Let’s Misbehave

A Summerhill Novel

Kate Perry

Praise for Kate Perry’s Novels

“Perry’s storytelling skills just keep getting better and better!” –Romantic Times Book Reviews

“Can’t wait for the next in this series…simply great reading. Another winner by this amazing author. “–Romance Reviews Magazine

“Hot! Recommended!” –Bookpleasures

“Exciting and simply terrific.” –Romancereviews.com

“Kate Perry is on my auto buy list.” –Night Owl Romance

“A winning and entertaining combination of humor and pathos.” –Booklist

Other Titles by Kate Perry

Stay the Night

Let’s Misbehave

Lost in Love

Say You Will

Loved by You

Mad About You

All for You

Here with You

Tamed by You

Sweet on You

Dream of You

Looking for You

Return to You

Close to You

Perfect for You

Playing for Keeps

Playing Doctor

Project Date

Marked by Passion

Chosen by Desire

Tempted by Fate

Project Daddy

www.kateperry.com

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kate@kateperry.com

Let’s Misbehave

Kate Perry

© 2014 by Phoenix Rising Enterprises, Inc.

Cover Graphic © Slava Basovich Photography

Formatting by Polgarus Studio

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For Jb Lynn, who told me this story needed a garden gnome. It was amazing how she knew that without reading the book, but she was right.

And for Parisa Zolfaghari, without whom this book would have been only about garden gnomes and sex. But not together—not even I’m that kinky.

Also for Katie Walker, even though she stopped me from putting a garden gnome on the cover of this book. Despite that momentary lapse, she’s brilliant.

But most of all, for my Magic Man, who opened a package that contained a garden gnome and simply said, “This must be yours, love.” Like peanut butter and jelly, or police tape and a bloody knife—you and me, baby.

Thank you …

To the single mothers who shared a little bit of their world with me:

Norma Edel

Kerrie Holien

Kim King

Sharon McDougall

Judi French Sherwood

Rebecca Wheeler

Aliza Hoomans

Joleen Watson

Meghan Trexler Decker

Jess Reese

Meg Harvey

Vanessa Akins Cercone

Christine Turner

Elizabeth Cameron Williams

Heather Marie McGregor

You ladies are made of love.

Also to Claire Wager, who helped me with info about Hyde Park.

Chapter One

Imogen looked at the butter knife in her hand and wondered if it was long enough to pierce a man’s heart.

Probably not. Dirk Ranger’s heart was so small it was probably buried deep in his chest cavity, under layers of conceit and hubris. She’d need a sword to get to it. A sword was better anyway—after puncturing his heart, she could cut off his balls.

Heaving a sigh, Gigi set the knife aside and put the slice of toast down. There was no telling how old the bread was. Her sister Titania wasn’t great at stocking her kitchen. Besides, Gigi wasn’t supposed to eat it—she had to be fit for her next role.

Not that she had one.

She hadn’t worked in weeks, and it was driving her mad.

The last time she’d been on set had been in December. She’d taken a few weeks off on purpose: her father had died and she’d come home to be with her family.

Only then the scandal had broke.

Scandal was such an innocuous, archaic word for what had happened. Violation gave a more accurate tenor for how she felt after Dirk had sold nude pictures of her to the tabloids. Livid described her after he’d released the video.

How could she have been so stupid? That was what bothered her most.

She’d needed to take a few weeks to regain her footing, but she’d started looking for her next gig in January. Only then the video had been released and she’d taken a tactical retreat, to let it fade into history.

That hadn’t happened.

But hiding in her ancestral home was overrated. She was crazed from boredom. She hadn’t been this idle since … Well, never.

She paced the kitchen. She had to take action now, because obviously things weren’t going to change on their own, not to mention that waiting wasn’t her style. She’d been working every day since she flew to Hollywood when she was eighteen. Being leisurely wasn’t in her skillset.

Frankly, she was surprised Franny hadn’t packed her up and sent her back to Hollywood yet. She’d been driving everyone at home to distraction with her restlessness.

Shaking her head, she went back into the living room and took out the contents of her purse until she found her mobile. Calculating the time difference first, she called her agent in Los Angeles.

Betty answered on the first ring. “Imogen, I was just about to call you.”

Gigi rolled her eyes. “Excellent. Tell me you found a project for me.”

“I have, in fact.”

“Fantastic.” She began to pace in the living room. “Email it to me right away and I’ll start reading.”

“You don’t need to read it. It’s a remake of a classic. This is a slam dunk. This movie is made for you.”

Gigi frowned as she folded her legs under her on the couch. “Ten years ago when you first agreed to rep me, you told me that the mistake most actors made was taking whatever roles came their way, and that it’d behoove me to be selective.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve never used the word behoove in my life.”

“That’s not the point. The point is that you haven’t read the script.”

“Sometimes, Imogen, you have to take the ball and run with it, and this is one of those times.”

She shook her head. “Why are you using all these basketball analogies? You don’t even like sports.”

“What are you talking about? I love sports.”

“Since when?”

“Since I’ve been wooing a couple of the guys on the Lakers to sign a deal for a reality show.”

Gigi rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling.

“But we’re talking about you, and you’re hot stuff right now,” Betty continued. “Have you seen the box office numbers from your latest movie? It’s been three weeks, and it’s still in the top ten. I know Dirk was a dick, but he did you a favor when he released that video of you. Your career has skyrocketed since.”

“I’m not pleased that it’s because of a sex video instead of my acting.” All her life, she’d wanted to be a modern Sarah Bernhardt. Mostly it’d been for herself, because acting was in her soul, but partly it was to prove her father’s predictions of her future wrong. Now it seemed like maybe he hadn’t been so far off.

That killed her.

“What the hell does it matter why you’re popular?” Betty asked in her pragmatic way. “Just roll with it. The studio wants to pay you more than you’ve ever received to be in this movie. We call this a win, Imogen.”

“Do we?” She wasn’t convinced.

“Yes. This role they’re offering you will demonstrate your versatility and range. You don’t want to be pigeonholed into one type of movie.”

That sounded marvelous, except there was something in her agent’s tone that made her wary. “How versatile am I going to have to be?”

“It’s a remake of Cole Porter’s Paris. Marcus Craig is directing.”

Gigi gasped in horror. “He wrote Kate Hudson’s last movie, the one where she disguised herself as a man to get a job.”

“I admit that movie wasn’t a classic, but everyone makes one mistake, right?” her manager said with a forced laugh.

“His movie before that was about a man who turned into a dog.”

“Imogen, there are no dog suits in Cole Porter. Also, they aren’t going to cast you to hide your assets. That defeats the purpose.”

“So instead they’ll put me in a movie where the conservative man’s mother disapproves of the French actress he brings home to marry?” She laughed mockingly. “No, they aren’t typecasting me at all.”

“It’s not typecasting. They want to capitalize on how hot people find you.”

“So I’ll have to prance around in a nightie during the whole movie?”

Silence.

“Good Lord.” Gigi put a hand to her forehead. “That’s what they want, isn’t it?”

“I hate to tell you this, but in the world’s eyes, you’re a sexy starlet they want to see more of. Way more, and preferably without clothes,” Betty said in her matter-of-fact voice. “You’re a blonde Kim Kardashian minus the ample caboose.”

“I’m not a bimbo.” She threw a pillow so she wouldn’t be tempted to throw the phone.

“The only way you’re not like Pamela Anderson is that you have small, natural boobs,” her agent stated.

She put a hand over her assets. “And that I can act,” she added indignantly.

“No one cares that you can act.” Betty huffed with impatience. “I can’t believe I have to explain this to you. Tits and ass sell in Hollywood, and suddenly you have it. You’re the tits and ass It Girl, and the studio wants to capitalize on that.”

Gigi glared at the phone. “Keep the script.”

“Great, now you’re upset. Are you going to fire me?”

“Of course I’m not, but it’s going to make me happy to think about it.”

Betty sighed. “Imogen, if you want to work right away, the studio is your option.”

“And then what? Do a slasher movie after that?” She wasn’t a snob—she loved watching action movies as much as Shakespeare, but she knew if she acquiesced to this image of her, it’d stick.

That wasn’t her. She wouldn’t let that be her. She had aspirations: she was going to earn an Academy Award.

At first, she’d wanted an Oscar to prove her father wrong. Her jaw clenched involuntarily, remembering how he’d always been so derisive about her ambitions. An actress is only one step above a prostitute. No daughter of mine will sell herself that way. Family and Honour, Imogen.

Oh, the irony that he’d died with his longtime mistress.

Thank goodness Reginald Summerhill wasn’t around to witness this scandal unfold. She could just imagine what he’d say to her.

Despite his death, she was still determined to earn the award to prove herself. She was damn good, she worked damn hard, and she damn well deserved it. She wasn’t going to let a prick like Dirk take that away, and she certainly wasn’t going to let the public remember her as Hollywood’s tits and ass It Girl.

“How long will I have to wait for a better part?” she asked, interrupting whatever Betty had been saying.

“A long time.” There was a long pause on the line. Then Betty sighed again. “Fine, I’ll look around, but I’m still sending you this script. Humor me and look at it, okay?”

“Not even—”

“And before I forget, the studio is sending over a handler for you.”

Gigi bolted upright, her legs swinging to the floor. “What for? I don’t need anyone.”

“Her name is Holly Martin, and she’s going to stop by on Friday,” Betty said loudly, speaking really fast. “She’s going to manage the media contacts around you and facilitate getting started learning this next role.”

“I never said—”

“That’s my egg timer going off,” Betty yelled over Gigi’s protests. “I’ve got to go. Talk soon, babe. Ciao.”

“Bett—”

The call ended. Thinking uncharitable thoughts about her agent, Imogen threw her mobile at the couch and began to pace.

She was in her ninth revolution when the door opened and Titania walked in.

She’d always been closest to her younger sister. Only a year separated them, and since none of their other sisters had been around when they’d been adolescents they’d been natural playmates. Plus they shared a bond over their father, who’d been equally scornful to them both.

Titania was her complete opposite. A photographer, she preferred being behind the scenes rather than in the limelight. She hardly ever brushed her hair or wore anything other than jeans and lace-up flats.

But they both shared drive and ambition, and Titania never treated her with kid gloves. Her sister always spoke her mind and gave an honest opinion. Since Gigi had gone to Hollywood, she’d come to understand the value of an honest opinion.

Most of all, Titania would stand up for her if she ever needed. Like through this mess with Dirk. She was Gigi’s best friend—her only friend, really, until she came home and got to know her other sisters better.

Titania stopped abruptly in the doorway, blinking at her. “What are you doing in my flat?”

“It’s Tuesday.”

The space between her brows furrowed. “So?”

“So we all get together on Tuesdays at the pub down the street from the South Street house. Come with me, Tawny.”

Titania cringed. “I’d rather be eaten alive by piranhas.”

“It’s just our sisters.” At the long pause, Gigi rolled her eyes. “They aren’t that bad. In fact, they’re quite lovely. You just need to get to know them.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She set her camera bags carefully on the floor and then waved her hand at the couch. “What’s going on here?”

“I was relaxing.”

“I didn’t think that word was in your vocabulary.” Titania picked up the book on top of the pile and frowned at it. “What language is this?”

“Swahili. I picked it up on location last year.”

“Of course you did. How many languages does that make now?”

Nine. “What does it matter?”

“I just want to know how much of an underachiever I am.”

Gigi tossed the book in her bag. “Are you coming with me tonight or not?”

Titania made a face as she plopped on the couch next to her. “Not.”

All her sisters were headstrong, but Titania was the most stubborn. Hand on her hip, she stared at her younger sister. “Can nothing I say convince you?”

“No.”

“You’re missing out. All our sisters are lovely, and they miss you.”

“They don’t know me,” Titania mumbled.

“Whose fault it that?” Gigi put her purse on the floor. “And you haven’t met Summer yet. Don’t you feel strange not knowing one of your sisters?”

Titania crossed her arms as she slouched deeper in the couch. “She’s Father’s bastard. I have no connection to her, and you know how I felt about Father.”

“It’s not her fault Father was a wanker.” Gigi bit her lip, wanting to ask Titania if she ever thought about him, or how she felt about missing his funeral, but she knew she’d just clam up.

Sighing, Gigi decided to change the subject. “My career is over.”

“Your career isn’t over,” Titania said, sounding long-suffering.

“It is.” She flopped back against the armrest, her arm over her eyes. “I’ve been cast as a floozy by the media and now no one wants to see me as anything but. Worse, they want to pay me gobs of money to play a loose French actress.”

“And that’s bad?”

“I’m a serious actor.”

“Make them see you as something serious, then.”

She peeked out from her arm. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Titania exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “Do serious things. Act well behaved. Show them you’re a good girl.”

“A good girl.” Gigi sat up. “That may be brilliant.”

“And a stretch but, like you said, you’re an actress.”

Gigi threw a pillow at her sister’s head.

Titania flashed a rare grin. “Now that I’ve solved your problems, will you leave me alone?”

“Yes.” She kissed her sister’s cheek. “I’m headed to meet the others for drinks. Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

“Yes,” Titania said emphatically.

“Lunch later this week?”

“If I’m not busy with a shoot.”

