen like logs. Both of them used some kind of knockoff organic sunscreen, and it didn’t do its job.