Who's Calling The Shots?

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He didn’t want her to be right about that. She couldn’t be right about that. It was his responsibility to find perfect matches for these women. But what if she was right?

Attraction didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. A questionnaire could tell you about likes and dislikes, but it couldn’t predict that physical blow right in your chest when you met someone and they blew you away. Not just because of their body or their looks, but because of something else. Something you couldn’t explain. Something he was becoming very afraid he felt when he looked at Brooke Wright.

She was a beautiful woman, that was obvious—but it wasn’t her beauty that made his heart beat faster when she was around. It was something else. A look she gave him when she was standing up for what she believed in. Attraction was purely physical, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t he just think about one of the other women? They were beautiful. And they all looked magnificent in a bikini.

But every time he tried to think of another woman his thoughts wandered back to Brooke. To her body in that tiny red bikini. To the way she’d tried to rouse the girls. To the way her eyes had glowed brighter and her hair had moved as she’d bounced around, encouraging the girls to fight. Holding her sword aloft against the fire-breathing dragon to protect her people. She was brave and strong and smart and perfect.

But of course she wasn’t perfect. She was argumentative and difficult—and if he was honest her mouth was too wide for her face. But somehow that just made him want to look at her even more. He wanted to stare at her and he had to force himself to look away. He was sure he was becoming obvious.

Sex. Lust. That was all it was. Physical attraction. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t felt it before. He just had to push the feeling down. Easy. He did it all the time. It was just a stupid crush. But somehow it felt different, and that irritated him. She wasn’t different. She’d be like all the others—after something. His money, his influence, his name. He’d not met anyone yet who liked him for him. It was what his father had always warned him about and unfortunately the old man had been right. Every damn time.

He couldn’t trust anyone—he knew that. And he definitely couldn’t trust Brooke Wright. And not just because he hadn’t figured her angle out yet—because she was beginning to occupy his mind a little more than he was comfortable with. And right now he needed to focus on the show. On his father’s threats and the executive producer his father was pushing him to take on. And on the contestant they were now struggling to get on an inflatable rescue boat.

He needed to concentrate on how he was going to introduce more twists and turns to keep viewers tuned in. But every time he thought of something he also thought of Brooke’s reaction and what she would say. And he wasn’t sure why. Why did it even matter what she said or did? He barely knew her. She was just another contestant. But the way she’d spoken about the way the show was representing women stuck in his chest. It forced him to think of his mother and the way his father treated her. How he lied to her, cheated on her, threatened her, bullied her. He hated it. He hated seeing the look in her eyes when his father said something cruel or thoughtless or failed to turn up again.

This was nothing like that. This was just a game—just a TV show—surely she could see that? It wasn’t real.

But Brooke had no idea. She was too sincere. Too ethical.

Jack ran a hand through his hair. Nothing came easy. Between ensuring this show became a hit, protecting his mother from the truth about his father and trying to earn enough money to buy himself out of his contact, he was wondering when it would let up. When he’d get a break. And now Brooke Wright had come along and embedded herself under his skin. Questioned him. Argued with him. He didn’t need that, and he definitely didn’t need to feel attracted to her.

He wondered for a minute how someone so small could be so much trouble. And why was she so much trouble? The woman seemed constantly angry. Why?

He’d thought he knew all about her. Just as he’d had all the other contestants researched, he’d had her researched. Marketing Manager of a family-owned company, one of five sisters. Seemed to have had a comfortable upbringing. Seemed to get along with everyone. No enemies anyone could find. No psycho ex-boyfriends. Currently single. Financially stable.

She had every reason to be perfectly happy, yet clearly she wasn’t. At least she wasn’t when he was around. Maybe something about him made her mad? Maybe he reminded her of an ex-boyfriend or someone else who had annoyed her?

From experience he knew that the way people reacted to each other almost never reflected how they felt about that person—it was more about what was happening in their head. The story they’d made up or the conclusion they’d come to almost never had any bearing on reality. Women were experts at it.

