Closed Set

By Julia Harlow

Cassandra Carlson is working on her five-year plan. A professional dancer, she moved to Los Angeles to work at her best friend's Hollywood dance studio. She decides she can put up with the glitterati for the time being until she saves enough to open her own studio back home in Cincinnati.

When soon-to-be A-list British actor, Christopher Edwards, comes to her for dance lessons for his new film, the attraction is instantaneous and intense. Both are young, available and strikingly beautiful, but while she finds Hollywood garish and superficial, he's on the brink of realizing his life's ambition with no inclination for a serious relationship. Or so he thinks.

Just when their white-hot desire can no longer be denied, a jealous actress targets Cassandra in an insidious scheme, and a powerful studio head poses a formidable threat to them both. Cassandra puts herself in jeopardy in order to protect Christopher, but will she lose him in the process?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julia Harlow
• Release date: Jul 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311241085

Julia Harlow

When she’s not writing her next romance novel, Julia Harlow can be found reading a romance, taking a walk through the historic village she calls home, baking a batch of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies, or watching the latest Netflix drama series. Her books include Closed Set, The Talented Mr. Maxwell, and All Tyed Up.

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ClosedSet-FJM_High_Res_1800x2700.jpg

Closed Set

a novel

Julia Harlow

Closed Set

Copyright Julia Harlow 2014

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781311241085

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Chapter 1

Christopher

I’m not quite sure how I feel about dance lessons. Sword training, archery or body building instruction–definitely. But dance lessons? Cruising down Hollywood Boulevard in my graphite Aston Martin DBS en route to my first session, I mull this over. I’ve always thrown myself into any new film project with full force, and this one is no exception, especially since I’ve coveted the role of Harrison West in Sizzle for so long. But my ‘tall, dark and handsome’ persona can be a liability when it’s perceived that I do everything well and with confidence. Truth is, there are loads of things I can’t do worth a damn, including whirling gracefully around with a woman in my arms.

Traffic’s a bitch, and despite the massive V-12 under the bonnet, I’m limited to bloody first and second gear. I absolutely hate being late.

I angle into a white-lined parking space adjacent to the Dance Academy of Beverly Hills in the freshly re-paved lot. The faint smell of blacktop lingers in the bright sun-heated air as I swing the car door open and tuck my sunglasses in the V of my shirt. A wind chime tinkling outside a gift shop is almost drowned out by the cawing of a black crow perched atop the green and white awning of an ice cream parlor. The crow has a bead on me as I head into the two-story pink and white dance studio next door, thankfully on time for my scheduled appointment with one Cassandra Carlson. With my luck she’s probably a middle-aged ball-buster.

The studio has worn caramel-colored hardwood floors with a hint of citrus scent, mirrors on all four walls and pale pine bars around the perimeter. Enameled white walls and a ceiling dotted with halogens give the space a clean, open feeling, full of possibilities, like an unpainted canvas.

A young woman in a black leotard and pink tights glides toward me from across the studio. Lustrous dark hair, green eyes, ample breasts peeking out of the top of her sleeveless black leotard, a tiny waist, and curvy hips. And her mouth. Pink, perfectly shaped, and practically beckoning to me. She extends a delicate hand and in a soft voice says, Mr. Edwards? Hello, I am Cassandra Carlson. Well, fuck me. She’s young… maybe twenty-two or twenty-three. I blink a few times and pull my hand slowly out of my pocket, buying time to recover my equilibrium. Her small hand feels soft in mine and a pleasurable tingle shoots from my palm all the way up my arm and makes a beeline straight to my groin. What the fuck was that?

Trying my damnedest to pay attention to what she’s saying and not her alluring face and body, I semi-listen as she explains how the sessions are structured. Class lasts an hour and a half. We always begin on mats for floor exercises and stretching. She gestures a slender bare arm toward a stack of shiny black mats at one end of the studio. Then we proceed to the barre, and finally the center of the studio. Her air of authority is surprising, given her soft voice and tentative demeanor.

