The Talented Mr. Maxwell

By Julia Harlow

Dorrie Applegate just stumbled into a career-launching opportunity. The small-town Kentucky girl landed a gem of a position at Omni Publishing in New York City. Her first major assignment—writing a biography of one of the most sought-after male models in the world.
Grant Maxwell is at the apex of his career. Unfortunately the end of his run looms before him. At thirty-four, scores of younger, hungrier models nip at his heels, vying for his spot at the pinnacle of the fashion realm. And he has no earthly idea what to do next.
In the midst of an unlikely and tumultuous love affair with Grant, Dorrie is suddenly forced into making an agonizing decision. It’s a decision that shatters Grant’s heart.
Step onto the volatile runway of fashion modeling packed to the hilt with clashing egos, impossibly gorgeous men, backstabbing, and biting jealousy. And caught in the snare of the dramatic intrigue? Dorrie Applegate and Grant Maxwell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julia Harlow
• Release date: May 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310334351

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.

Book preview

The man sitting next to Dorrie Applegate in first class smelled heavenly. Which would have been fine—certainly far better than the alternative—if she weren’t trying to concentrate on finishing the biography she was writing. Instead, she was concentrating on how delicious he smelled: a heady mix of apples and jasmine with hints of musk and citron.

To say that her editor was not happy that the biography wasn’t finished would be an understatement. And now on this October night she was on a flight to London to interview another celebrity, the next in the Celebrities Today series, and the biggest coup the series had ever landed. Normally, Dorrie would have been prepared for the upcoming interview, but this current undertaking had proved to be the assignment from hell. She had been tasked with making a pop star sound like anything but what he was: shallow, silly, and so brainless Dorrie was hard-pressed to figure out how he’d gotten this far. Handlers—that must be it. Trying to change his image was like trying to convince a gourmet that canned tomato soup was lobster bisque.

Dorrie continued to focus on her laptop. Not only was she struggling to ignore the delectable wafts coming from her seatmate, but he’d just bumped her elbow when he shifted in his seat, causing her body to tingle all over.

Oh, sorry, he uttered in a deep, sexy voice with a strong British accent. Hello. Why did she glance over at him? He was so powerfully handsome that it stung her retinas to look at him. He should have come with a warning like the warnings they give you about staring at an eclipse of the sun. And there he was: smiling a genuine, dimpled smile at her and causing her brain to go as mushy as over-cooked oatmeal.

No problem. She shifted away in her seat and willed her brain back to the boring pop star. But she felt Sex God’s eyes on her. Intense azure eyes on that bronzed face with high, sculpted cheekbones and a strong jaw were surrounded by thick hair so dark it was almost black. She was tempted to glare at him for staring, but he was way too handsome. Besides, she couldn’t keep her own eyes from straying down to his thighs, long and muscled in tight jeans, and to his large feet in brown leather boots, or keep her mind from imagining what it would be like to nuzzle into his irresistible neck.

Champagne? The flight attendant startled her, lowering a tray of flutes full of the golden bubbly in front of her.

May I have a cup of coffee, please?

Certainly, miss. And you, sir?

The Adonis to her left smiled in amusement. An old-fashioned, please.

Cold air blowing from the vent above her made Dorrie shiver, and she leaned forward to grab the tote from under the seat to retrieve a sweater. The drape of her ivory silk blouse was elegant but offered little in the way of warmth. Because the sweater was stuck under something in the tote, she bent over to loosen it, not realizing that her head was nudging her seatmate’s knee.

Need some help? His rich voice surprised her, and his warm breath puffed against her ear, causing her skin to pebble.

She caught sight of the dark stubble along his strong jaw. Just trying to get a sweater out of my bag. One more tug and the sweater pulled free. She was attempting to drape it around her shoulders in the limited space when a large hand took the edge of it and slipped it around her back.

Thanks.

My pleasure. These long flights are usually tedious. It’s a real treat having a challenge sitting next to me.

A challenge?

He chuckled deep in his throat and turned toward her. You seem determined to ignore me.

I’m not ignoring you—just minding my own business. She stared at the screen, trying to calm her racing heart caused by the potent cloud of testosterone enveloping her.

