Exposing Alix

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or
dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Inara Scott. All rights
reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form
or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact Inara
Scott at
[email protected]
.

Cover design by Su Kopil

Ebook ISBN 978-0-615-73416-3

First Edition December 2012

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or
trademarked status and trademark owners of the following marks mentioned in
this work of fiction: Los Angeles Airport (LAX), Hummer, Marlboro Man, Hotel
Bel-Air, The Oscar Award (Oscar), Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals (SPCA), Warner Brothers, Botox, Pilates,
Film Quarterly
,
ChapStick, Nikon, Dr. Phil, Sherlock Holmes, Mercedes,
Citizen Kane
.

For all the
women who believe in love…

He heard the creature before he
saw it—a low, heartfelt growl that promised death or at least a long stay
in the hospital if it was not obeyed. Ryker Valentine froze in the act of
peering into the window of the tiny clapboard cottage and spun slowly on one
handmade Italian loafer, hands spread wide in supplication.

“Nice doggie?” he said hopefully, eyes widening as he took
in the sleek muscled form of a Doberman pinscher.

The dog responded by lowering its head and growling again,
its eyes narrow and pinned on… Good Lord, were its eyes pinned on his crotch?

“Here now,” Ryker pleaded, “we’re friends, aren’t we? I’m
a nice mannie. A nice, nice mannie.”

He wiped a suddenly damp palm against his thigh before
digging into his pocket. When his fingers closed around the rigid outline of
his cell phone, he sighed with relief. At least he’d be able to dial 911 before
the dog ripped out his throat.

As if understanding Ryker’s intent, the dog curled back
one lip in warning.

Cell phone in hand, Ryker stepped closer to the tiny beach
house, though the ramshackle structure, with its candy-pink trim and rotting
wood porch, provided little cover.

This was the perfect end to his day. He’d already been
hassled by paparazzi in Malibu, had to wait three hours at the mercy of the
crowds at LAX when his flight was delayed, and then the only rental car left at
the tiny Eugene, Oregon airport was a yellow Hummer, which they’d saved
especially for him. He winced every time he looked at it. All this for a trip
he’d been blackmailed into making.

Ryker was preparing to push the emergency call button when
he saw a pair of jean-clad legs emerge from the other side of the house. A
tiny, almost child-sized figure wearing dark sunglasses and an enormous white
raincoat surveyed the scene and said cheerfully, “Guess you picked the wrong
house to rob, huh?”

Then, as if she had no interest in the activities of her
flesh-eating monster of a dog, the woman—he was almost certain it was a
woman, though the bulky clothes gave little indication of the shape of the
figure beneath—turned her attention to a small bed of flowers. With a
flip of her parka, she bent over and began to pull weeds.

Ryker had to squash a flare of temper at her nonchalant
attitude. Of course, in her defense, it must look as though he was trying to
break into the house. Still, he had a dog’s nose in his crotch. Couldn’t she
muster a bit of sympathy?

He tried to inject an apologetic note into his voice.
“Excuse me, do you live here? Are you Daisy Zahn?”

It seemed impossible. Daisy Zahn—or Alix Z, as she
was known to the film world —was famous for making sexy, art-house movies
that pushed the envelope as far as they could while still maintaining the
coveted “R” rating. Despite their limited releases, they’d ended up being huge
moneymakers, perhaps because they were universally acknowledged to be sensual
feasts for the eyes. This creature hardly appeared female, let alone capable of
stimulating the sexual fantasies of thousands of viewers.

No response. A slim backside pointed his direction. A pair
of binoculars swung from her neck, and she removed them before continuing her
weeding. A small pile of greenery began to form at the side of the bed.

Ryker gritted his teeth and tried to smile, reminding
himself that many people in the movie business were not what they seemed.
Perhaps she was a raging cauldron of sexuality beneath the plastic sunglasses,
bulky coat, and unfashionably short jeans. “Can you call off your dog, at least?
I swear I have no interest in breaking into your house.”

“Rex, hold.”

The dog sat back on its haunches but continued to study
him with an obvious bloodlust.

“I’m not sure that counts,” Ryker said.

“Look, I don’t like strangers and neither does Rex.” She threw
a bit of crabgrass on the pile and then straightened, wiping her hands on her
jeans. “This is private property, and you’re trespassing.” She cocked her head
toward the Hummer he had parked in her driveway. “However, you’re also driving
the ugliest vehicle known to man, and if I let Rex kill you, I’ll have to
dispose of it myself. So I’ll give you five minutes to get it—and you—the
hell out of here.”

Ryker took a deep breath and sought patience. He was here
to ask this creature, if she was indeed Alix Z, for a favor. Cursing her in
four colorful languages probably wouldn’t help.

“If you’re Daisy, we have a friend in common.” He grimaced
at the thought of the high-strung German millionaire who’d sent him on this
fool’s errand. “Although on second thought, he would probably prefer to think
of himself as not having any friends, so I suppose you could say we’ve got an
enemy in common. Gunther Hartcourt suggested I talk to you.”

Actually, Gunther had threatened to cut off the funds for
his movie unless he convinced the mysterious Alix Z to act as his consultant.
Still, it sounded better to call it a request rather than an order.

“Gunther?” She pursed her lips and crossed her arms over
her chest. “How do you know Gunther?”

Ryker pasted his best red-carpet smile on his face. “Ryker
Valentine, ma’am. At your service.”

“You say that as if it answers my questions. Should I have
a clue who Ryker Valentine is?”