She looks up at me, her green eyes curious and without a hint of coyness asks, Have you had any previous dance experience in films?

What? Is she taking a piss? "I’ve starred in the miniseries, The War of the Roses, for five seasons. There are a more than a few dance scenes. Have you heard of it?"

She shakes her head. Not much time for TV with my schedule. Ouch. I thought she would know who I am- but there’s no time to dwell on my wounded ego because she’s onto another question.

Any injuries from sports or other activities? I need to make an assessment of your overall physical condition before we begin. Oh yeah? Well, I’d like to make an overall assessment of your physical condition right about now. I follow when she moves toward two chairs near a small alcove in a corner of the studio, giving me a chance to regard her round, perfectly shaped ass. Unfortunately, though, not nearly enough time since she lowers herself onto a metal folding chair, crossing those sexy-as-hell legs as she patiently waits for my answer.

Well, um ... I clear my throat. Let’s see. I strained my left knee pretty badly playing rugby. If I twist a certain way it reminds me. I severely bruised my tailbone when I crashed while snowboarding this past winter. Then, on the set of my last film, I gouged my heel. It’s mostly healed, but there’s a scar where a sharp piece of glass dug in when I stepped on it with my bare foot. Still a bit tender.

Oooh, sounds nasty. Let me see. I slide off my Olukai leather sandal and cross my foot over my knee, pointing to the scar. When she leans forward to take my foot in her hand, her full creamy breasts strain against the fabric of her leotard revealing certifiably cock-stiffening cleavage. Jesus. I tear my eyes away only at the feel of her feather light fingers grazing back and forth over the scar. Her head is bent low to peer closely at my heel. I draw in a deep breath and savor her sweet flowery scent. Her hands are soft but her grasp is firm and I wonder how those hands would feel on another part of my anatomy. What the hell, Edwards. Get a grip and focus on why you’re here.

When she releases my foot, I notice that she seems very professional, not nervous or affected by me, like some women are when they’re around me. She reaches up to a shelf behind her and picks up a laptop. While she briskly taps out some notes, I take my time to study her from silky hair to pink shoe-clad feet, welcoming the unguarded moment. My eyes travel back up to linger on her mouth, for me the most sensual part of the body. The gateway to pleasures I know she possesses. Her tongue licks over her plump bottom lip. Fuck. I’d like to run my tongue over that lip. For starters. My overall impression is of a pure, subtle beauty; a woman not the least bit interested in trying to grab attention or impress anybody. And yet, here I am, both impressed and interested when I shouldn’t be.

The clusterfuck engagement and breakup with Anne really did a number on me. Anne, tall, blond, athletic. She wanted me to stay in England to be near her and the family business. And she didn’t like me traveling or focusing so much time and energy on my career. Well, fuck that. If she truly cared for me… We were going to be married, have kids, be in a strong, connected, loving relationship like my parents. Something I’ve always wanted. I proposed to her over a candle-lit dinner, and when she said yes, everything in my life finally clicked into place.

Two months later it was all over.

That depressing memory is interrupted as my carnal gaze follows her when she rises from the chair. In a smooth, almost musical voice, she says, T-shirts, sweats or tights, and ballet shoes work best for this instruction, Mr. Edwards. She asks my shoe size, lightly steps over to built-in shelving in the alcove, and produces a pair of men’s black ballet shoes from a salmon pink Capezio box. Let me show you where to change.

She leads me out of the studio and down a short hallway to the changing rooms. The men’s changing room is lined with shiny black painted benches on one side and mirrors on the opposite wall. White subway-tiled showers and toilets are in a large adjoining room.

After I change into dark gray sweats and a white T-shirt, we stretch out on mats in the center of the studio floor while she explains the overall benefits of ballet stretching and core strength exercises. She’s cordial enough but maintains a distant air. Have I somehow offended her? What the hell did I do?