He made a conscious effort to work with facts. Not to read too far into things, to take each moment for what it was. Don’t look forward and don’t look back. So far that approach was working for him, and every time he found himself reflecting or looking forward to something he pushed those feelings right back down where they belonged. Out of sight and out of mind.

Some people called him cold. Distant. One particularly upset woman had called him soulless. But that wasn’t true. The truth was everyone had an ulterior motive and you couldn’t trust anyone. He was just protecting himself.

The lifeguards’ boat had reached the woman in the waves. She was still afloat, waving her arms. Her calls could be heard faintly billowing on the wind as it blew towards shore. His shoulders hurt from holding them so tight but he didn’t move his eyes. They had to keep rolling.

He had their number—these women on the show. He knew the ones who were doing it just to get famous, the ones who were looking for true love and the ones who were hoping it would change their lives.

His mind turned back to the Tiny Terror. He wasn’t sure what her angle was yet. She seemed sincere when she spoke, but she could just be a very good actress—most women were. She also seemed determined not to spend too much time on-camera. She’d come in, see the camera, smile awkwardly and move towards it, then she’d seem to change her mind and hightail it out of the room, or—more often—give him a tongue-lashing and then leave.

He hadn’t figured her out yet, but he would. He always did. Everyone had an angle, and sooner or later they slipped up—giving him the perfect opportunity to see them for what they really were.

‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’

Jack turned to see the woman he’d just been thinking of. Dripping wet in that small red bikini. It was a very small bikini. A bikini that was in danger of exposing even more than it already was. He stood, transfixed. Not by her face but by her body. Her petite but muscular body. It was perfect. It curved in where it should and was soft where there should be softness. But where there was no softness it was hard, glistening with sea water when the sun hit her. His throat went dry and his eyebrows felt heavy.

‘She’s drowning!’

Her manic cry snapped his head back up to her face. Her forehead was creased and her wide mouth was hanging open. He watched as she drew her bottom lip in and held it against her teeth. His already tense shoulders seized up. She was angry again. Getting ready to tell him off. But rather than annoying him right then it was turning him on.

Not many women argued with him. Not many people in general argued with him. And when they did he could normally talk them down, make a joke and defuse the situation, but she seemed determined to disagree with him. It should annoy the hell out of him, but it didn’t. Nothing about her was turning him off right now.

Lust. Physical attraction. That was all this was.

‘What?’ he asked absently as her lip bounced out from between her teeth again.

‘Alissa! She’s drowning out there and all you can do is stand and watch.’

Jack’s face moved back to the ocean. He remembered Contestant Number Three and the action that was unfolding out on the sapphire-blue water among the white tips of the waves that were crashing relentlessly to the shore.

‘She’s fine. The lifeguards have her.’

No point panicking. She was in good hands. He hoped she hadn’t swallowed too much water. She was a long way out but he could see her moving into the boat. She was flailing about a lot. So much so that one of the lifeguards had just received a nice hefty slap up the side of his head. She was fine.

His shoulders relaxed a little and he allowed a smile to lift one side of his mouth.

‘You think this is funny?’

Jack felt Brooke move closer. He didn’t move a muscle.

‘This isn’t funny! She could have drowned. She could have died. All for the chance to meet some man she doesn’t even know if she’s going to like! Don’t you see how crazy this is?’

She’d moved now and was standing in front of him. He wished she wasn’t. She was angry—that was obvious. He wanted to listen to her and calm her down, but it was hard when she stood dripping in front of him. Her breasts peeped out of her brief bikini top—so much so he was sure that if she just moved a little more he’d be able to see the darkness of her nipple.

‘Are you looking at my breasts?’

Busted.

‘Yes.’ He met her eyes. No point in lying. She’d caught him—and why wouldn’t he look? They were lovely, and she wasn’t exactly trying to cover them up. For someone who had spent an hour arguing about why they should be wearing wetsuits instead of bikinis earlier that morning, she’d chosen herself one of the briefest and sexiest ones he’d ever seen.

‘You make me sick.’

‘Well, clearly I make you something...’ He nodded towards her breasts, where her nipples now stood to attention. She was either excited or cold and he didn’t mind which. There was something incredibly hot about hard nipples showing through a bikini.