Titania was an up-and-coming photographer. Her photos had been featured in Vogue, Time, and National Geographic, to name a few publications. But as busy as she was, she was never too busy to meet Gigi for lunch, even if she acted it. Gigi tugged on her sister’s ponytail. “I’ll see you Friday, then.”

***

“Titania thinks I need to show the world I’m a good girl,” Gigi said as she joined Beatrice, Rosalind, and Portia at their usual table at the Red Witch. She set her purse on the floor and looked around. “Where are Summer and Viola?”

“Summer had to work late, and where do you think Vi is?” Bea said with a flat look.

Viola was going through an unpleasant divorce and had been dealing with her not-quite-ex’s endless games. Gigi unwrapped her scarf. “Have we started taking a collection to hire a hitman to take him out?”

Bea bared her teeth in a sharky grin. “I’m willing to front the operation on my own.”

Rosalind moved over so Gigi could squeeze next to her and Bea. “You saw Titania?”

“Yes. She says hello,” she improvised as she settled on the seat. She left her sunglasses on. She hadn’t taken them off in public, day or night, in months. “She couldn’t make it tonight because she had work.”

“Why does she think you need to show the world you’re a good girl?” Rosalind asked, sipping her drink.

“Because I don’t want to be cast in roles where I prance around the screen half naked. May I?” She borrowed her sister’s drink and took a hefty gulp, to wash down the bitterness. Damn Dirk.

Though, truthfully, she understood Dirk’s position: he had scandalous pictures of her, topped by a video where she was obviously doing naughty things. Of course he was going to use them. He was a middling star, and hers had risen. It was a sure way of becoming a name. Betty had told her that he’d taken a lead role in a Ron Howard movie and had been offered another, even larger role.

More than anything, she was angry with herself because she’d trusted him. She fancied herself a better judge of character than that. She’d loved him, but he’d loved the fame she brought him.

Fortunately, her body was mostly shadowed in the video, so it was just an innuendo of what was happening and not full frontal. Still. It was like someone walking in when you were using the bathroom, only instead of being embarrassed in front of one person it was the entire world. The video had gotten over a million views on YouTube the first day it’d been up.

She shook her head and looked toward the bar. Niamh, excellent bartender that she was, looked over right then. Gigi lifted one finger up, and Niamh nodded.

Happy in the knowledge that her martini would arrive quickly, she faced her sisters. “I may go mad if I don’t start working soon.”

Bea eyed her over the rim of her drink. “I’m surprised you stayed in hiding this long.”

“I’m surprised Mother hasn’t forced her out of the house to auditions,” Portia said.

Gigi smiled, knowing their mother had prodded Portia into finally realizing her dreams. Consequently, Portia had found her dream job at a prestigious auction house as well as the man she was going to marry. “Actually, Mum suggested I needed a vacation. I’m not sure what she thinks I’ve been doing the past few months. I’ve done nothing but lie around.”

Rosalind took her cocktail back. “You mean in between yoga, jogging, dance classes, reading in Latin, and whatever else you fill your days with?”

She shrugged. She had to keep ready for work. She smiled in thanks at Niamh, who set her drink down and hurried back to the bar.

“I have a solution for you,” Bea said. “Russell Sherman is looking to cast his next movie. He’s doing some sort of avant-garde take on Shakespeare’s Hamlet, something stylized and modern.”

“What?” Gigi sat up. Russell Sherman was like a less angsty Woody Allen. His movies drew acclaim, especially for the actors he cast. His last film won the lead actress an Oscar. “You know Sherman?”

“I know everyone.” Beatrice pulled out her mobile and began tapping at it. “My partners and I invested in one of his films a few years ago. I’ll send you his contact info.”

Portia leaned forward. “Do you know Russell Crowe?”

Bea glanced up from her mobile. “Yes. Why?”

“And you never introduced him to me?” Portia frowned at their oldest sister. “That wasn’t very charitable of you.”

“You’re too young for him, you wouldn’t like him, and I already went out with him.” Bea shook her head. “Shouldn’t you be happy with your cowboy? You found a great love.”

“I did.” Portia beamed. “But that doesn’t mean yesterday’s Portia couldn’t have gone on a date with Russell Crowe.”

Bea shook her head. Then she faced Gigi. “Sherman is going to be at a charity event I’m attending Thursday night.”

“Did you date him, too?” Portia asked.

Rosalind elbowed her.

Portia rubbed her ribs. “I was just asking.”

“Go to the charity ball in my stead,” Bea said, putting her phone away. “First off, being seen at the charity will help support your good girl image. Second, you can talk to him there in person. Charm him and have him think it’s his idea to offer you the lead. He’ll be happy.”

“Maybe you can recite a monologue in Hindi to show him how serious you are,” Portia suggested. When she saw everyone staring at her, she lifted her hands. “What? I’m just trying to help.”

Bea turned to Gigi. “I’ll even lend you my escort for the evening so you’ll have a prop.”

“Really? You don’t mind?”

“He wasn’t a date,” Bea said, too casually. “It’s just as well.”

“Who is it?”

“Luca.”

Gigi, Portia, and Rosalind exchanged a look.

“Stop it,” Bea commanded, taking a sip of her drink. “I was throwing him a bone, and I wanted him to see that he doesn’t fit in my life so he’d stop mooning after me.”

“You sure he wasn’t throwing you a bone?” Gigi asked.

Bea arched her brow.

“Maybe we should strategize what Gigi should wear to the event,” Rosalind said. The new Vera Wang, Rosalind, knew dresses. “A dress of course. Do we want color? White says demure, if you’re trying to combat your recent image.”

Portia nodded. “But it shouldn’t be too demure because no one will believe it.”

Gigi stared at her sister.

Portia shrugged. “You can’t argue that.”

“Actually, you can’t,” Rosalind said.

Bea rolled her eyes. Then she faced Gigi. “Wear white, something that has an edge and is still sexy. You don’t want to lie to people and say you’re virginal, but you also want to minimize your sexpot image.”

“I’m not a sexpot.” Her sisters just stared at her so she sighed. “Much. But you can’t tell me you don’t like sex.”

“I do,” Portia said brightly.

Bea shook her head at Portia but her lips curved with amusement. “We all like sex, but our passions aren’t plastered all over the Internet. We aren’t trying to prove we’re good girls.”

“Excellent point.”

“Just remember that no one will believe you of all women are sexless. You have to show that you’re passionate, but in an intriguing way and not crass like that wanker you dated made you seem,” Bea said.

Gigi winced. “Let’s not discuss that wanker.”

Bea took her hand. “You let me know and I’ll make sure he never wanks again.”

“Thank you.” Gigi smiled, feeling better than she had in months. “I think I know what to wear Thursday night.”

“I have glasses with clear lenses you can borrow,” Portia offered.

“Why would I need glasses?” Gigi asked.

“To look studious.”

“Of course.” She sipped her martini. “Any other words of wisdom for me?”

Portia took a moment to think about it. Then she said, “Don’t insult his manhood, because if you tell him his penis is small, it’ll make him sad and less likely to hire you.”

They all stared at Portia.

Then Rosalind shrugged. “She’s actually right about that. He would be sad.”

Chapter Two

Merrick heard his front door slam and then Valerie’s footsteps clacking with determination down the hall.

His best friend was the laziest person he knew. She sauntered, never strode. The fact that she was headed toward him at such rapid speed was alarming enough, more so given what day it was. But he’d braced himself by the time she stormed into his home office.

Valerie stood framed in the doorway, frowning at him. Then she said, “Is this really how you’re going to live the rest of your life?”

He sat back in the leather chair, making a point of looking around the room. He’d had it professionally designed, so it looked powerful and posh—exactly how one would expect a politician’s office to look. “My life looks pretty good from this vantage point.”

“Your life is dull.” She marched into his office and plopped a garden gnome on the center of his desk. “This bloke is more fun than you are.”

He stared at the gnome, who seemed to mock him with an insane smile. “Yes, but I’m taller. That has to count for something.”

“Look at this space,” she said, ignoring him. She waved a hand in his general direction. “Look at your tie. You’re wearing a blue tie with little yellow dots on it. At home. Boring.”

“I had a meeting earlier at Portcullis Office.” He and his staff had offices there, like all the other Members of Parliament, but he preferred to work from his home office most of the time.

But today he’d had good news: his safety act had finally gotten past the second reading in the House of Lords. After all these years, all the lobbying, he finally had a chance at getting it passed.

Fitting that it’d happened on this date.

Of course, it was contingent on getting the conservative vote. But he had a plan for that. His act would be passed.

“What happened to Ricky Hazard? What happened to the red leather pants and psychedelic shirts?” Valerie demanded, arms crossed and glaring at him.

Ricky Hazard had died the same day Michaela had. Merrick Graham had risen from those bitter ashes.

And Merrick had enough trouble being taken seriously as a politician without being reminded of his Ricky Hazard persona. His opponents called him the “The Bad Boy of Politics” to discredit him. Yes, he had world-changing ideals, but the moniker was more in reference to his former rock star life.

No one took the partying lead singer of a boy band seriously. Merrick had taken great pains to clean up his image and be the personification of the Code of Conduct MPs were supposed to live by.

It wasn’t easy.

And he wasn’t going to explain himself, not even to his best friend. He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve grown up, Val. It happens.”

“Growing up happens, but we’re talking a complete metamorphosis.” Her gaze narrowed. “When was the last time you let the tiger out?”

He put a hand over his abdomen where he’d had a physical representation of his inner beast tattooed when he’d been at the height of his stardom. The tiger lay dormant now, but it stirred in its cage, waiting for the opportunity to escape. “The tiger was a boy’s macho fancy. It doesn’t really exist,” he lied.

“Of course it exists. You’ve just caged it.”

He drew on his patience, because he loved her. She was the only family he had. “You know what I’m trying to accomplish. You know that my opponents, particularly Thomas Kane, try to defame me every chance they get. I have to be above reproach.”

Valerie pouted. “I miss my partner in crime. Remember when you used to actually go out? You never go out any more.”

“I go out all the time.” He crossed his arms. “I went out to dinner last night.”

“With your dull political friends.”

“I have political friends because I’m in politics,” he explained with exaggerated patience.

“It’s your worst trait, too.”

“That I’m a Member of Parliament?”

“Yes.”

“You know what I think?” he asked.

“What?”

“That you and Joan are having another spat and you’re taking out your frustrations on me.” Valerie and her girlfriend Joan had a tempestuous relationship that stemmed from Joan wanting it all and Valerie pushing her away. Valerie’s family had no idea she was living with a woman, either. Personally, he thought Joan was a saint for putting up with Valerie’s fear of commitment.

“You may be a MP, but you don’t know anything, Merrick Graham.” She tossed her long brown hair over her shoulder. “But that’s okay, because that’s why you have me. I’m staging an intervention. I’m going to save you from yourself.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize I was in danger.”

Putting her hands on his desk, she leaned forward. “I remember what day it is today.”

He felt sucker punched, right to the middle of his chest. He’d had years of practice schooling his emotions, and still he felt them leak.

They never mentioned what today was out loud. For thirteen years, they’d had an unspoken agreement that no one spoke of this black anniversary.

Valerie stood over him, a Valkyrie bent on breaking him. “Michaela wouldn’t have wanted this, Ricky.”

“I’m not Ricky anymore.” Pushing back from his desk, he stood. “And you don’t know what Michaela would have wanted.”

“Yes, I do.” Valerie stood toe-to-toe with him, refusing to back down. “She was your sister, but she may as well have been mine, too. I loved her as much as you did, and I can tell you without a doubt that she’d have hated to see you the way you are today.”

Yes, but Michaela didn’t have that luxury, because her life had ended tragically.

As if knowing where his thoughts were headed, Valerie grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Her death wasn’t your fault. You have to stop blaming yourself for it.”

Guilt and regret welled in his throat, and he had to swallow a couple times before he could speak. “I know it wasn’t my fault, but we both know I could have prevented it.”

Tears glistened in Val’s eyes. “Anyone could have prevented it. I could say the same thing. Michaela could have stopped it from happening by waiting for us instead of leaving that party on her own. But she didn’t.”

She hadn’t, and she’d paid for it. There was footage of her attack from the cameras in the underground. Eight minutes—it’d taken her eight minutes to bleed out. She could have been saved if there’d just been someone there.

While she’d been bleeding out, he’d been partying with groupies who’d thought he was a god.

Some god, letting the person he loved most in the world die.

He was going to stop that. His Public Safety Act was costly in the short-term, and the conservatives were loath to spend money. But how much was a saved life worth? He owed it to his sister. He was going to make it happen.

“It was a horrible, horrible thing.” Valerie leaned her forehead against his chest, sniffling. “It’s been thirteen years, and I still remember that night like it was yesterday. But sometimes bad things happen, and there’s nothing you can do.”

He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her head. “Bad things happen, but you can’t deny it’d have been different if I’d been there. I could have made a difference.”

She looked up at him, her gaze watery. “You’ll never know.”

“No, I won’t.” But he could try to prevent it from happening to other people.

“You can’t keep living Michaela’s life.”

He stiffened. “Sorry?”

Valerie waved a wild hand at the office. “This is what Michaela wanted. Effecting change. Positive influence in the world. She was the do-gooder who wanted to fix the world, not you. You changed the world with your music.”

He forced a laugh as he sat on the edge of his desk. “I got chicks with my music. That was the extent of my ambition.”

