Unscripted Seduction - Chapter 2
Ama hit redial. Grimaced when predictably, it went straight to voicemail.
There was a click, then a male voice so deep, crisp and disdainfully controlled it might have been cut from black ice.
‘This is Damian Sefa. If you’re calling to ask where your pages are, don’t. If you’re calling to tell me what the work needs, it needs less interference. If you’re about to leave a message, save your breath. It will be deleted unheard.’
She closed her eyes for one exquisite second.
Then, because some instincts were stronger than self-preservation, and being underestimated would’ve stung less if it were new, she ignored it landing on an old bruise, stood straighter, and said into the empty line, ‘Good. I’d hate for your reputation to exceed the reality.’
She ended the call, slid the phone into her bag and reached for the door handle just as it rang.
Ashon Biney.
She exhaled. And answered. ‘Mr Biney.’
‘It’s Ashon. Has he answered?’
‘He has a voicemail message that sounds like it should come with a legal waiver.’
‘Miss Osei.’
The crisp use of her surname sharpened everything. Ashon Biney didn’t waste syllables when his tone was sufficient. ‘As of six a.m. this morning, Damian is threatening to walk off the picture unless production stops pushing him for pages. That’s bullshit of course. I’ll sue him into next century before I let him walk away. But here’s the thing. Investors are rattled. And that’s never a good thing. So I need you in front of him now.’
Her grip tightened on the phone. ‘I’m outside his house.’
‘Good. And, Ama?’
‘Yes?’
‘If he bolts, Obibini bleeds.’ The line went dead.
For one hard second she stayed exactly where she was, pulse kicking, the weight of that sentence settling on her shoulders with brutal precision. This was exactly the kind of assignment that turned men into legends and women into footnotes unless they handled it flawlessly.
This wasn’t helping her mother by shadowing or being useful in the margins.
This was the spotlight. Hot, merciless, and all hers.
She stepped out of the SUV. Then froze as the front door, twenty feet away, started opening.
A man stood there barefoot, broad-shouldered, unsmiling, devastatingly male in a black T-shirt and loose linen trousers, one hand braced against the frame in open hostility.
His face was sharper than any photograph had prepared her for. Beautiful in the dangerous, ungentle way some weapons were beautiful. His gaze skimmed over her once, cool and cutting and far too perceptive.
‘So,’ Damian Sefa said, his voice every bit as ruthless in person, ‘Obibini finally sent someone arrogant enough to arrive uninvited.’
Ama lifted her chin and shut the car door behind her with a measured click.
‘No,’ she said. ‘They sent the woman who’s going to stop you blowing up a multimillion-pound film because you’re scared to finish your own script.’
And she cursed her sharp tongue as something chillingly violent flashed in his eyes.
Damian’s expression didn’t change. But something in the air did.
It tightened. Darkened. Turned strange and electric, as though the first clean strike had already been made and now the storm was merely deciding where to land next.
His gaze held hers for one beat too long, clinical assessment laced with offence as if he hadn’t expected her to say something so blunt and was looking for ways to punish her.
His mouth curved, his expression turning colder still. ‘You should leave.’
Ama folded her arms. ‘No.’
His eyes dropped briefly to the SUV behind her, idling on the gravel, then came back to her face. ‘You’ve made your dramatic entrance. Congratulations. Now get off my property.’
‘I’m not dismissing my driver until you’ve taken ten minutes to have a conversation like a functioning adult.’
Something flickered in his eyes at that. Irritation. Amusement. Possibly murder.
‘Functioning adult?’ he repeated, deadly softly. ‘You flew across the Atlantic to ambush a man in his home. I’d be careful about your definitions.’
He started to close the door.
Ama stepped forward. ‘Mr Sefa—’ The door slammed in her face.