She desperately needed to focus. Even if she stayed awake the entire eight-hour flight, the possibility that she still might not make the deadline loomed like an ominous black thundercloud over her head.

Arianna DuPres held Dorrie’s future in her cold, bony hands, and she knew it. Dorrie had been hired as chief writer for Omni Publishing’s Biography Division because their top biography writer, Sayla Suri, now a celebrity in her own right, had defected to J & E, leaving Omni in the lurch. Dorrie had been given these two assignments at the last minute and knew if she blew them she’d be without a paycheck. Again. Her paycheck barely covered her portion of the rent for the tiny apartment in an iffy neighborhood she shared with two other young women. Both her meager savings and emergency fund had been depleted while she’d applied for jobs. If it hadn’t been for her grandmother’s help at every turn, she never would have made ends meet.

Cream or sugar? The flight attendant arrived with her coffee, having already delivered Adonis’s old-fashioned.

Both please. Dorrie plunked in a sugar cube, added some half and half, and stirred. Wisps of steam curled from the cup, so she blew on it before taking a tentative sip. Strong. But not bad. She hoped it would give her the jolt she needed to finish this idiotic biography. She itched to start the preliminary work for the male model in London because Omni had been wrangling to land the Grant Maxwell biography for over a year. More than one hundred and fifty emails and texts had gone back and forth between Omni and Entertainment Arts to make this happen. Dorrie knew she could do this and do it well, thereby securing her position at Omni. There had been talk of a pay bump if Arianna was pleased with her work. Maybe she could finally get her own apartment. Having just turned twenty-six, she figured it was high time.

She stretched her legs out and wiggled her toes inside her new Ferragamo heels, part of the interview outfit her grandmother Blanche had purchased for her. A wool gabardine pencil skirt, silk blouse, cashmere cardigan, and pearl stud earrings completed the ensemble. Thanks to Blanche, Dorrie had a quality, if small, wardrobe that she would be comfortable wearing in any professional setting.

After finishing his second old-fashioned, Sex God adjusted his seat back several inches, and Dorrie could hear his steady breathing over the low hum of the jet engines. When she surreptitiously glanced over, she was relieved to find that his eyes were closed. But the full impact of his rugged manliness hit her like a thwack upside the head.

Raw sexuality pulsed from his solid just-this-side-of body-builder physique. A white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and rolled up to his elbows clung to his ripped torso and muscular arms. Except for that full suckable lower lip, he had no soft edges, no feminine roundness anywhere. Just one hundred percent undiluted manly man.

She drank in his virile perfection and thought of sex, out-of-control, growling, screaming-in-ecstasy sex. Well, it had been a long time since she’d had sex. She squirmed in her seat. A really, really long time. What would it be like to have his body stretched over hers?

Decided not to ignore me, then? The low, gravelly voice made her jump, the seat belt painfully pinning her in place. He hadn’t even opened his eyes!

I thought you were asleep. Her cheeks flushed with heat.

Just resting my eyes.

Dorrie adjusted the laptop on the tray table, drank the last of her coffee, and set her mind once again to making the dimwit pop star’s predictable, shallow life sound exciting.

Traveling to London for work? Adonis’s head turned in her direction, and she felt the full force of his blazing gaze on her.

Yes.

Not much of a conversationalist, are you?

Okay, now he was going to get the full-on, no-holds-barred Dorrie Applegate WTF special. She drew in a deep breath, angled toward him, and promptly forgot what she was about to say. Instead of looking arrogant and judgmental, his expression was genuine, and he seemed bashful. Could that be?

I have to finish this project before . . . well . . . Yesterday would have been good. It was sprung on me at the last minute. So, no, entertaining repartee is not in the cards tonight.

He laughed and stretched out his long legs, crossing his ankles. I’ll go back to resting my eyes, then. Let me know if you change your mind about that entertaining repartee.

Three hours later Dorrie had finished Pop Star Doofus’s biography and sent it off to Arianna with a dramatic press of the send button. Yawning, she closed her eyes for a moment before starting to review the prep work for Grant Maxwell. But her mind was still racing like crazy even though she was exhausted.