“You were a teenager. Of course you wanted girls.”

Crossing his arms, he shook his head. “That was a different lifetime, Val. I don’t understand why you’re bringing all this up now, after so much time.”

“Because I miss my best friend.” She took his hand. “Because I’m tired of dreading this day every year. Because I want to celebrate Michaela’s life instead of forever mourning her. Because Michaela would have been so angry that we let this happen to us.”

“Michaela would applaud what I’ve done with my life.”

“Michaela would have been sad that you live a half-life in a dark cave.” Valerie let go of his hand, eyes blazing, hands on her hips. “But we’re going to change things.”

“No, we’re not.”

“We’ll see about that.” She gave him an ominous look as she swept from his office.

He winced when he heard the front door slam.

The gnome grinned manically in front of him.

“You’re mocking me,” Merrick said to the statue. “But perhaps you should take a look at your outfit before you judge anyone else.”

Not able to sit, he headed to make himself coffee. As he walked down the hall, he tried not to notice the somberness of the ground floor, but it was difficult not to with Valerie’s words echoing in his head.

The tiger in him prowled restlessly.

Damn Val for bringing up his beast. Merrick stopped in front of the staircase that led upstairs. In the past, when he felt frustrated, he’d go to his piano.

But music brought out a recklessness he needed to keep suppressed. It was from a life he’d left behind—a life he could never revisit. Everything about the way he used to live was counterproductive to what he needed to get done now.

Impatience surged through him. It’d taken so long to get his safety act this far, and he wasn’t going to let it be rejected again. Countless people were attacked each year in the Underground, some with consequences like Michaela’s.

He wasn’t going to allow more deaths. Another year wasn’t going to pass with him feeling ineffective. His bill was going to pass—period.

He had a plan. He was going to win the Leader of the House of Lords to his side. Yes, Lawrence Howell was conservative to almost a fault, but Merrick was persuasive. He just needed a chance to talk to the man.

Unfortunately, Howell never gave him the time of day.

But that was going to change. Forget coffee—he was going to hunt down Lawrence Howell.

His tiger growled in approval as Merrick slipped on his coat. He pulled out his mobile and made a few calls as he left his house, to pinpoint where Howell was.

The Carlton Club.

He headed to his Ducati without thinking, but of course took the Jaguar instead. MPs didn’t drive Italian crotch rockets, he reminded himself.

But, like his piano, he couldn’t bear the thought of selling it, either.

He walked into the club as though he owned it. He’d only been in there once, as a guest of another MP, so he knew the general layout. He went from room to room, searching for his quarry.

But instead of Howell, Merrick found Thomas Kane in the library. The man sat with a snifter of brandy and a newspaper. Merrick knew for a fact that Lord Kane was as pompous as he looked.

Kane looked up before Merrick could duck out undetected. The man arched his bushy white brows. “You’re on the wrong side of the fence, Graham. You don’t belong to this club.”

“No, sir, I don’t.” He sat down in the chair facing the older man and gestured to the attendant for a cup of tea.

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Kane said, sitting back in his seat. “You’ve got cheek.”

“That almost sounded like a compliment coming for you, Kane.” He nodded in thanks as the attendant set the tea service on the table in front of him and poured a cup. “You’ve never been a supporter of mine.”

Kane shrugged. “Like I said, opposite sides of the fence. It’s nothing personal.”

“Like hell it isn’t.” Kane was the one who labelled him the Bad Boy of Politics. “You discredit me at every turn.”

“That’s politics, son.” Kane eyed him shrewdly. “So why are you here?”

“I’m looking for Lawrence Howell,” Merrick said honestly.

Kane blinked in surprise. “That’s bloody brilliant. Our party follows him like a bloody piper. With him on your side, even they’ll fall in line to vote your way.”

“I feel good about it.” Merrick drank the tea, wishing it were something stronger. He missed the bite of scotch, but he didn’t drink anymore. It’d taken him a long time to clean up his image. He wasn’t going to do anything to compromise it—not when he was finally so close.

Kane lifted his glass and toasted him. “You may be a pretty boy with a bad attitude, but you have a good head on your shoulders, Graham. If I’m not careful, the press is going to start calling you ‘the Golden Boy of the Liberals’ soon.”

“I don’t care what they call me. I only care about getting the measure passed.”

“You know I’m going to try to stop you,” Kane said.

Merrick met the man’s gaze head-on. “Yes.”

Kane sipped his brandy. “Howell isn’t here this afternoon, but he’s going to be at that charity event at the Tate Modern on Thursday night. I’m sure you’ll be able to secure an invitation. Howell chairs the organization. You might consider making a hefty contribution.”

Merrick leaned forward, suspicious. “Why are you helping me?”

“I’m not helping. I’m stirring the pot.” Grinning, Kane stood. “I’m going to enjoy this. I’d wish you luck, but we’d both know I wouldn’t mean it.”

Merrick watched the man walk away, both admiring and loathing him.

What Kane didn’t understand was that Merrick had been planning this safety act for thirteen years. He wasn’t going to let anything bollocks it up—not Kane, and definitely not himself.

Chapter Three

Her son sat huddled in a plastic chair in the hall outside the headteacher’s office. He was so still it was almost unnatural—that was enough to tell Holly how much trouble he was in.

It wasn’t the first time.

Holly had lost count how many times this scene had played out: Jamie waiting alone, her abandoning work to rush over, hoping she could convince the headteacher to give him a more lenient sentencing. Then rushing back to work and hoping she still had a job.

It’d happened too many times to count.

Sighing, she walked straight to her son. His head popped up when he heard her footsteps. His hair flopped in his eyes—he needed a trim again—and in those eyes she saw extreme remorse. Whatever he’d done this time was bad.

She sat next to him and took his hand. “Here we meet again.”

He became even smaller. “I didn’t mean to break the windows, Mum.”

She winced. “Windows? More than one?”

He turned to her, his little face earnest. “It was an accident.”

It always was. She rubbed her forehead, wondering how much it’d cost her this time, though it didn’t matter because she couldn’t afford even an extra pound this month. “How many windows did you break, and how did you break them?”

“Only two, and I broke them with my trebuchet.”

“Your trebuchet,” she repeated.

He lit up. “A trebuchet is a big slingshot. They used them in war, like when you were a kid. They’re wicked.”

“I know what a trebuchet is,” she interrupted. “What I don’t understand is how you came to have one.”

“I built it,” he said proudly.

“Of course you did.” She lifted her gaze to the sky, praying for patience. Really, she was lucky he was so bright. Too bright for his own good, but he was happy and healthy.

Unless she decided to kill him, which she was sometimes tempted to do—very fleetingly, and only when he broke windows she couldn’t pay for. “Let’s forego why you built the trebuchet,” she said, “tell me how you broke not one but two windows.”

“The first time I launched a rock it didn’t go as far as it should have, so I had to try again.”

“Of course you did.” She took his face between her hands. “You realize I’m going to string you up by your trebuchet.”

“You can’t,” he said solemnly. “It won’t support my weight, but I can build one that can.”

Heaven help her. He was only six. What sort of trouble would he get into as a teenager?

The headteacher’s door opened and he poked his head outside. “Holly?”

They both glanced up. Jamie looked apprehensive. Holly shivered, too—not because she was nervous but because that was how the headteacher always affected her.

Peter Sands was heaven. Younger than you’d expect a headteacher to be, with tousled hair, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong arms, a knowing glint in his eyes, like he could read your secret desires and make them come true.

She stood, wondering how awful she was to look forward to her son getting in trouble because it meant getting to see Peter.

She gave Jamie a quelling look. “Stay here.”

He nodded morosely.

Shaking her head, she walked into the headteacher’s office. He closed the door behind her and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Your chair, Holly,” he said, his voice like dusk and hot baths and chocolate, all rolled into one.

Her favorite things.

When she was in prep school, she’d read erotic stories the other girls passed around. One stuck in her head, about a headmaster at a girls’ school who used to take wicked girls into his office to spank. If the headmaster had looked like Peter Sands, Holly would have been naughty just to be disciplined by him.

Blushing, she took the seat, hoping she didn’t look like a randy teenager. This was about Jamie, and he was her world, so she refocused and asked, “How bad is it this time?”

“Bad.” Peter sat behind the desk, a smile flirting with his lips. “Only Jamie would get in trouble by building a medieval siege machine.”

“How much is the damage?” She bit her lip, afraid of the answer.

He named the sum.

She blanched. How was she going to afford to pay that? “Can I sell Jamie to the school as an indentured servant?”

Peter laughed, and the knot in her stomach eased—just a little. “I’m not sure I could convince anyone to take him on as a servant. Don’t misunderstand me. Jamie is beloved here. No one has an unkind word to say about him personally. He’s a lovely boy, and he means well.”

“Yes, he’s just a terror when it comes to breaking things.”

“His problem is he’s very smart and he needs to be mentally challenged. He needs to be in a special program.” Peter sat forward. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I may have a solution for him.”

Her heart beat faster. She told herself it was mostly because she was excited for something that’d benefit her son. Except part of it was because of the way Peter looked at her—like he could see down past her clothing—and that he liked what he saw.

“I found a program for gifted children. At the Athenaeum.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a brochure, and held it out to her. “The curriculum is designed around each student’s unique interests and talents, though it’s heavily bent toward engineering, which I’m sure you’d agreed is what Jamie loves.”

“The only thing Jamie loves more than building something is taking it apart.” She looked through the brochure, doing a double take when she got to the page that listed the tuition. She shook her head. Her job at the studio paid just enough to cover essentials. She was just an office assistant. She didn’t make enough for extras—certainly not education this expensive.

She sank in the seat. She was supposed to provide what Jamie needed, and there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he needed this. But how could she?

And she’d thought she was so clever with her creative financing this month. She’d been thrilled to be able buy Jamie the robotics set he’d wanted.

As if reading her mind, Peter leaned forward. “Don’t let the price tag stop you. There are ways to get scholarships, and Jamie’s certainly bright enough to qualify.”

“Even with his record?”

“He’s not a criminal.”

“That’s a matter of perspective.” She looked Peter in the eye. “What about the time he caused an explosion in the cafeteria?”

“Because he wanted to build a volcano.” He sat back, grinning. “That was particularly brilliant. He’d even constructed a jungle out of broccoli to be destroyed by the lava.”

“Remember when he took apart the old engine on Mrs. Neuwirth’s car, because he wanted to prove to his classmates that hamsters didn’t run it?”

“I’ve never seen Mrs. Neuwirth at a loss for words.”

Holly shook her head, rueful despite the smile hovering at her lips. “I love my son, but even I can’t deny that he’s a menace.”

“You’re a good mother, you know. So many of the parents here don’t pay attention to their children. It’s a testament to your parenting that Jamie isn’t destructive. He just needs his energy directed to a good cause.”

She laughed. “Not destructive? When he just broke two windows?”

“Well, you got me there.” His grin made her heart beat fast. For a moment, he looked like the bad boys she used to fall for before she got pregnant. Like the boy who’d gotten her pregnant.

Peter sobered, nodding at the brochure. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Fill out the paperwork and I’ll pass it along with my recommendation. We’ll worry about the tuition later.”

It sounded so nice—the “we.”

But there was no we here. Since Jamie there’d only been her. Her parents, pious, moral people, had asked her to leave when she’d refused to give up her baby. Jamie’s biological father had only been a one-night stand at a party—one moment of uncharacteristic indiscretion that had changed her world when she’d been eighteen.

She wouldn’t have had it any other way. It was hard, but Jamie was hers—even when he built trebuchets and destroyed school property.

She glanced at the brochure. She’d made it on her own so far—she’d figure out a way to get Jamie what he needed. “I’ll have Jamie drop the registration forms off tomorrow,” she said, determined.

“Excellent.” Peter stood, waiting for her to join him. When she stood, he put his hand lightly on her back. “I have a good feeling about this, Holly.”

The way he said her name coupled with the touch on her back made her feel like they were close—co-conspirators even. She looked up at him and got caught in his gaze.

What if he kissed her?

She lowered her gaze to his lips. It’d be scrumptious.

And she wondered where Jamie got his imagination. To cover up her awkward musings, she smiled and said brightly, “You’ll let me know how much the windows cost?”

“I will. Maybe the school’s insurance can cover some of the cost.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Really. But I do have to punish Jamie, too. I was thinking he could help out after school for a couple weeks.”

Her relief was so overpowering she grabbed his hand. “I don’t know how to thank you.” Then, horrified by how her words sounded, she withdrew, her eyes wide. “I didn’t mean it like I wanted to trade sexual favors in return for this.”

His head fell back as he laughed. “Unfortunate for me then.”

Her face burned with embarrassment. She told herself not to think about how he sounded like he really thought he was unfortunate. She mumbled another “Thank you” and hurried out of there before she offered to drop to her knees and service him right there.

That was a fantasy for nighttime, alone in her room.

Jamie looked at her, beseeching.

“Let’s go home.”

Jamie slipped his little hand in hers. “Am I very much in trouble?”

She looked down at him. “What do you think?”

He sighed. “This means I can’t play with my robotics, can I?”

“Not for a bit.” She put her arm around his shoulders, smiling. “And I may have to flog you with a wet noodle.”

He laughed, suddenly bright again. “That’s just silly, Mum.”