Let’s see how flexible you are, Mr. Edwards. Lie on your back and lift your right leg. Standing over me with one hand cupping my calf and the other on top of my knee, she pulls up my leg forcing my knee to remain straight. My forehead beads with sweat and I clench my teeth, feeling an uncomfortable twinge at the back of my knee.

Okay, we need to focus on getting you limber. We’ll take it slowly. Just stretch as high as you can for now before it gets too painful. Lowering herself to the mat next to me, she moves onto her side and lifts her straightened leg to her ear, her toe perfectly pointed, a relaxed expression on her face. The flexed muscles on her leg are softly shaped and elongated, unlike the tight bulges on mine. Very sexy.

Now, sit up straight and stretch your legs as far to the sides as you can, like this. Facing me, she spreads her legs out almost into the splits. For fuck’s sake! Stretching her arms out along her legs until she grasps her insteps, she flattens her torso on the mat between her outstretched legs. Christ! I want to reach out and glide my hands over those shapely pink-clad calves and thighs all the way up to the apex of her thighs. Heart thudding in my chest, I’m breathing fast just thinking about it. Any hope of concentration eludes me after staring at her in that enticing position.

Finished with the floor exercises, we start at the barre with pliés. There’s a light click, then soft piano music. Cassandra moves in sync with the classical notes and steps behind me. She places her hands on my shoulders, pushes down, and then trails her hand firmly down the center of my back. She’s standing so close to me. Did her breasts just brush against my back? I close my eyes, relishing her sweet scent as a lush curl floats over my arm, making me forget to breathe.

Remember, shoulders down, chin up, straight back. It should be as if a string is running up through the center of your body and out the top of your head pulling you up straight. Don’t look at the floor. Tighten your butt and abdominal muscles. Here, like this, she explains as she demonstrates a perfectly beautiful plié. Her head and chin gracefully follow her arm as it glides to the side. Tuck your thumb in. Remember, correct technique equals maximum benefit. Tighten all your muscles as you bend into the plié. You should feel it resonating throughout your body if you’re doing it correctly.

Next we do the five ballet positions in the center of the room with her touching and guiding my body into the proper form. I try to steel myself against the physical effects. I can be as cool and aloof as she is. Can’t I? This is bad. Really bad. There’s no time in my career trajectory for a distraction like Miss Cassandra Carlson, a woman who hits every one of my hot buttons, and who seems to have ‘serious relationship’ written all over her. A few hours in the evening hanging out in clubs and the occasional no-strings-attached toss is all I want right now.

We finish the session by running around the perimeter of the studio half a dozen times. I’m surprised to feel as knackered as I do. This is just dancing lessons, right?

My next client is waiting, Mr. Edwards. Good first session. See you on Wednesday.

Thanks. Wednesday, then. Turning to head to the dressing room, I jerk to a stop when I spot Kurt Jordan leaning against the doorjamb, an arrogant smirk on his face, clearly ogling Cassandra. Is that saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth? Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Kurt Jordan is walking proof that Hollywood loves to give second, and in his case, third chances whether deserved or not. He’s been arrested twice on assault charges, but got off both times when the female victims failed to testify against him. Intentionally messy dark blond hair, blue eyes, and a bad-ass attitude account for his heart-throb status with the movie-going public and helped land him the role of my brother in Sizzle. The malevolence lurking beneath his mask isn’t hidden from me. He shouldn’t be in this film; he should be in jail. And he should never, ever be alone with a woman as sweet and naïve as Cassandra Carlson.

Chapter 2

I do a one-eighty and face Cassandra, firmly grasping her shoulders. Without taking my eyes from hers, I nod towards the door. Tell him to give us a minute.

Her eyebrows shoot up and her perfect pink mouth frowns at me. What are you doing, Mr. Edwards?

Please, just tell him to wait.

I’m trying to run a business here.

I pull her into the alcove away from Kurt’s view, with her reluctantly trailing behind me. You need to be really careful around this guy. He’ll take one look at you in that leotard, my eyes flicker over her curvaceous body, and if you touch him the way you touched me, he’ll interpret it as an open invitation to have sex with him.