So she thought of something inane to take her mind off work. The sex god next to her singlehandedly made the one-to-ten hotness scale obsolete. Ten wasn’t anywhere near high enough. If ten were the hottest/handsomest someone had been in the past, Sex God was what? Twenty? Not high enough. It would have to be a level never before or after achieved.

She yawned and relaxed into the seat, reflecting on her own appearance. On her best day, when she’d gotten enough sleep and when her hair cooperated and the moon and stars were aligned, she might squeak out a seven. But mostly she was a six.

~~~

She sighed. It was such a pleasant dream. She nestled her head and shoulder further into the warm, firm pillow and stretched her arm over someone’s very hard abdomen? No! She was not going to open her eyes because she was asleep in her own bed and her hand was not exploring a stranger’s six-pack.

Dorrie squinted through one eye and saw to her horror that her arm was across Adonis’s body and her fingers had slipped about an inch beneath his belt. He was grinning down at her, close enough for her to see his gleaming white teeth.

Comfy? He gave a throaty chuckle.

She yanked her arm away, sat bolt upright in her seat, and yelped, "Oh, God, I’m so sorry! Why didn’t you nudge me back to my own seat? Now I’m one of those people who fall asleep and snore and drool all over their seatmate." Too mortified to peek at him, she buried her strawberry red face in her hands.

Calm down. You didn’t snore or drool. At least not that much. You might have talked a bit in your sleep about how you wanted to jump the guy sitting next to you.

~*~

The truth was he had held very still, practically not breathing, so as not to disturb the lovely young woman when her head slipped onto his shoulder. He’d gazed down on her golden-brown hair, finely arched brows, and sensual rosy mouth and felt a surge of lust in his groin, for sure, but also something else. Something stronger. The urge to protect her nearly overwhelmed him. He breathed in her scent: so clean and fresh it reminded him of the crisp air on a balmy morning in May.

In fact, he’d watched her from the first moment she’d slid into the seat next to him, watched her brow furrow as she concentrated on whatever she was working on, watched when she crossed and uncrossed those shapely legs, and watched her chest rise and fall under that little silk blouse. Actually, he noticed quite a bit about her: no rings on her pretty fingers, so apparently not engaged or married; no alcohol, he assumed because she was working. She kept quietly to herself, was organized and tidy, and was well-mannered and polite to the attendants. But he somehow had the feeling that she wasn’t a frequent first-class flyer.

The jet was on final approach before he spoke again. So where are you staying in London?

Those finely arched brows inched up as she stared at him.

I’m not a stalker, I promise. My name is Henry Charles. He held out a large, tanned hand. When she made no move to shake it, he laughed. Oh, come on. You slept on my shoulder and groped my abdomen. The least you could do is tell me your name.

He seemed so natural and, well, decent that she tentatively held out her hand. Dorrie Applegate. Nice to meet you. Her smaller hand disappeared in his warm, firm grasp, and a charge of awareness made her whole body prickle.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dorrie Applegate. He released her hand as the plane touched down and bumped along the tarmac at Heathrow. So where are you staying? he repeated, now leaning toward her.

Um, I don’t actually know. The arrangements were last-minute. She opened her bag and pulled out a card, peering at it. The Westbury. I have no idea where that is.

As the jet lurched to a stop at the gate, Henry said, Oh, that’s near me. But Dorrie had already collected her tote, stowed her laptop inside, and stood up to disembark. He unfolded his six-foot-three-inch-frame and caught up to her on the jet way. Somehow he couldn’t stand to let her leave like this. Who knew what might happen to her on her own in London. She had ripe for the picking written all over her.

A driver is collecting me, and the Westbury is on the way to my flat. Would you like a ride?

Her stiff posture told him she still didn’t trust him. Well, good for her. A young woman arriving alone in a big city should be cautious. He could always help her find a cab with a driver that he deemed could be trusted.

Assessing brown eyes stared up at him. He must have passed muster because she replied, Yes, thank you.

~*~

By the time Henry Charles’s limo dropped her at the Westbury, it was late afternoon. Dorrie’s eyes had been glued to the car window, absorbing every detail of the landscape and scenery, especially all the iconic sights once they neared London. Now all she wanted to do was shower off the grime of travel, scrub her teeth clean, and take a long nap. Not the best thing to do to adjust to the time difference, but she just couldn’t stay awake any longer.