Her mobile rang as they reached the tube. She paused, her heart accelerating when she saw it was the office. “Oh, fuc—”

“Mum.” Jamie’s eyes widened in gleeful shock, and he held his hand out. “You swore.”

“I didn’t,” she lied.

“You did.” He jumped up and down. “You have to give me a pound for the curse jar.”

“Damn it,” she murmured, as her phone insisted to be answered.

“Two pounds!” He did a happy dance.

Sighing, she answered the call despite the dread pooling in her stomach. If she got fired, a new school for Jamie would be definitely out. “Hello?”

“Holly, it’s Marjorie.”

“I know I missed the meeting this afternoon,” she said quickly. “I had an emer—”

“You always have an emergency, Holly,” Marjorie interrupted. “I told you that the execs have noted your absences. They don’t like it. They think you aren’t dedicated to the job.”

“I’m an office grunt. How dedicated do I have to be?” Holly winced. “I didn’t mean it quite like that—”

“You did mean it, and I can’t blame you.”

“You can’t?” she asked, suspicious.

“You’re smart, and doing office chores is boring.”

It was, except when she had to do the expense accounts. She loved making the numbers work.

“But,” Marjorie continued, “it’s still your job, and you aren’t doing it. Combine it with the fact that there have been other issues—”

“Those incidents really weren’t my fault,” she said, holding Jamie’s hand fast as he got distracted by a discarded piece of plastic on the ground. He was forever collecting things for later.

“The copy machine always jamming?”

“That machine has it out for me. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were possessed.”

“Mixing up the mail?”

“Smythe and Smith are so similar. Anyone would make the same mistake.” Even Smith, apparently, since he opened the envelope of porn from Smythe’s mistress. Holly made a face. She couldn’t be held responsible for someone else’s bad taste.

“The time you shorted out the electricity on the whole third floor for an entire day?”

Damn it—that had been her fault. She’d only wanted a little popcorn. She had no idea the microwave would overload the system. “Listen, Marjorie, I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“I know, which is why I’m transferring you to a new position. One of the handlers quit suddenly. She was supposed to start a job with a new actor on Friday. So we’re sending you in.”

“Me?” Holly stopped at a light, holding on to her son back so he wouldn’t step into traffic. “This sounds like a promotion.”

“Think of it more like probation. We don’t have anyone else available, so we’re trying you. The hours are flexible, and the actress is supposedly quite easy-going. Do you know Imogen Summerhill?”

Holly blinked. “Of course I know Imogen Summerhill. She’s been all over the tabloids lately.”

“And we want her to stay in the tabloids. The studio is quite happy with sales of her latest movie, and they want to keep revenues up. So your job is to make sure she takes every opportunity to produce scandal. And to make sure she preps for her next role, of course. You’ll call every evening with a report.”

“Of course,” she repeated, tugging Jamie to cross the street when their light had changed.

“Holly, this is a fabulous opportunity for you. Do this properly, and you’ll be promoted. Handlers make more money, and that’s never a shabby thing.”

“I like more money,” she said quickly.

“Of course you do. You’re not daft. But you won’t make more until you’ve proven yourself.” Marjorie lowered her voice. “Movie stars don’t need to be catered to, they need a firm hand. Boundaries.”

“You’re saying they’re like children.”

“I knew you’d be perfect for this. I’ll text you the info.”

“Thank you so much, Marjorie.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Do a good job and you’ll get the position permanently. Fail, and you’re out.”

“I won’t fail,” she promised. She wrangled Jamie every day. How hard could it be managing one actress?

Jamie tugged on her hand as she hung up. “Your smile is goofy, Mum.”

“Well, you have my smile, so I guess yours is, too.” Laughing, she hurried him toward the tube, amazed by how everything could change from the worst day to the best in a matter of minutes.

Chapter Four

Where was Luca?

Gigi smiled pleasantly at a passing couple who stared at her, cringing on the inside. She felt so conspicuous. She should have had Luca pick her up at home. But she’d been impatient, and at the last minute she’d texted him to meet her at the venue, the Tate Modern, instead.

She couldn’t check the time, either. Her mobile was strapped to her thigh with a garter belt, on vibrate, of course, lest someone think her womanly bits were ringing. She debated hiking up her long skirt to pull it out, but the reporters milled all over. They’d have given a kidney for a shot of her raising her skirt.

Lifting one’s skirt? Not the way to convey being well-behaved.

Luca would be here. He knew she had a lot riding on the charity event tonight. She wasn’t anxious, per se—she felt determined. She wanted to work with Sherman. Ophelia was the ultimate good-girl-wronged.

She was so ready to get back to work. She’d already started rereading Hamlet in the original early modern English, to understand the nuances of the play.

Some actors would have considered that jinxing themselves—actors were notoriously superstitious. But that was utter shite. The more prepared you were, the more likely it’d be that you’d get the part.

Where was Luca? She’d made it clear to him how important tonight was. Luca loved them—he wouldn’t do anything to let them down.

Actually, it’d be more accurate to say Luca loved Bea. The way he watched her oldest sister when she wasn’t looking was something out of the greatest romances. Gigi felt bad for him—Bea didn’t give him the time of day. She was too busy conquering the world to care about true love.

Though what did Gigi know of true love? Love had landed her here, waiting for an Italian racecar driver to escort her into a party where she was going to grovel at the feet of a man she didn’t know.

She wasn’t going to ponder what that said, or how her father may have been right about her.

“Imogen.”

Gigi turned at the sound of her mother’s voice.

Jacqueline Summerhill approach her, resplendent in a simple blush-colored, floor-length gown. Her hair was pulled back in a simple twist, and her jewelry was minimal. Even without the Summerhill jewels dripping from her body, her mother looked every inch the Countess of Amberlin—timelessly beautiful.

Gigi hoped that would be her in thirty years.

Her mother kissed her cheek. “I didn’t know you were interested in Cancer Research UK.”

“Why wouldn’t I be for cancer research?” she asked with a frown. Did even her own mother think she was too frivolous for something like this? “It’s a worthy cause.”

Jacqueline put a calming hand on her arm. “I didn’t mean anything by it, but I’d have figured you’d choose to put your attention on something more in line with your own interests. Literacy, for example.”

“I’m here in Beatrice’s stead.”

“I see,” her mother said, though she didn’t sound like she did. “Shall we go in, then?”

“I’m waiting for Luca.”

“But doesn’t Luca”—Jacqueline shook her head—”I thought he and Beatrice were involved.”

She grinned. “Not yet, but we all think it’s imminent.”

“And you, Imogen?”

“Me?” She blinked blankly. “What about me?”

“I worry about you. You don’t have any friends.”

“That’s not true at all. I have my sisters and Luca.”

Her mother watched her with an uncomfortable focus. “And outside of our family?”

She’d never had the inclination to make friends with other actors. There was always an edge of competition with the women and an awkward attraction from the men. And outside of Hollywood … Well, she never had time. She preferred to work.

Now, to reassure her mother, she smiled confidently. “There’s no reason to worry. I know lots of people, Mum.”

“Yes, but knowing people is different than connecting with them.” Jacqueline smiled sadly. “I’m just trying to prevent you from waking up one day and realizing that no one around you genuinely loves you.”

Gigi raised her brow. “That sounds like personal experience.”

“Which is precisely why I don’t wish it on you.” Her mother squeezed her hand. “Enjoy your evening, Imogen.”

She watched Jacqueline glide across the floor, the epitome of solitary grace. Gigi didn’t know whether she should feel bad for her mother or worry about herself.

The sound of footfall made her look up. Luca strolled toward her, dressed in dark pants, a deep burgundy velvet jacket, and a black shirt open at the collar. He had a white handkerchief in his pocket, his hair was stylishly mussed, and his usual bright smile lit his face.

“Cara,” he exclaimed, his arms open. He embraced her and kissed her cheeks with all his Italian enthusiasm.

“You look smashing.” She appreciated that he’d dressed conservatively—at least, for him.

“I always do.” He winked at her.

She hadn’t been sure how it’d look to have a notorious European playboy on her arm, but Rosalind had pointed out that it was better to look wanted than desperate. Plus, Luca was trustworthy.

He looked at her from head to toe and whistled. “You, also, cara, are dressed to kill tonight. Who’s our victim?”

“Come. I’ll show you.” She slipped her arm in his. “I appreciate you doing this for me. Although I know it’s not me you’re doing this for.”

His face suddenly became blank. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she said dryly. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he’d come to love all her sisters since he’d met them, but it was Bea who held his heart in the palm of her hand. It was unfortunate for Luca that Bea was likely to eat it and wipe her hand clean on her designer dress.

The galleries were crowded with glittery people. Smoothing her dress, she stood tall and declared, “I’m ready.”

Luca lifted her knuckles to his lips. “You are stunning, almost as stunning as me. We will find this man and bring him to his knees, yes?”

“Yes.” She grinned at him and surveyed the room. There were people she recognized. A lot of actors and industry people, of course, and other notable public figures.

She didn’t see Sherman, so she slipped her arm through Luca’s. “Let’s mingle, shall we?”

“I’m yours to command.”

Knowing people were watching them, she smiled sweetly at him and played the part. But because no one could hear them, she jokingly said, “Now you’re just talking dirty to me.”

He returned her smile, just as sweetly, and replied, “Cara, you’re lucky I’m as good an actor as you. Come. Let’s find this foolish man and make him beg for you.”

Laughing, she turned to lead him into the fray and caught a dark-haired man staring at her. Everything faded out, as though a camera zoomed in on them. It played out like a movie in her head.

INT. TATE MODERN – NIGHT

Imogen sees A MYSTERIOUS MAN. He wears his power as easily as his tuxedo. He watches her, and she wonders if she knows him.

He walks toward her. She feels compelled to meet him halfway. He takes her hand.

MAN

Can I get you a drink?

IMOGEN

Is that what you really wanted to ask me? Or were you wondering, your room or mine?

But this wasn’t a movie. This was real life, and she was behaving. So she concentrated on her future instead of her libido and turned her back on tall, dark, and tempting to search for Russell Sherman.

“Do you see this director you look for?” Luca asked, craning his neck.

“Let’s try the bar.” She nodded to the left. “Would you care for a drink?”

He gestured expansively. “Lead the way.”

She made her way across the room, aware of the heads turning to stare. Sheer force of will kept her from blushing as she imagined what they were probably saying. Most of these people had seen her in an intimate moment, and she hated that.

She didn’t care. She lifted her head and focused on finding her director.

Russell Sherman was exactly where she’d have expected him to be: next to the bar. He leaned one elbow on the counter and had a brunette with barracuda teeth clinging to his other side.

The barracuda in question was Delilah Jones.

Gigi slowed down, hope bleeding out of her as though Delilah had taken a bite from her and left her for dead—which was entirely possible. The other actress was ruthless. Nothing came between her and the role she wanted. Gigi knew that from experience.

Of course, back when they’d had their first skirmish, Gigi had won the role, and Delilah hadn’t had the clout to discredit her, as hard as she’d tried. Delilah had never forgiven her, but Gigi had managed to steer clear of the woman since.

Until now, apparently, because the way Delilah was pressing her breasts into Sherman’s arm, whispering in his ear, Gigi knew that their paths were about to collide again. The look the woman gave her as she approached told her that Delilah hadn’t learned to be a gracious loser, either.

Luca pursed his lips. “In movies, she appears very sweet.”

“Movies aren’t real, darling,” Gigi said, focusing on Sherman. She pasted a smile on her lips and glided up to him and Delilah, forcing them apart. “Russell Sherman. What an honor to meet you. I’m—”

“Imogen Summerhill, of course.” He smiled and shook her hand. To his credit, he didn’t leer at her, and that bolstered her spirits.

She turned to acknowledge her apparent rival with a friendly smile. “Delilah, it’s been an age.”

The woman’s smile was cool and edged with steel. “Yes, well, I heard you’ve been hiding, to lick your wounds.”

Luca stepped forward.

But Gigi soothed him before letting go of his arm and taking Sherman’s. “Russell, do you have a moment? Delilah won’t mind if I borrow you.”

Not giving anyone a chance to deny her, she led him away. When they were far enough away, she said, “I don’t want to take too much of your time—”

“I can’t hire you, Imogen.” He put his hand on hers, apologetic. “Assuming that’s what you wanted to discuss.”

“Yes.” She shook her head. “But I don’t understand.”

He sighed. “I’d love to work with you. You’re a bright, intelligent actress despite how the media is painting you.” He made a face and then said, grudgingly, “Between you and me, you’re just the sort of actor I’d love to work with, but my backers have my balls in a vice. The lead we hired for our last movie had a meltdown during filming. The moneymen believed I should have realized she was unstable based on the stories about her, but I wanted her and ignored the rumors. She almost ruined that film. I shudder thinking of the fortune she cost us in added expenses.”

“But you won best picture, at Cannes and also the Golden Globes,” Gigi pointed out. “Most importantly, I’m not her.”

“You look like her on paper. The wild sex. The videos. The pictures. The scandal. My moneymen will never agree to hire you.”

She frowned. “Surely you can’t know that for certain until you propose me for the part?”

“I am certain.” He winced. “I’m sorry, Imogen, but I know my backers. They want someone solid, like Delilah.”

They both looked over at the woman, who watched them with barely veiled animosity.