She backs away from me dislodging my grip on her shoulders and bites out, I appreciate your concern, Mr. Edwards. Consider me duly forewarned. Before I can stop her she’s across the room, greeting Kurt and showing him where to change. She stalks back to me none to gracefully.

Well? With her hands planted on her hips, she nods towards the door, clearly expecting me to leave.

Being on your guard is not enough. I’m staying. You are absolutely not staying. She might as well be stamping her dainty foot with that petulant expression on her face.

Look, I know Kurt Jordan. He’s in the film I’m working on. This guy’s got a criminal record. I soften my voice hoping to get through to her. Please, don’t do this. Casting her black-lashed eyes up at me I finally detect understanding in those green depths.

Okay, okay. She shakes her head and sighs. I’ll have my boss come down and stay in my studio while he’s here.

Is your boss a man?

Brinley Collins is every ounce a woman, but I wouldn’t cross her if you value your manhood.

Call her. I’ll wait. Glancing skyward in exasperation, she grabs her phone and calls Brinley.

Let me have your cell number so I can call you after his lesson to make sure you’re all right. Please. I pat down my sweats in search of my phone to enter her number but remember it’s in my jeans pocket in the changing room.

My cell number is private and not for clients. She starts to turn away from me.

Either I get your number or I stay here. Your choice, Cassandra. This is serious.

She grabs and pen and scribbles her number on a piece of paper and thrusts it at me. Happy now?

No, but at least it’s something.

Kurt passes me on my way to the changing room. After making a disgusting wet sound with his tongue he says, That’s one sweet piece of ass in there. Can’t wait for my turn.

What? I snarl, jerking around to face him, fists tight at my sides, itching to knock that smirk off his cocky face.

Don’t be such a stiff ass, Edwards, he sneers, punching me hard in the shoulder before sauntering toward Cassandra.

Yanking off my sweats, T-shirt and shoes, I change quickly, far too agitated to shower. A small stack of colorful Dance Academy of Beverly Hills brochures sits on a glass-topped table at the entrance of the changing room. I snatch one up on the way back to the studio doorway hoping it contains information about Cassandra, whom I really shouldn’t be interested in.

A slim blond with soft features perches on a stool keeping a hawk-eye on Kurt Jordan. Must be Brinley Collins.

The mild, breezy late summer day is lost on me as I stalk to the parking lot. What the fuck am I doing? Without even knowing this girl for more than a couple of hours, I’m intervening in her business. Focusing on my career is first and foremost after struggling for fifteen years to finally get recognition. The last thing I need is to get ensnared in this Kurt Jordan shit, or to get involved with Cassandra Carlson. With a sharp yank, I slam the car door, start the engine and accelerate away from the Dance Academy of Beverly Hills and that frustrating, enticing woman.

Cassandra

I savor a sip of frothy latte and peruse my over-booked schedule on this lovely September day, my absolute favorite time of year. Maple leaves are just about to turn brilliant red back home along the Bluff, exuding that aromatic autumn scent. The vivid image of squirrels scampering to collect the abundant acorns and buckeyes plays in technicolor in my mind’s eye, making my homesick heart ache even more than usual.

Two back-to-back new clients got squeezed into my schedule first thing this morning. Both actors. Wonder if they’ll be the usual insufferable, full-of-himself Hollywood types. I can put up with almost anything for my five-year plan. I need to earn enough to get the heck out of Hollywood and return home to normalcy where I can start my own ballet studio for children, not elite glitterati. Day by day, the shallow superficiality of Tinsel Town is sucking the life out of me. I exhale an exasperated groan as I flip to the first client information sheet:

Name: Christopher Edwards

Age: 29

Nationality: British

Height: 6’ 2"

Weight: 177 pounds

Build: muscular/athletic

Sports/Activities: weight training, horse riding, swimming, shooting, snowboarding

Representative: Creative Artists Agency

The rest of the information includes his filmography, which lists several recent blockbusters. Impressive, if that sort of thing means anything to you. Now he’s starring in a film based on a red-hot book series I haven’t read and don’t plan to read. There are several key dance scenes in it, mostly ballroom but also a couple of club scenes. There’s a photo of him at the bottom of the sheet. Okay, I admit it. Christopher Edwards is attractive, really attractive, but the picture is no doubt airbrushed or photo-shopped or something. No one can possibly look that good.