The Westbury was without a doubt the most opulent hotel she’d ever stayed in. It was then that she remembered hearing someone say that Omni Publishing had some sort of deal with the Westbury group and Omni’s employees stayed at its hotels exclusively.

Dorrie’s eyes widened as she stood inside the doorway of the single room. All this luxury just for her? The corn silk yellow walls and bed linens, richly mellowed wood furniture, and plush sage carpeting were so elegant she almost felt as if she were royalty. It was too much to be believed: little Dorrie from small town Kentucky staying all by herself in a room at the Mayfair Westbury. She wished with all her heart that Blanche could be here to see it. She’d have to call her as soon as she got some rest and stopped feeling as if a cement truck had run over her. Twice. She also needed to take some pictures of the hotel to send her.

She unpacked her small tote and hung up the few items of clothing she’d brought. Dark-veined white marble covered the walls and vanity top and lined the bowl in the lavish bathroom. She carefully arranged her toiletries and felt a spike of pleasure when she placed her tiny bottle of perfume on the pristine counter.

After a warm shower in the fanciest shower stall ever, Dorrie stretched out on the queen bed, ran her fingers over the cool, smooth sheets, let her head sink into the goose-down pillow, and promptly fell asleep with the sensation that she was still flying.

A red light blinking on the hotel phone next to the bed caught her attention the moment she opened her eyes. She could see from the open draperies that it was dark outside. Her head felt as if a band of leprechauns was banging hammers on it, so she dragged herself into the bathroom and took two ibuprofen tablets from the bottle she’d packed.

Turning on the lamps in the room helped to brighten her spirits, but she was hungry: stomach-rumbling hungry. It was eight thirty London time. Because she’d worked through most of the flight, she hadn’t eaten anything. Then she remembered she had a granola bar and pineapple juice in her bag and quickly downed them.

When Dorrie checked the hotel phone, there was a message from Henry Charles: Hello, Miss Applegate. If you feel up to going out later, there’s a little club just down the street from the Westbury called Bumble’s. I’ll be there at nine, and I hope you’ll join me.

Dorrie knew she should start the prep work on her next assignment. Definitely. No doubt about it. She pulled the binder from her bag. Her fingernails tap-tapped on the black cover. But then again, here she was in London, for cripe’s sake, and she’d probably never, ever, be asked out by the likes of Henry Charles again in her whole life. Actually, that was a dead certainty. So what choice did she have? Fluffing her hair in the designer-appointed bathroom, she decided she’d work on Grant Maxwell when she got back later this evening and then get up extra early tomorrow to finish preparing.

Okay. A swanky club in London. What the blast does one wear? She Googled Pippa Middleton on her laptop and scrolled through the zillion photos until she found one that might do. Right before she left for this trip, she’d stopped in a boutique near her office to see if she could find a cocktail dress in case she needed to attend an evening event on this trip. The saleswoman had convinced her to buy this little slip of a thing that hugged every curve of her very curvy body. Dorrie couldn’t believe dresses like that even came in a size fourteen.

After applying eyeliner, mascara, blush, and lip gloss, she brushed her hair forward with her head hanging down and approved of the results she saw reflected in the mirror when she flipped her head back: a mane of full, golden-brown waves. The dress was another matter. She’d forgotten how difficult it was to get into with no zipper and clinging like Saran wrap, but she eventually managed to wriggle into it.

She’d probably never shown so much skin before in her life, apart from when she’d worn a bathing suit. Between earning a BA in English Literature and a Master’s in Journalism while working part-time as an au pair and at the perfume counter at Nordstrom’s to defray tuition costs, she hadn’t had much of a chance to go clubbing. She slid into strappy black heels.

She’d never tried to alter her full-figure by dieting because she came from solid Kentucky pioneer stock and knew she couldn’t change her genes. Besides, she enjoyed having curves and looking womanly. She pulled the dress up to cover some of her cleavage but only succeeded in exposing more of her thighs. Dorrie was nothing if not resourceful, so she plucked up a black-and-green paisley shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders.