“Between you and me, all my money is tied up in this movie,” Sherman continued softly. “If I don’t make it happen I’m sunk. I can’t piss off my backers, because I’ll not only lose this project, but I’ll lose my home. I can’t afford to take a chance on you, Imogen. You’re not a good risk.”

“That’s a rather harsh reality,” she murmured, looking away. It hurt to hear him say it.

But she didn’t get to where she was by being ruled by her hurt feelings, so she took a deep breath and tried again. “I plan on proving that I’m a good girl.”

Sherman looked skeptical. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“No bad press, no shenanigans. The only time I’m in the papers, they’ll sing my praises. When I do that, let me audition for the part.”

“Most actors of your stature would never audition.”

She nodded. “But I want this part, and I’m willing to do whatever I need to make that happen. What do you say? I keep out of trouble and you give me a chance.”

Sherman pursed his lips. “I don’t know.”

She had him. She went in for the kill. “I have the credentials. I have acclaim. You know I’ll be dependable and draw people to the box office. I’ll stay clean and you’ll give me a chance to show them I’m a better choice than any other actress. Three weeks. Give me three weeks to prove I can keep it together.”

“Three weeks.” He nodded, holding his hand out. “It’s a deal.”

Three weeks of keeping out of a scandal. She could do that. She took his hand and, because Delilah was watching, she pulled him down to kiss the air on either side of his cheeks. “See you in three weeks.”

Delilah swooped in then, Luca on her heels. “Russ, sweetie, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” she cooed, drawing him away as she shot Gigi a glare.

Joining her, Luca watched the other woman lead Sherman away. Leaning, he softly said, “I see from your face you’ve slain your victim. Champagne is in order, no?”

“Champagne is always in order.” She laughed, the flush of victory even if it were premature.

“You stand and look like a goddess.” Luca kissed her cheek. “I will return.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, turning to let a photographer capture her happy smile. For the next three weeks, butter wasn’t going to melt in her mouth.

She just had to make sure the universe cooperated with her good intentions.

Chapter Five

Lawrence Howell walked across the gallery and out the entrance, toward the escalators.

Merrick glanced at Valerie, who was chatting with the bartender fulfilling her order. He’d be back before she noticed he’d ever been gone. Turning, he followed Howell to intercept him.

Until he saw the woman in white.

He stopped, the sight of her knocking the breath out of him.

She stood alone, and all the illumination from the overhead lights seemed to gather on her. She looked familiar, but he had no idea where he might have seen her. He’d have remembered her. Definitely.

Purity and sin in one package, her dress flaunted miles of flawless skin, the sort women paid a fortune to achieve. Her blonde hair trailed in luxurious waves over her shoulders and down her back. She was tall yet she still wore towering heels. Discreet diamonds glittered on her ears and wrist.

But it was her eyes that caught his imagination. They held a gleam that warned him she was trouble.

He liked trouble, much more than was wise for a reformed musician.

Merrick’s tiger growled. I want.

He shook his head. It didn’t matter what he wanted—he couldn’t have her.

However, Howell was his. Merrick turned and looked at the hall, by the escalator, and on the first floor landing, but the man was gone.

Damn it.

“Here you go.” Valerie handed him a glass.

He sniffed the contents. Whiskey. “Where’s my club soda?”

“What club soda?” she asked with exaggerated innocence, sipping her own drink.

Shaking his head, he swirled the ice in the glass. “Valerie, I asked you to come along to help me.”

“You asked me to come along to keep up the appearances that you’re in a stable relationship.” She slipped her arm through his and batted her lashes at him. Then she rolled her eyes. “Really, Ricky, can’t we enjoy ourselves a little? This is a party.”

“Please stop calling me Ricky, and this isn’t a party. It’s work. We’re here to meet Lawrence Howell.”

She glanced at him. “Work doesn’t have to be dull.”

“It’s not dull.”

She sighed wistfully. “Remember that time I convinced you to break into Elton John’s bedroom? You climbed up the trellis and onto his balcony before his security stopped us. And then Elton yelled at us, but I could only laugh because he wore those horrid pyjamas with lions on them.”

Merrick smiled faintly. “We hummed ‘Circle of Life’ and it annoyed the hell out of him.”

Valerie laughed. “Those were the good old days.”

“No they weren’t. We lost days at a time because we were so pissed.”

“And it was lovely,” Val said wistfully.

It was no use arguing with her. Instead, he slid an arm around her and kissed her cheek. “If you help me track down Lawrence Howell, I’ll take you out for a proper drink.”

“What good would it be if you don’t join me?” But she sighed and surveyed the room. “Let me guess what he looks like? Another dull bloke in a dark suit and dark tie?”

“So you’ve met him before,” Merrick joked.

A laugh caught his attention. He glanced over at the source—the woman in white. He’d known it was her instinctively, the same way he instinctively knew it wasn’t genuine.

Valerie elbowed his side. “Are you staring at Imogen Summerhill?”

“You know her?”

“Everyone knows her, Ricky.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“That’s Imogen Summerhill.” At his blank look, Valerie gaped at him. “Surely you aren’t so dull you’ve stopped looking at the entertainment section of the paper?”

Imogen Summerhill—of course. He glanced at her again. No wonder she looked familiar. She was spread—quite literally—across the media with the nude pictures and infamous sex video. Even in person she looked like walking debauchery.

Valerie gasped. “You want her.”

He couldn’t deny it, but he wasn’t going to admit it either. “I’m not going to have her.”

“Why not? Even you deserve a treat now and then.”

“I’m sure she’d love to hear herself be called a treat.” He snatched a glass of champagne from a waiter passing by and handed it to Val.

“What else would you call her? Look at her, she’s yummy.” She sipped the champagne, all the while gawking at Imogen Summerhill. “I may go over there and taste her myself.”

“You have a girlfriend,” he reminded her.

“A little nibble wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Valerie talked a big game, but that was all it was—talk. She was a commitment-phobe, but she was the most loyal person he’d ever known, next to Michaela.

Val nudged him again. “When was the last time you shagged anyone?”

Longer than he’d admit, even to Valerie. Not because he didn’t have opportunities—the risk wasn’t worth it. The public believed him to be in a relationship with Valerie, and last year when he’d been caught with other women, Thomas Kane had quickly had him branded as a serial cheater. He couldn’t chance bad press right now, not when he was so close to having his bill passed.

“Should we go talk to her?” Valerie asked, craning her neck to stare.

“No.”

Val raised her brows. “That was rather emphatic.”

“Well, I emphatically don’t wish to meet her.” He didn’t have to talk to her to know that she’d be the last thing he needed. Just looking at her made him want to howl.

“It seems like you’d be very much alike.”

He was going to ignore it, but he couldn’t. “All right, I’ll bite. How do you figure that?”

“You both project a persona to the public. She probably hides her real self, too.”

“I don’t hide my real self.”

“Don’t you, Ricky?” Valerie made a point of looking at his untouched whiskey. “Fine, then let’s just say you’re more than you let people see. Behind the curtain, you’re a different man.”

“I’m exactly the same at home as I am everywhere else.”

“Because you’re hiding from yourself, too.” She pouted. “You used to be a rock god. You played music that incited people to passion. You lived large, every moment to its fullest. You used to live, period. You don’t even play the piano anymore, and the piano was your soul.”

“That was a different lifetime, Val.”

“Was it?” She downed her drink and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. Taking Merrick’s from his hand, she slipped her arm through his. “Well, the sooner we find your bloke, the sooner we can leave.”

“I think he went upstairs.”

Valerie looked up to the next landing. A sly smile broke across her face, and she tugged him along. “I think I see him.”

He frowned. “You don’t know what he looks like.”

“All you politicians look alike. Come on, Ricky, we’re going to lose him.”

“You’re up to something,” he said as they went upstairs.

“I can’t believe you’d accuse me of such devilry.” She put a hand to her chest, the very picture of affront. On the landing, she pushed him toward the first gallery. “Go look in there. I’ll check the room on the other end. We’ll meet in the middle.”

Before he could point out that she’d never seen Howell, she was gone.

She was lucky he loved her. Shaking his head, he turned—

And bumped into Imogen Summerhill.

Everything suddenly made sense. “Of course, it’s you,” he said.

She raised a brow, tipping her head to one side so her hair trailed down one gorgeously bare shoulder. “Do I know you?”

“No, and you probably don’t care to.”

“Why is that?” she asked, her eyes bright with amusement.

“I’m a politician.”

“Say it’s not so!” She pretended to cower in horror. Then she gave him a sidelong look that he was sure brought most men to their knees. “You look more like an international man of mystery than anything.”

“Like your date?”

“Luca? How do you know him?”

“I don’t know him either, but it’s hard to miss a man in a red velvet coat.”

“Luca has superior fashion sense.” She sounded too happy saying his name. She strolled into the gallery and began perusing the artwork. “He’s a Roman god, isn’t he?”

“It must be nice having a ‘god’ captivated by you,” he said mildly, directing them toward a painting that looked like a watermelon had exploded on the canvas.

“It must be,” she agreed, staring at the painting.

A wistful expression clouded her face, but it disappeared so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it. She faced him. “Why aren’t you looking for your girlfriend?”

“You know her?”

Imogen’s cheeks flushed the smallest bit. “No, but she’s hard to miss. You have good taste.”

“I do.” He arched his brow. “But Valerie isn’t my girlfriend, she’s my financial advisor.”

Imogen laughed. “That’s what they all say.”

“Truthfully, I’ve known her forever, and she does handle my money. She’s a financial idiot savant. A Midas in heels. But she’s also my best friend, and we’re not dating.” Why did he need her to know that? He shook his head. But he also couldn’t help asking, “And you and the Roman god?”

“He’s in love with my oldest sister.”

“Then you’re free.” He frowned at himself, hating that it felt important to establish that when he should be running from her.

“No, I’m not.” She sauntered away, pretending to be interested in another painting.

Walk away, he told himself even as he hurried to keep up with her. “You’re seeing someone else?” he asked, his voice low.

“No.” She seemed like she wasn’t going to answer, but then she said, “I need to behave.”

The word behave falling from those lips made the word seem sinful. “I take it that’s difficult for you?”

“It’s not, which is why I’m staying away from you. I doubt you know the meaning of the word.” She looked him over. “You may lead a respectable life and wear somber clothes—”

“You think my clothes are somber?”

“—but I can see under the disguise.” She stopped in front of a painting and pursed her lips, considering it as though she were wondering what it’d look like hanging in her house.

He waited for her to continue, and it drove him insane when she didn’t. He edged closer, lowered his voice. “What disguise?”

She raised her seductive blue eyes up to him. “You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, aren’t you?”

His tiger surged inside, liking the recognition, but he chuckled as though the idea were absurd.

Imogen smiled faintly. “Laugh all you want, but I can recognize a playboy when I see one.”

“Valerie says I’m increasingly dull.”

“On the surface.” She gave him a thorough, head-to-toe perusal that made him wonder if she had X-ray vision. “Underneath you’re a bad boy.”

He frowned. She did have X-ray vision. “What kind of underwear am I wearing?”

She glanced at his crotch. “Boxers. Silk.”

Damn.

She flashed him a sassy smirk and moved on to the next painting.

As he caught up with her, he told himself he was keeping her company, not chasing her.

“I want a part in a movie,” she said quietly without looking at him. “But the director won’t hire me unless I keep my nose clean for the next three weeks. So this isn’t going to happen.”

He tried not to see it as a dare, but … “This?”

She arched her brow. “Are you seriously going to play dumb? I’m the blonde here.”

He glanced around. No one paid attention to them, so he edged closer to her, crowding her. Unable to help himself, he brushed his fingers along her bare arm. “You mean this?”

She glanced at his mouth and licked her lips. “Yes,” she said in a velvety sex voice.

He leaned closer to her—

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lawrence Howell stroll into the next gallery, his wife on his arm.

Damn it. Merrick looked at Imogen, the way her lips begged him for a kiss. The tiger inside him growled to take a bite of her.

No, he told his animal. To Imogen, he said, “I have to go.”

“Good.” She stepped back. “Good luck with your life.”

Did she sound hurt? He reached for her. “I’m trying to get support for an important measure. My opponent’s been painting it and me in a bad light, and I need one man’s vote to get the rest of the party to align with the legislature. He’s been elusive, and I just saw him.”

“I see.” She smiled, but it wasn’t genuine at all.

He hated it. “Imogen—”

“Go do whatever you have to. It was nice not quite meeting you.” She winked at him and sauntered away.

Merrick stood, torn between going after her to explain and racing after Howell.

It had to be Howell—he had too much riding on this initiative. Ignoring his tiger’s rumbling protest, he turned and went after the man, but no matter how much Merrick looked, he was nowhere to be found.

When he went back to find Imogen, she’d disappeared as well.

Chapter Six

Holly stared into her tiny closet. What did one wear while babysitting a movie star?

She decided to wear what she always did: black. It was the color of assistants—the perfect color to fade into the background.

She rifled for the wool skirt she’d bought at a secondhand store. Her wardrobe was limited: two pairs of pants, one skirt, four nice blouses she rotated. She added scarves to change the looks so it didn’t look quite so obvious that she wore the same clothes over and over.

Holding her breath in, she shimmied the skirt up her thighs and lay down on her narrow bed to zip it up. When she stood up and could breathe, she counted that as a good omen.