Brinley Collins, the owner of Dance Academy, and my closest friend, chose me for this client because of my broad background in dance and the success of previous actors with whom I’ve worked. I’m determined to keep this the utmost of professional experiences as I do with all my clients. Just then Christopher Edwards strides in.

One of the first things I notice is the faint scent of tobacco. Darn! And I’ve been trying so hard to quit. That thought vanishes as I attempt to process his utter gorgeousness. He’s tall and stands up perfectly straight, making him seem taller than six foot two. He’s leanly muscular, with dark, almost black, curly hair, a strong jaw, and a charming cleft chin. In contrast, there’s a delicateness to his nose, full mouth, and the hollows of his cheeks. And if that’s not enough to have you latching onto his leg, his eyes are a striking shade of violet. The skin on his face, neck and arms is smooth and flawless. Women would kill for skin like his. My fingers twitch with the urge to run along his neck to see if it feels as silky as it looks.

Because I chose California over New York several years ago to follow Brinley, I’m so used to beautiful-looking people that it hardly fazes me anymore. Anyone with money for a plastic surgeon can look what passes for beautiful. But this man? We’re talking about a combination of exceptional features that add up to heart-stopping, panty-dropping masculine perfection.

After a few sessions, we’ll sit down and evaluate how you’re doing, where we are and what we need to work on, I say, trying to calm the somersaulting crickets in my stomach. I’m strict about warm ups, stretching and complete preparation before proceeding to the next level. Film studios tend to get very cranky about injuries to their leading actors. But, based on the shooting schedule, we should have plenty of time to get you ready.

*****

Christopher calls the moment Kurt Jordan leaves the studio. There’s no time to even discuss this Jordan loser with Brinley. Motioning to her that I’m taking this call, I drift into the small office beyond the changing rooms and nudge the door closed with my foot.

Well? The sound of that single word uttered in his sonorous voice flows over me like warm buttery caramel.

He’s every bit as creepy as you said he’d be.

What did that fucker do to you? he spits out with surprising vehemence.

After kicking off my ballet slippers, I flex my feet on the white Steelcase desk and wiggle all my toes with a satisfied sigh. A hot bath and cool glass of wine await me at home.

Nothing if you don’t count the crude remarks and aggressive demeanor. I was really glad Brinley was there, by the way. Thank you for insisting.

You’re welcome. What else?

He asked me out. Said we’d be really ‘hot’ together.

Did he, now? And what did you say? His voice raises a decibel and there’s a sharp edge to it.

That I don’t date clients. Per Dance Academy of Beverly Hills policy. Not exactly in the policy.

After a long pause, he asks, When is his next lesson?

Well, Brinley and I were about to discuss that when you called. My instincts are telling me to drop him as a client.

I hear a heavy exhale on his end of the line as if he’s been holding his breath. What are you doing tonight?

Excuse me?

C’mon, Cassandra. My only interest is keeping Kurt Jordan away from you. That’s all. You shouldn’t be on your own right now, especially if you give him the boot. That won’t go over well with him and he has a ferocious temper. So, your plans this evening?

Has anyone ever told you you’re very bossy? Then, deciding it would be easier to just tell him, I answer, I’m going to the ballet, if you must know.

There’s a big surprise. What time and where? Is he smiling?

Brinley is waiting for me outside the office when I open the door. She’s a tad taller than me and a bit thinner, with short, layered blond hair and large pale blue eyes. The angelic contours of her cheeks, nose and mouth belie her sharp wit and dagger of a tongue when she’s riled.