After she stashed her room key, lip gloss, and credit card in her evening clutch, she checked the room clock: nine thirty. Had he gotten tired of waiting and left? Oh well, she’d have a drink alone and come back early.

She stopped at the concierge desk to ask how far Bumble’s was from the hotel. A grandfatherly-looking gentleman named Ian, who smelled slightly of pipe tobacco, told her it was just a block away. He accompanied her to the front of the hotel to direct her, adding that the club was so exclusive it didn’t have front signage. When he smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkled and gave her a warm feeling. She wondered briefly how she’d get in if the club were so exclusive. Would they turn her away?

The clicking of her heels could barely be heard over the traffic din. Black London cabs, red double-decker buses on nighttime tours, and a myriad of passenger vehicles jammed the streets. Diesel exhaust from the buses should have bothered her, but instead, she reveled in the smell because she associated it with the excitement and adventure of big cities. She clutched the shawl tighter as the cool evening air whipped around her and peered into the lighted windows of the gorgeous Georgian buildings she passed, wondering who lived there.

The entrance to Bumble’s was only a few minutes away from the Westbury. Two men in dark three-piece suits manned the front entrance. She stopped short, twisting the end of the shawl in her fingers. She wasn’t a member and didn’t want the embarrassment of being turned away. What made her think she could get into an exclusive club? She decided to return to the Westbury and have a glass of wine in the lounge, but before she’d taken two steps in the direction of the hotel, one of the men called over, Miss Applegate?

She turned back to face him. Yes? With a phone pressed to his ear, he said, Wait a moment, please. Just then, Henry Charles practically burst through the front door.

Miss Applegate! So glad you could make it.

She wondered if the wattage of that smile could light up all of Buckingham Palace. It certainly lit her up. She’d thought the only reason he’d invited her this evening was because he felt sorry for her being alone in London. But now, the way his eyes lingered on her, taking her in from golden-brown waves to black stilettos, she wasn’t so sure.

Dressed in a stylish tweed suit complete with a silk tie, a pocket square, and snazzy shoes, he looked dapper and even more of a knockout than she’d remembered. And he was big. She knew he was tall when they’d walked through the airport, but now he seemed to tower over her.

Henry cupped her elbow and led her through the front doors and into the cool, dim atmosphere of Bumble’s. A honey-smooth male voice crooned Tony Bennett-like from a small stage surrounded by dark-suited musicians. After they’d been seated at a table, Henry cleared his throat and said, You look fantastic, Dorrie. May I take your wrap for you?

She clutched it even tighter around her chest, feeling a little too exposed. I’m a bit chilly, so I think I’ll keep it on for now.

Sure. What would you like to drink? Before he’d even raised his hand halfway to signal a server, one was at the table. Yes, sir, what may I bring you?

Although Dorrie felt out of her element, she was determined to rise to the occasion. When in Bumble’s, just like when in Rome, right? I would love a Bacardi cocktail, please. She gingerly placed her clutch on the edge of the table.

Henry ordered some sort of fancy Scotch she’d never heard of. He rubbed his jaw with long fingers and regarded her. So, how was the rest of your afternoon?

I took a shower and then pretty much crashed. How about you?

He chuckled. The same. You know we’re supposed to force ourselves to stay up, don’t you?

As bad as I felt, that was never going to happen. The server brought their drinks, and Henry lifted his tumbler of rich amber liquid.

Here’s to your stay in London. They clinked glasses and each took a sip. By the way, what business brings you here?

I’m not trying to be evasive, but I’d rather not talk about business tonight. She sipped her delicious pink cocktail, savoring the fruitiness with a distinct hit of rum, and relaxed for the first time in ages.

Have you had dinner?

Does a granola bar and pineapple juice count?

Definitely not. He shook his head, grinning at her. I didn’t have a chance to eat, either, so let’s have dinner.

Dorrie fidgeted in her seat. I was just going to have a drink and get back early to finish up some work.

"You’re dressed up looking like a million bucks on what I assume is your first night ever in London, and you’re seriously going to leave after one drink? You work too hard; I know that first-hand from observing you on the plane. Stay