“Success.” She slipped on a black shirt that didn’t have stains. She tied a scarf around her waist like a belt, partly for color but mostly to camouflage the pulling fabric around her middle.

She checked the time. “Damn it.” She hopped into her shoes as she headed to the kitchen. She put on her coat, picked up her purse, and scrounged for a pound to drop into the curse jar before hurrying out of the house.

Instead of taking the tube or a bus, she walked. It gave her time to compose herself and, even though her shoes pinched by the time she arrived at the South Street address, she’d given herself a pep talk.

She was going to be great at this job, and the studio would promote her.

On the doorstep, she pulled her skirt straight and made sure there wasn’t any lipstick on her teeth. Then she rang the doorbell.

Her nerves jangled. She pretended she was Jamie and assured herself Imogen Summerhill would like her.

The door swung open and a grandmotherly woman in black smiled at her. “You must be here for Gigi.”

“Actually for Imogen Summerhill.” She craned her neck to look for the street number. “Am I at the wrong house?”

“No, dear, we’re talking about the same girl. Come in.” The woman stepped aside so she could enter. “My name is Fran. I run the household.”

“Holly Martin.” She shook the woman’s hand. Fran smelled of warm things and spices, and Holly’s stomach rumbled in hunger.

“This way.” Fran led her down the hallway. “Gigi’s waiting for you in the library. I’ll bring some refreshments.”

“Please don’t go to any trouble on my account,” she said, distracted by all the expensive looking furnishings around them. It was like a museum. She imagined Jamie running down the hall and winced.

“Nonsense.” Fran frowned at her. “And look at you. You need fattening up. Do you have a man?”

“No.”

“Because men like a little meat on their women’s bones.” The older woman patted her arm as she opened a door. “Don’t worry, lamb, we’ll take care of you.”

It sounded both lovely and ominous, but before she could figure out how to reply, Fran motioned her toward a set of open doors. “She’s in the orangery. Just go in.”

“Okay,” she said, standing in the threshold.

It was a solarium of sorts, with trees and plants all over. Light streamed in from a long, tall wall of paned windows. There were sets of chairs and couches, the sort you expected to see dainty ladies from a bygone era perched on while sipping tea and gossiping.

Jamie would have loved this room. Neck craning to take everything in, Holly entered. It smelled warm and earthy in there, not musty like the moldy basement they’d lived in after Jamie had been born.

There was a rustle from the left. Jerking to attention, Holly smoothed the scarf at her waist and stepped forward to meet her assignment for the foreseeable future.

Imogen Summerhill was draped in a light blue dress, her hair clipped back from her face. Her shoes, which looked more expensive than Holly’s rent each month, were kicked off and her feet were tucked under her skirt. She leaned forward, intent on the mobile in her hand. On the table in front of her there was a bottle of Pellegrino and a book in a language Holly didn’t recognize.

The actress should have looked relaxed, a diva idly passing the afternoon, but her body language was tense. She gripped the phone and glared at it like she wanted it to explode.

Holly must have made some sort of noise, because the actress looked up. Holly was shocked by the sharp intelligence in her gaze. She suspected Imogen Summerhill didn’t miss much.

Imogen held out her mobile. “Look at this.”

Holly stepped forward took the device. It was a picture of Imogen and a handsome man in a tuxedo. The caption underneath read

New Acquaintances, or Old Friends??

Holly wasn’t sure what she was looking at or how she was expected to reply. She could tell being a handler was going to be challenging.

She cleared her throat. “You look pretty.”

“I have to look pretty,” the actress said without a hint of vanity. “It’s part of my job. I mean this.” She tapped the screen, on top of the man standing next to her.

Certain this was some sort of test and that she was failing it, Holly said, “He’s pretty, too.”

“He’s bloody delectable, but that’s beside the point.”

She shrugged as she handed the mobile back. “I’d think that’d be the whole point, actually.”

Imogen smiled. “I might like you, Holly Martin, but pay attention. And sit down. You’re looming over me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She obediently sat across from the actress.

“Do you see what’s going on in this picture?” Imogen held the screen up again.

Holly looked again. “He looks like he’s leaning toward you.”

“Precisely! And because it looks like he’s leaning, the tabloids are all over it.”

“Who is he?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“The caption says Merrick Graham, bad boy politician.” Imogen glared at the photo. “This conversation was perfectly innocent. I didn’t even know his name. The photo just makes it look like there were sparks.”

Holly stretched forward to look one more time. She could tell there was definitely something happening between them, even from the small image. Knowing better than to contradict the person she was working for, she nodded. “Uh-huh.”

Imogen gave her a flat look. “That didn’t sound as reassuring as I’d like.”

“I’m not sure being reassuring is part of my job description.”

“It should be,” the actress said with a faint pout.

She bit her lip, trying to come up with something appropriate to say. Finally, she shook her head. “Do you want me to lie?”

“Has it come to that already?”

Holly shrugged. “Honestly, it looks like there were sparks.”

“Damn it.” The actress made a face. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Don’t you like him?” Holly asked uncertainly.

“I like him too much. I just didn’t want anyone one else to know.” Sighing, she tossed her phone next to the book on the table. Then she aimed her intense blue eyes at Holly. “I don’t want you here.”

Holly blinked, not sure what to say.

“It’s nothing personal, but I don’t need the studio to send someone to babysit me.”

She cleared her throat, trying to look like she knew what she was doing. “I’m not here to babysit you.”

Imogen’s brow rose in mocking disbelief.

“That’s impressive,” Holly said. “I’ve never been able to raise my eyebrows like that. It’s quite the effective statement, isn’t it?”

Imogen rolled her eyes. “Let’s stop the act, shall we?”

“What act, Ms. Summerhill?”

“Imogen, please, and give me some credit for knowing what’s going on. Everyone acts.” She looked straight at her. “You’re acting now.”

“I am,” she agreed with a nod. Then, because she figured she had nothing to lose she decided to go with the truth. “I have no idea what I’m doing here. The studio sent me here to help you prepare for your next role, and to handle your media presence, but I’ve never done any of that. The thing is, this is a good opportunity for me. They said if I do well with you, they’ll give me a promotion.”

“Do you have a sick mother somewhere that you take care of?”

Holly shook her head. “My parents don’t talk to me. I had a boy when I was young, and they disapproved.”

Something flickered behind Imogen’s eyes. “How old is your son now?” she asked finally.

“Six.”

“He’s an angel, I’m sure.”

Holly burst out laughing. “Not even gypsies will take him.”

“You love him,” Imogen said softly.

“With my whole being.” She took a deep breath. “I want to send him to a school for gifted children, but I can’t afford it. But if I get this promotion it’ll be so much easier to scrimp and save for it.”

Fist under her chin, Imogen stared at her for a long time. Holly had no idea what was going through the actress’s mind.

Finally, Imogen said, “I respect my privacy. I know they want me to be more prominent in the news, but I pick what’s featured. I’m trying to sanitize my image. Am I clear? I won’t stand for any scandals.”

“Noted.” She’d worry about how she’d do that part of her job later. Now she needed to gain Imogen’s cooperation. “This job is important to me. I won’t fuc—mess it up.”

“No, you won’t.” Smiling, Imogen held out her hand. “Welcome, Holly.”

Smiling, Holly reached for the actress’s hand—

And knocked over the bottle of Pellegrino.

“Shit.” She grabbed the book on the table before it was completely doused in sparkling water and wiped it on her skirt. “So sorry. I’ll just—”

“Holly?”

She glanced up.

“It’s just water. It’ll dry.” Imogen stood, taking her hand and drawing her to her feet. “And now our new relationship is anointed, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She smiled, grateful for Imogen’s grace.

Holly floated all the way to Jamie’s school on a cloud of hope. The future looked so much brighter than it had twenty-four hours ago. She couldn’t decide whether to jump in the air and yawp in triumph or put her head down and weep in relief.

“Holly.”

She whirled, surprised to hear Peter Sands’s voice.

He smiled crookedly as he walked toward her. His hair was mussed, like it always was, and he wore a leather jacket. The only way he could have been better was shirtless, maybe riding through the surf on the back of a horse.

When she’d been a kid, she’d always thought having sex on a beach would be so thrilling. Now any sex would be thrilling, as long as it was with someone other than herself.

“Here to pick up the kid?” he asked, reaching her side.

“Yes.” She stuck her hands in her coat pockets so she wouldn’t be tempted to grab him and beg him to take her. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’m grateful he had this after-school punishment.”

“Most parents curse me.”

Most parents weren’t raising a child alone. “It gave me a little space. I was sent on a new assignment today.”

“What sort?” he asked, sounding interested. “You know, I don’t even know what you do normally.”

“I work for a movie studio, mostly doing odd office work. But they just offered me a promotion handling a major movie star. I went to meet her today.” She beamed, hugging her arms to keep from impulsively throwing them around him.

“Congratulations.” He reached out and touched her shoulder. Only it wasn’t a touch—it was a caress. He lingered.

She froze, stunned by the feel of his hand on her. No man had touched her in years—seven to be exact. Except for the time a man had grabbed her arse at the Italian restaurant where she’d done a brief stint before going to work at the studio. That probably didn’t count though.

She found herself leaning toward Peter. He smelled so good. She inhaled as surreptitiously as she could, not wanting to seem like she was sniffing him.

“Mum!” Jamie burst out of a room and ran down the hall toward them.

She jerked away from Peter, feeling like she’d been caught kissing in a closet. She glanced at him, sure she’d imagined the whole thing.

But he watched her steadily, his gaze on her like he was imaging stripping off her clothes.

She gasped, shocked, excited—feeling a million things she knew she shouldn’t feel.

“Mum! I got to clean the whiteboards.” Jamie ran into her and held up his palms, which were smudged with different colors. “I did it with my hands.”

She had to clear the lust from her throat before she could reply. “Why don’t you go wash? And then we can go get ice cream to celebrate my new job.”

Jamie faced Peter. “Are you going to wash your hands, too?”

He looked at Holly. “Am I invited to join this private celebration?”

Her cheeks flushed, trying not to picture the sort of private celebration she’d like to have. “Yes, please come,” she said, her voice a shade too breathy.

He chuckled.

Oh hell—that had sounded completely sex-crazed, hadn’t it? She put her hands to her blazing cheeks.

Winking at her, he put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “I guess I better wash my hands, too, then.”

Peter suggested getting cones and enjoying them in a nearby park. They walked with Jamie skipping between them. It was hard not to imagine that this was what a family would look like.

When they reached the park, she and Peter sat on a bench while Jamie ran around and got ice cream all over himself.

“I should probably make him sit and be proper,” she said, watching him run circles around them, “but I remember how much I hated being told to do that.”

“I don’t think it’s in his nature to sit and be proper,” Peter said dryly.

She laughed, facing him. “You’d know it as well as I do.”

“He’s a good boy, Holly. You don’t have to worry about him.”

“But I do,” she said softly. There was so much to worry about. Whether she’d be able to afford school, or even just trainers and jeans. And what if something happened to her? What would become of Jamie? Her parents weren’t interested in either one of them.

Peter touched her hand. “I lost you.”

She stilled, startled by his touch on her skin. She looked up at him.

His expression sobered. He glanced at her lips. “Holly, I have a confession to make.”

“You’re married.” She gasped, edging away. “You have a beautiful wife and five children you adore. I knew it.”

“I’ve never been married, and before you jump to more conclusions, I don’t have a girlfriend either.” He rubbed his thumb along her palm. “I wanted to make sure you understood my interest in Jamie getting into the gifted program at the Athenaeum isn’t entirely altruistic.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.” But then she wouldn’t have understood one-plus-one, not with him touching her like this. It should have been innocuous—logically she knew that—but it wasn’t at all.

“I like you, Holly.” He looked her in the eye, his gaze direct. “But I don’t go out with the parents of my students.”

She had to swallow a couple times before she could say, “You want to go out with me?”

“Yes.” He frowned. “Unless you’d rather not.”

She burst out laughing. She thought about all the bare horseback fantasies she’d had featuring him and laughed harder.

He smiled ruefully. “Laughing when a man declares his affection for you isn’t good for his ego.”

She sobered. “You have affection for me?”

“Holly”—his gaze fell to her lips—”I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the first time you came into my office at the beginning of the year.”

“Oh.” She touched her mouth. “I didn’t know.”

“But now that you do, am I in danger of being slapped for being forward?”

“That wasn’t my first thought, no.”

“Good.”

She looked down at their entwined fingers, hidden against the sides of their legs. “Today’s been a dream. I keep waiting to wake up.”

“I hope it’s a happy dream.”

“It’s the best.” Though she didn’t think she’d mind waking up—not if he were next to her in bed.

Could she risk it?

She never took chances anymore—she had too much at risk. But—damn it all if she didn’t want to risk everything right now.

Her shoulder angel whispered caution to her. This was how she ended up with Jamie.

Her shoulder devil told her to fuck it.

“Jamie,” she called, getting out her wallet.

Her son ran over to her.

She held out a pound. “For the curse jar.”

His little face lit up. “You said a bad word?”

She glanced at Peter, who watched her with avid interest. The headteacher leaned toward her as Jamie danced away. “I didn’t hear anything either,” he said softly, his breath tickling her neck. “Should I ask you what you’re thinking?”

“No,” she replied quickly.