What do you know about Christopher Edwards? Brinley is firmly plugged into the movie biz grapevine. Her father is one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood, and her mother is a former actress now best known for her Beverly Hills charity balls that keep her in the know of anything and everything Hollywood related.

So, I’m not surprised when she practically rattles off his complete biography. "He’s well-mannered but distant. No one he works with ever gets to know him well. He’s very private and careful about his relationships. Makes anyone working for him sign a confidentiality agreement. He has more acquaintances than friends. Although, he does like to go to bars and clubs, and goes out of his way to be personable with fans, always stopping to take photos and sign autographs. A really nice guy, overall, but extremely ambitious and career-focused. His movie that’s due to premiere soon is an action thriller destined to be a franchise if box office numbers are good. He could be another Bourne or Bond.

Of course, with his looks and stature, women fall all over him, she continues, twirling the stem of her glasses between two fingers. He’s easily one of the most gorgeous men on the face of the Earth. Apparently every actress he’s worked with wants to marry him, or at the very least go to bed with him. Why do you ask?

He’s coming with me to the ballet tonight because of his concern about Kurt Jordan. Doesn’t think I should be alone.

Really? Interesting. She draws out the four syllables of the word, then pauses to chew on the tip of her Gotti tortoise shell frames, cocking her blond head to one side. Come to think of it, the two of you would make an exquisite couple. If you weren’t such a finicky prude, you’d let him know you’re interested. Christ, Cassie, you’re probably the only twenty-three year old virgin left on the planet. It’s high time you got you some, girl… and with Christopher Edwards. Ooh la la. In the classic French gesture, she puts her thumb and first two fingers to her lips and waves them dramatically up and away from her mouth.

Don’t be ridiculous, Brin. A man like Christopher Edwards would never be interested in the likes of me, and I’m not looking for a relationship. You know that. I’m ambitious, too. So, now, back to reality, what do we do about Kurt Jordan?

Christopher’s right. The guy is really creepy, Cassie. He watched you like a vulture stalking a baby bunny the whole time he was here. I’ll call Shelly at Brookstone Studios right now and tell her your schedule is too full. That way, you won’t have to see him again.

Chapter 3

A little thrill runs through me as I scan my wardrobe. I’m actually going to the ballet with Christopher Edwards. What’s in my closet that could possibly do justice to being on that gorgeous man’s arm? I choose a champagne-colored fitted evening dress that is flattering on my figure, and a coordinating pair of five-inch heels. An elegant chignon and dramatic smoky eyes but minimum make-up elsewhere almost finishes the look. A swipe of pale raspberry gloss, a spritz of Chanel, and I’m ready.

Christopher arrives early looking beyond James Bond gorgeous in a traditional black tux, all broad shoulders, slim waist and long legs in Tom Ford. He’s tamed his dark curls into a smooth, sophisticated style, but his expression is cute and boyish. A shiny black Mercedes sedan with a liveried chauffeur is idling at the curb outside my building.

I did some checking on this event, he says grinning sideways at me, "and it’s the premiere of Giselle, not just any ballet. You weren’t exactly forthcoming."

He places his warm palm at the small of my back guiding me to the car. You look stunning, Cassandra.

You look pretty stunning yourself, I say in my best attempt at imitating his British accent.

Are you making fun of me, Miss Carlson? he asks. I wonder how he manages to fold his tall frame into the supple leather seat beside me so effortlessly.

When we turn on to Grand Avenue and pull up in front of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, there are throngs of people, lines of limos, photographers and reporters. We’re graced with a balmy evening, stars twinkling in the indigo sky. As we step onto the sidewalk, a slight breeze ruffles the bottom of my dress.

Mr. Edwards! Mr. Edwards! Look this way please! photographers shout over one another. Christopher smiles and waves at the crowd as he takes my elbow and steers me to the entrance.

Who’s your date, Mr. Edwards? He leans down so close that his lips brush my ear sending a shiver down my spine. Do you want me to tell them?

Not really, I say and he waves again, moving me