Her tone dripped with contempt. He gritted his teeth and
tried to maintain the smile. He wished she would take off her sunglasses so he
could get a look at her face. All he could see was a small, well-formed nose
that spoke to either good genes or a talented plastic surgeon, and a pair of
full lips. The lips had promise. The jaw—thrust at a deliberately
stubborn angle—did not.

“Does the name
Garden of Eden
mean anything to
you?”

Garden of Eden
was Ryker’s directorial debut, a
gritty mafia story universally acknowledged as the sleeper hit of the year.
Gunther Hartcourt had produced it, taking a chance on a young, untested
director who cast himself as leading man and had won big. Ryker had been up for
Best Director and Best Actor, though he’d walked away from Oscar night
empty-handed.

“No.”

She was lying. She had to be. Everyone in America had seen
Garden of Eden
. At least, everyone with taste.

“
Cowboy Justice
?
Blue Moon
?” he said
helpfully, naming the first two films in which he’d starred, which had also
been critical and box office hits.

She shook her head again. “No and no.”

Gunther had said this might happen, but Ryker had refused
to believe him. He pushed a few buttons on his cell and then held it out,
grimly aware that the move required putting his flesh within closer reach of
the ever-watchful Rex’s jaws.

Growing up in South Central Los Angeles, he had seen the
injury a zealous guard dog could inflict. Gunther knew that, because they had
talked about having a pit bull on the set of
Salva’s Revenge
and Ryker
had flatly refused. Over the years, he had learned to tolerate certain family
dogs but not guard dogs.

He hated guard dogs.

Okay, was terrified of them, truth be told.

Gunther, who liked to imagine himself a practical joker,
thought Ryker’s feelings about dogs were amusing.

“Talk to Gunther. He’ll explain.”

And when this was all over, Ryker would kill him.

Alix snatched the phone from the
man’s perfectly tanned fingers, careful not to touch the smooth brown skin or
well-manicured nails. Of course she’d seen
Garden of Eden
. Everyone over
the age of seventeen with a pulse had seen it. But that didn’t mean she had to
give Mr. Fall-at-My-Feet-I’m-a-Movie-Star Ryker Valentine the time of day.

She pushed the call button and waited. The familiar
brusque voice answered immediately.

“Ryker? What are you doing calling me? You’re supposed to
be talking to Alix. A-L-I-X. You need her, Ryker, and if you want to make a
movie for me, you’ll get her.”

At another time, those words might have inspired a feeling
of pride; right now they only sent a flash of fury rippling through her. “This
is
Alix, Gunther,” she bit out.

“
Liebling
!” Satisfaction flooded his voice, with
the strong German accent she swore he cultivated to sound intimidating. “You
didn’t recognize him? Or said you didn’t, you cheeky thing. I knew it. I
absolutely knew it.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Before I answer, please tell me Rex is doing something
unspeakable to Mr. Valentine.”

Unable to entirely suppress a smile, she said, “They’re
getting acquainted.”

She could picture the grin splitting his ruddy cheeks.
“Lovely,” he exhaled. “I’ve been waiting weeks for this.”

Alix paused, waiting for him to explain, but there was
silence on the other line. “Um, Gunther?” she said finally. “Did you have
something you wanted to tell me? Like, why you sent a swollen-headed movie star
to break into my house?” She flashed a quick look at Ryker, who was glaring at
Rex with a mix of fury and horror. He wore a loose button-down shirt of some
fine, silky material that had evidently been rained on and now outlined his
absurdly broad shoulders. Raw, potent masculinity oozed from his pores, just
like it had on the big screen. Most actors looked smaller in person than they
did on film, but not Ryker. He looked even bigger, as if the camera couldn’t
entirely capture the enormity of his brooding, physical presence.

She forced herself to tear her eyes away.

“Sorry, darling,” Gunther continued. “I was just enjoying
a visual of the scene. Listen, you know I wouldn’t send anyone to you lightly.
Ryker’s got something to ask, and you’re going to want to say no. But you have
to promise me you’ll hear him out.”

The smile dropped from her face. “Gunther, does this have
anything to do with—”

“So suspicious!” he chided. “Just hear him out and then
call me.”

Resisting the urge to bury the phone deep in the sand, she
let out a long exhale. “Gunther, you know I’m not doing that anymore.”

“I never said you were. We can argue about it later. Just
listen to what he has to say, all right? I’ve got to run. I’ve got people
coming for drinks in an hour to discuss a new script, and the house is a
wreck!”

Abruptly, the phone went dead, and she stared down at the
screen with a sense of growing futility. She owed Gunther everything she had,
and he’d never asked for anything in return. Of course, she had
made
millions for his production company, but still. If he wanted her to talk to
Ryker Valentine, she had no choice but to do it.

Sighing, Alix turned her gaze to the painfully beautiful
man glaring at her from an admittedly uncomfortable position, pressed against
the front of the house. Rex, ever patient, sat calmly in front of him, tongue
lolling to one side. Alix snapped her fingers, and the dog obediently turned
and loped to her side, still keeping a watchful eye on the stranger with the
thick black hair curling at his temples.

Ryker Valentine.

She’d seen beautiful men before, many in all their naked
glory. It was an occupational hazard of directing movies with love scenes that
didn’t allow for much—or any—clothing. But Ryker Valentine had
something those men did not. He had a presence, a dark humor lighting his eyes
and wealth of stories in the deep lines around his mouth. He was Marlboro Man
mixed with Latino sensuality; rock hard muscles and the grace of a cat. The
fact that he was somewhat reclusive, living in relative isolation on the coast
in Malibu rather than in the flashier, prominent neighborhoods of Bel Air or
the Hollywood Hills, only made him more desirable.