He grinned. “Holly, I like you.”

She felt the press of his thigh against hers and swallowed. She wasn’t sure like was strong enough.

Chapter Seven

Best friend, her ass.

Gigi glared at Merrick Graham’s absurdly handsome face, shining up from her iPad, smiling at his dear Valerie. They were featured in the society column because they’d attended some sort of state function the night before. Merrick looked delicious in his suit. Gigi guessed that the only way he’d look better was naked.

Valerie didn’t look like any best friend Gigi had ever encountered. If this were a movie, Valerie would secretly have the hots for Merrick and want him naked for herself.

The cow.

Gigi punched the button on the treadmill to increase the incline on her brisk walk. It was her fault—she shouldn’t have looked at the society gossip.

But now she knew his name.

She snorted. So she knew what name to call out as he took her to heaven in her fantasies? Like that did her any good in real life. She needed to occupy her thoughts with positive affirmations of her goals instead of dreaming up trouble with Merrick.

She increased the speed on the treadmill for good measure.

She changed websites, going to an industry news site. She clicked through to different articles, until she came upon Delilah Jones’s barracuda face grinning at her. The caption underneath read Delilah Jones, Hollywood’s next big thing, wooed by Russell Sherman for a Shakespearean adaptation.

Gigi tripped and slid off the treadmill as she grabbed the iPad to get a closer look. The article said that nothing was decided, but Jones was quoted to have said she was excited to work with Sherman.

“Like hell she is.” Gigi grabbed her phone and called Betty, time zones be damned.

Betty answered groggily. “This better be important, Imogen.”

“It’s the most important thing you’ll ever do.”

“Like, on par with yearly health exams?” Betty sighed. “Okay, I’m awake. Tell me what you need.”

“I want Ophelia in Russell Sherman’s Hamlet.”

“I thought Delilah Jones was signed for that.”

“Sherman promised me a read as long as I could keep my reputation clean.”

“Well, that’s that then.”

Gigi narrowed her eyes. “Do you know what I’m picturing right now?”

“As your manager, I feel I should tell you to be careful what you say over the phone lines. You know they record everything these days.” Betty sighed loudly. “If I promise to call Sherman and assure him you’re his girl, will you let me go back to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, then. Goodnight.” Betty hung up.

Gigi tossed her phone aside and began to pace.

Holly strode into the study, a sweet smile on her unflappable face. “Shouldn’t you do that on the treadmill?”

Gigi faced her handler. “I need to go to more charity events. I need to be reformed.”

“The studio is happy with you the way you are.” Holly set a cup of tea on the table.

“Yes, but they’d be happy if flesh-eating bacteria took my leg as long as it produced good revenue.” She glared at the tea.

“You want something stronger?” Holly asked.

“You’re trying to corrupt me.”

“I’m trying to keep you happy.”

“Then find me something positive to publicize.”

“The Paris movie would be positive.”

Gigi glared at the woman. “You’re supposed to be helpful.”

“I am helpful. You’re just being wilful.” Holly stood with her hands on her hips. “Do you want his number?”

Gigi stilled, Merrick’s face instantly in her mind’s eye. “Whose number?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

Holly rolled her eyes. “I’m the mother of a six year old. Do you really think that’s going to work on me?”

“I can try.” She began to pace again. “I feel like I’m going to go insane. I already did an hour and half of yoga. My voice coach doesn’t come by until later. What else can I do?”

“Maybe you can read the script the studio sent over.”

Gigi stopped and glared at the woman.

“Or not.” Holly held her hands in the air. “I give up. Want me to find the novel you were reading? The Greek one?”

“It was Russian,” she murmured absently, beginning to pace to try to work off some of the restlessness.

“You know Russian?”

She’d had a part in Anna Karenina a few years back and had wanted to understand the subtext in its original language. “I just read.”

“Well, it’s all Greek to me.” Holly collected a couple things as she walked out. “Call if you need me.”

A few minutes later, her niece Chloe shuffled in and dropped on the couch. “Holly told me to come play with you.”

“Where’s your mother?” Gigi asked, going to sit next to her.

The teenager’s face hardened. She shrugged as though she didn’t care. But she did—it didn’t take a genius to see that.

Chloe looked like a Summerhill. Same blonde hair, same regal nose and cheekbones, same blue eyes.

The piercing in her nose was all her own, though, as was the garish makeup. Gigi wore the most makeup of all of her sisters, but at her most painted she looked smoky, not Goth.

Despite the massive amounts of eyeliner Chloe wore, it was around her eyes that she looked most like her mother. Chloe and Viola both had the same sadness in their gaze, because they were going through a divorce.

“What are you doing?” Chloe muttered in her teenage way.

“Catching up on the news.” Sort of. She held up her phone.

“That’s lame,” the teenager proclaimed. She leaned over and looked at the picture of Merrick and Valerie on the screen. “They’re a cute couple.”

Gigi growled.

“Or not.” Chloe looked at her like she was insane. Then her eyes widened. “Oh. Is this the boy who sold pictures of you to the magazines?”

Gigi winced. “You know about that?”

Chloe looked at her with an expression that questioned her mental capacity. “Who doesn’t? He, like, sold your boobs to the world.”

“He did, didn’t he?” Gigi studied her niece. “What’s the lesson to learn there?”

“Don’t date a wanker.” Chloe grinned at her suddenly. Then she sobered. “Are you angry at him?”

“I was, because he betrayed my trust. A person’s love is a special thing, and you should never treat it lightly, even if you don’t reciprocate.”

“You loved him?”

“I did.” She thought so, anyway. She certainly cared about him a lot.

Chloe made a face. “That sucks. What if I fall in love with an ass?”

“That’s the thing about love. You can’t pick who you fall in love with, but you can decide whether he’s good enough for you.” Gigi pursed her lips as she considered it. “In the end, it was my fault, though, wasn’t it?”

“For trusting him?”

“No, for trusting the wrong person.” She glanced at Merrick’s photo and wondered if he was trustworthy. She suspected once he gave his word he kept it. He was probably overly honorable, despite the edge she sensed he had.

“It’s hard to know who to trust.” Chloe frowned at the newspaper.

“Are you thinking of your father?” she asked intuitively.

Chloe’s gaze hardened. “He’s not really worth thinking about.”

Sighing, Gigi put her arm around her niece and looked her in her eyes. “He’s your father, Chloe. Whatever he does, however poorly he acts, it doesn’t change that you’re stuck with him for life.”

“Like you were with yours?”

“Our father definitely had flaws, didn’t he?” Gigi said as noncommittally as she could. “Especially considering he had a hidden family.”

“My dad has a girlfriend.” The girl ducked her head.

She lifted her niece’s chin with a finger under it. “You are your own person. Whatever he does or doesn’t do has nothing to do with you and everything to do with what sort of man he is.”

“You’re saying I can’t help if he’s an ass.”

Gigi grinned. “Sorry.”

Chloe looked at her with clarity and knowing beyond her years. “Then you can’t help if your boyfriend is an ass either.”

“You’re right.” She nodded. “I can’t.”

Chloe looked at the newspaper. “He’s hot though, isn’t he?”

“Oh, that’s not Dirk.”

“You dated a someone named Dirk?” Her niece gaped at her. “Wasn’t that the first clue?”

Laughing, she hugged the girl. She smelled sweet and innocent, despite the makeup and hard exterior. Gigi closed her eyes and inhaled. “You’re pretty awesome, you know.”

Chloe hesitated and then curled into her. “You’re not bad, either.”

When they split apart, Chloe pointed at the mobile. “If he’s not your ass-boyfriend, who is he?”

Gigi looked at the paper. “He’s no one, really.”

“That sucks.”

She frowned at her niece. “Why?”

The girl shrugged. “I guess because you like him.”

Before she could formulate an answer, her mother knocked on the open door. Her mother always paused in the doorway of the old study. Not surprising—their father never allowed any of them to enter. It was probably instinctual.

“Am I interrupting?” her mother asked, holding a leather-bound book to her chest.

“No. Chloe and I were just talking.” Gigi smiled. “Come in.”

Jacqueline hesitated for a second before joining them. She smiled at her granddaughter and then cast a critical eye over Gigi as she sat. “Were you exercising again?”

She smiled blithely. “It’s part of my job.”

Her mother looked like she was going to say something, but then she turned to Chloe. “Sweetheart, Fran just took cinnamon bread out of the oven.”

“I guess you’re saying I want some.” The teenager hopped up. “Good luck, Aunt Gigi.”

Gigi laughed. “Thanks.”

“I love that child,” Jacqueline said, watching her granddaughter leave the room.

“She’s her own unique snowflake, there’s no disputing that.”

“Summerhill girls are built that way.” She faced Gigi. “But I didn’t come here to talk about the other girls.”

Gigi groaned. “You don’t need to manage me, Mum. I know what I want and I’m trying to achieve it.”

“Are you sure you know what that is?”

“I’ve always known.” She looked her mother in the eye. “You know I’ve always had my path set.”

“Yes, more so than the other girls. Even Titania.”

Gigi heard the sadness that nuanced her sister’s name. “She’s doing well. I asked her to come visit.”

Jacqueline smiled softly. “Titania was always the most headstrong of all of you. She won’t come until she’s ready.”

No, but Gigi could push her to readiness.

“I didn’t come to talk about Titania,” her mother said. “We need to talk about you.”

She held her hand up to forestall any lecture. “I have a plan.”

“That’s what I want to discuss. Maybe it’s time to get rid of the plan and do something different.”

“Different,” she repeated with a frown.

“Something not related to work.” Her mother smiled. “The word most people would use is time off.”

“That’s two words,” she replied with a saucy grin.

Her mother arched her brow.

Her grin faded, and she sighed. “I can’t relax now, Mum. I have too much at stake. I just need to push a little while longer to secure my position.”

“And then what?”

Gigi blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that there’s more to life than duty and responsibility. They don’t keep you company in the night.”

Gigi gaped at the woman she’d known all her life, but apparently didn’t know at all. “Mother, are you telling me to get a lover?”

“Would a lover help you enjoy life?”

If it were Merrick.

Merrick was out of the question. He made it clear she wasn’t what he needed. He wasn’t what she needed either, even if she wanted him.

“Imogen, when was the last time you ate any of Fran’s baked goods?”

“I’m on a regimen. You know that.”

“The only thing I know is that if you continue to eat as little as you do, you’ll fade away.”

“Now you sound like Fran.”

“Fran is wise.” Jacqueline stood, hugging her book to her chest. “You’re disciplined, Imogen. No one can dispute your work ethic. But what does any of it mean if you’re not happy?”

She opened her mouth to inform her mother that she was very happy, but she couldn’t manage to form the words.

“Imogen, I’ve lived my entire life for duty and responsibility, and look at where it’s left me. I just don’t want the same thing for you,” her mother said softly, her gaze downcast as she left the study.

Gigi was still frozen on the couch when Holly marched in and stuck a sticky note on the table in front of her.

“What’s this?” Gigi asked, picking it up and looking at the phone number written in Holly’s tidy handwriting.

“It’s Merrick Graham’s private mobile.”

Gigi looked up, frowning. “How did you get his private number?”

“That’d be like giving you a peek behind the curtain, wouldn’t it?” Grinning impishly, Holly left her, closing the study door behind her.

Gigi’s mobile sat on the table.

She looked at it. She picked up the note and ran a finger over the numbers.

She shouldn’t call him. It was a bad idea. She needed to stay away from scandal.

No one had to know …

Opening a blank text message, she shook her head. This was a bad idea. But she couldn’t stop herself from writing him. Fortunately, nothing would come of it, because he’d have better willpower.

Nice pic of you and your lady in the paper. Blue becomes you. ~Imogen

His call was instantaneous. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Playing with fire.” Obviously.

There was a pause, and she thought for sure he was going to brush her off, or be outraged over how she got his phone number.

But he shocked her by saying, “How close to the flame are you willing to get?”

She rolled the dice and took a gamble. “Come pick me up. Tonight.”

There was the barest pause. Then he said, “Give me your address.”

A shiver went up her spine and she felt the sharp pang of lust—or a stab of insanity. She wasn’t sure there was any difference between the two.

Chapter Eight

Merrick paused next to the curb, his motorcycle idling. What the hell was he doing?

Meeting Imogen Summerhill.

Flirting with danger, more like it. He sat up and unstrapped his helmet. There were good ideas and bad ideas, but this one was off-the-charts terrible. Even the fact that it was under the cover of night didn’t make this better.

And yet, here he was, on his Ducati, waiting for her like a teenager sneaking out on a school night.

He’d watched her video. He hadn’t been able to help himself.

It hadn’t been as overt as he’d expected. There was only one shot where you could see Imogen’s face, and the rest of it alluded to a bedroom scene. There was never anything direct, just silence punctuated by the occasional rustling or quiet sigh. The flash of curves.

Merrick could see why it was so popular. It was the suggestion of sex and not overt. It left everything to the imagination.

Certainly, his imagination had been stroked.

Shadows shifted, and the iron gate swung open. Imogen closed it and walked toward him. At least he thought it was Imogen—that or Zorro, given the wide tilted hat and cape.

She eyed his bike, her gaze devilish and bright. “How completely unexpected of you, Mr. MP.”

“I didn’t want anyone to recognize me.” If he’d taken his Jaguar someone might have noted the hour and wondered—at least that was how he’d decided to justify it. He handed her a helmet. “It’s easier slipping away on the bike.”

“More fun, too,” she added as she tossed her hat on top of a bush.

“Is your hat going to be safe there?” he asked, turning the engine on.

“Does it matter?” she asked as she strapped the helmet on. With a hand on his shoulder, she hiked her leg over. She squirmed against him, her feet on the pegs, winding her arms around his waist. Tight.

So was he. He could feel the soft press of her body against his back, closer than it needed to be. Her thighs gripped his, warm and snug. He tried not to extrapolate that into anything more than it was. Impossible not to, but he tried.

She snaked her hand under his jacket, under his shirt, to rest on his abdomen. “I’m ready,” she said near his ear.

So was he, and if she moved her hand any lower she’d discover that for herself.

This outing was a bad idea. Shaking his head, he kicked up the stand and took off.

“Where are we going?” Imogen asked, raising her voice over the wind.

“Somewhere we won’t be seen.”

She chuckled, a husky sound that gripped him low, just like it had the first time at the charity ball. Her hand splayed low on his belly, a proprietary touch he was enjoying too much. “Normally I’d be offended that you wouldn’t want to be seen with me in public, but in this I encourage your caution,” she said close into his ear.

He wanted to touch her.

No—he wanted to ravage her. He wanted to eat her up like she was breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He wanted to tear her clothes off and leave bite marks on her skin, marking her as his. He wanted to see her sweaty and messy from him, limp on his bed and unable to move because he’d loved her so hard.

He gripped the handles and drove. To Hyde Park, he decided. It was the obvious choice.

It was where he used to bring girls, when he wanted the added thrill of being outside. He hadn’t been there in thirteen years, but it seemed the right scene for this crime.

Arriving at Hyde Park, he eased the motorcycle onto a path, careful not to jar Imogen, on the lookout for any patrols. He zipped toward the Serpentine, to a spot he knew would be secluded.

Behind him, Imogen held him closer. “Is it safe here?”

“You know who comes here now? No one.” He eased the bike to a stop, behind a large tree where he usually hid it when he came here at night to think. He cut the engine. “Which is why it’s perfect for us.”

Imogen slid from behind him, standing next to him as he kicked the stand and propped the bike up. She took the helmet off and shook her hair out.

He watched her hand smooth the long tresses. He wanted that hand back on his tiger. “That was fabulous. Do you ride your motorcycle often?”

Too often, but he couldn’t help himself. “No.”

“What a shame.”

He let his eyes roam over her the way he wanted his hands to, slow and thorough. She was in jeans and boots. Her top covered all the good parts of her, like wrapping paper on a present.

He wanted to rip it off. He crossed his arms and leaned against the bike. “Nice cape.”

She arched her brow. “It’s a poncho, but thank you.”

“Do you always dress like Zorro?”

“Only when I don’t want to be recognized.” She shrugged. “It worked for him.”

“Are you often recognized?”

“Yes,” she said without a hint of ego. “It goes with the territory. It’s worse lately, though.”

“Because of the sex scandal.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You watched it.”

“Of course I did.”

Looking at him like he’d disappointed her, she began to walk down the path that led closer to the Serpentine. He pushed off the bike and stalked after her, trying not to get too excited by the chase.

“Well?” she grudgingly asked.

“I can see why the public is so entranced by it. It leaves everything to the imagination.” He studied her. “I’m surprised you let yourself be videoed. You seem more cautious than that.”

“I usually am.” She glanced away.

“Did you love him?” he heard himself ask, surprised that the reply mattered.

He wasn’t sure she’d answer, but she finally said, “We were in a relationship, and when it starts to go stale you try everything to get the spark back.”

“You’re loyal.”

Her mouth twisted with wry amusement. “That surprises you.”

“Loyalty is hard to come by. Your boyfriend is an idiot.”

“Ex-boyfriend. And he is.”

“If I ran into him, I’d be tempted to punch him.”

She smiled more naturally. “Not that you would, because think of the press.”

“True.”

“Let’s sit on that bench.”

He looked to where she pointed. The bench lined the path, obscured by shadows cast from surrounding trees. It was a good spot, actually, because the shadows would obscure any park video monitoring.

Instead of sitting on it the way a normal person would, Imogen stepped on the seat and balanced on the back.

He joined her, and they sat in silence. She leaned forward with her hands clasped between her legs.

He mimicked her posture when all he wanted was to pounce on her—to take her beneath him, roll her on top, and any other way he could think of.

He gripped his hands to keep them off her. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Why, Mr. MP, that sounded like a compliment.” She tipped her head to look at him. “What did you expect?”

“A movie star.”

“Are you insinuating that I’m not glamorous?”

“I have a feeling you’d be glamorous after a run.”

“You’d be right.” She studied him. “You’re exactly like I imagined.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“The conservative look works for you. It makes me want to unbutton you and muss you up.”

Her words went straight to his head—but not the one on his shoulders. That was exactly what he wanted, too. “You’re rather direct.”

She shrugged. “You have to ask for what you want.”

“What are you asking for?”

“Are we going to play games, Merrick?” She faced him. “We both know why we’re here. The only things to negotiate at this point are the details.”

“We agreed that it wasn’t wise to see each other,” he said cautiously, ignoring the animal impulse that insisted he just take her.

“And yet here we both are.” She took his hand.

A thrill of desire went through him at the contact, sharp and exciting, like a bolt of lightning. He’d never felt anything so strong, not even when sex was new and wild when he was a kid and had the world by the tail. “I should walk away,” he said mostly to himself.

“You couldn’t. If you were going to walk away, you’d have ignored my text.”

Damn it—he knew that. He didn’t need to hear her say it.

Imogen studied his hand like it was a map. “The only thing left is coming to terms.”

“Terms?”

“We both agree that we need discretion. I can’t afford any salacious press over the next few weeks. We don’t tell anyone, and we meet in the cover of night, like this. And we don’t see other people.” She leveled him with a look. “I don’t share.”

She said it like she expected him to argue the point, but he only wanted her. The thought of another man touching her made him want to punch his fist through a window. “Agreed.”

She turned his head so he looked at her. So close, even in the dark, he saw the fathomless blue of her eyes and wanted to drown in them. “This is a terrible idea,” she whispered.

“And yet here we both are,” he repeated as he lowered his mouth to hers.

There was no build up. There was no sweetness or hesitancy that usually accompanied a first kiss. There was only need.

Imogen hummed, her fingers raking his hair. She leaned into him and kissed him, challenging him with her lips to keep up. She trailed kisses down his jaw, to his neck. She undid the top of his shirt and pushed it open—

She sat up, breathing heavily. She ran the tip of her finger over the lower part of his clavicle. “You have a tattoo here.”

He had more than one tattoo, but few people knew.

She angled his chin away. “Tribal vines. Are there letters woven in?”

“M-V-M,” he said. Michaela, Valerie, and Merrick.

She looked like she was going to ask him more about it, but then she tipped her head and said, “Where else do you have tattoos?”

“What makes you think I have more?”

“I just know.” She looked down his body with that X-ray vision of hers.

Not needing her to invade him or his psyche any more than she had, he did the only thing he could think of to distract her: he touched her. Pulling her in front of him, her back to his chest, he covered the juncture between her legs with his palm.

He gave the area a quick scan to ensure their privacy before he placed his mouth by her ear and said, “Slide forward and undo your pants.”

“Interesting way to change topic, Merrick.” But she did as he said.

The moment she unzipped her pants, he slipped his hand down her abdomen and into her silky wetness. He eased a finger between her folds, softly exploring, teasing breathy gasps from her.

She arched into his touch. “This isn’t discreet.”

“You’re not stopping me.”

“I want this too badly. It’s a conundrum.”

He felt her writhe against him and agreed completely. His mind told him to walk away before they stepped into something complicated, but he couldn’t convince his hands to let her go. He wanted to bury himself in her, to lap her up and make her his.

Her sighs went directly to his blood, more intoxicating than whiskey. “We should stop before someone wanders by and catches us,” she said.

No. His reaction was immediate and forceful. He wanted her to come completely apart in his arms. He couldn’t wait. He wanted to hear her cry for release—from him. “No one’s here but you and me, Imogen,” he assured her. “You won’t be compromised.”

He wouldn’t let anyone see her like this. This was all his, and he was keeping it that way.

“Promise,” she demanded, raising her arms to circle his neck from behind.

“I promise.” He snaked his hand under her layers, up to her bra. He pulled the cup down, the sound of its fabric ripping causing a flare of excitement to zip through him.

Imogen moaned. “I liked this bra.”

He rolled the tip of her breast between his fingers.

“But I like this more,” she added with a gasp. “Merrick, make me come.”

Yes. He focused in the spot that made her roll her hips faster, his finger gliding over her so softly she had to reach for it. When she was poised on the edge, he whispered in her ear. “Unravel for me, Imogen. Show me what I have to look forward to.”

She gripped his neck and cried out, muffling her cries against her shoulder.

He held her as she shuddered with the remnants of her orgasm. He looked around, wondering what’d happen if he had her here, on the bench.

He couldn’t chance it.

He was dying though.

When she’d recovered enough, he eased her onto the bench and stood, pacing, trying to get a hold of himself. She had him tied up. He ran a hand over his neck. “I should take you home before we tempt fate further.”

Her lips pursed but she stood without a word, buttoning her pants and straightening her clothes.

Good, because he was on a short leash and it wouldn’t take much for it to snap.

They returned to the motorcycle in silence. He handed her a helmet.

She grabbed his shirt. “I’m going to explore your body until I find every last tattoo. FYI.”

He swallowed the urge to tear his clothes off and to tell her to have at it. “I thought you were trying to be good.”

“Darling”—she trailed her fingers down his chest and pulled him forward by his belt buckle—”you’re going to find out how good I can be.”

He caught her arm, unable to let her go even though he needed space to regain his equilibrium. “I thought you were trouble when I saw you.”

She smiled as she stepped back. “Then we’ll have to make sure I’m worth it.”

Chapter Nine

“Do you hear that?” Fran asked, setting a plate of cookies on the table.

“What?” Holly took one without being told. Fran’s cookies were the best. “Gigi rehearsing?”

Shaking her head, the older woman tsked. “She’s not rehearsing. She’s singing for a man.”

Holly checked the time. “Isn’t she working with her voice coach right now?”

“Yes, but I know my lambs, and I know when something is different.” Fran pursed her lips, listening. “There’s something under her singing. You’ll know when your son falls in love the first time. You’ll hear his heart in his actions.”

Holly stopped and really listened, trying to imagine Jamie a man and in love. Something in her chest melted as she shouted in her head Oh hell no.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think there’s a man.” Fran listened carefully and then nodded. “Definitely a man.”

And his name was Merrick Graham. Holly didn’t know for sure, but the ripped bra she’d seen in Gigi’s room made her believe the actress had called him.

It’d been a hunch, to get his number for Gigi. She’d been doing what she’d been told—to encourage Gigi to go wild—but she also thought it’d make Gigi happy.

The torn underwear would make Marjorie happy. Holly hadn’t had anything exciting to report since she’d been working there, so she was relieved to have found something at last.

“Except I know Gigi,” Fran continued, “and she’s determined to get her career on track.”

“Does that mean she wouldn’t date someone?” Holly asked.

“That means she’d do whatever she needs to do to get herself back on top first. Acting has always come first with her.” Fran wiped down a tray and set it in the oven. “All my lambs are ambitious, but Gigi has the most drive.”

Holly had had ambitions before she’d gotten pregnant, but nothing definite. She’d always seen herself in smart business suits, going to work in a posh office, and living in a high rise surrounded by glass. Her reality had turned out so completely different.

She never regretted it. She loved being Jamie’s mom. It was a blessing.

But if she’d change one thing about her life, it’d be having someone to share it with—the hard times as well as the good ones. Someone kind and sweet, smart and funny. And sexy—someone inspiring after the exhaustion of wrangling a child.

Someone like Peter Sands.

Her face warmed with the heat of her crush. Really—she needed to grow up. “Fran, if there is a man, he’d be lucky to have her.”

A tall blonde who looked like she owned the world strolled in, an expensive bag in the crook of her arm. “Have who?”

“Gigi.”

The woman laughed, setting her bag on a chair and going to kiss Fran on the cheek. “Gigi said that if she ever dates again, we’re to lock her in a closet and throw away the key. Although she specified that she expects we’ll slip your shortbread under the door, Fran.”

“The other girls prefer it with ginger but Gigi likes chocolate.” Fran frowned. “At least she used to. She won’t even have one bite now, what with being determined to be fit as a fiddle.”

“Gigi suffers for her art.” The blonde faced her, hands on her hips, inspecting her head to toe. “I suppose you’re Gigi’s wrangler from the studio?”

Holly resisted the urge to squirm under the intense scrutiny. “I am.”

“Beatrice.” The woman held out her hand. “Gigi’s eldest sister.”

She shook the woman’s hand. “Holly Martin.”

Beatrice glanced at the laptop on the kitchen table that Holly had been working on. A frown wrinkled her forehead as she bent to get a closer look. “Are you doing Gigi’s bookkeeping?”

“I’m cleaning it up,” she said hesitantly, hoping she hadn’t overstepped any boundaries. She’d started to enter some bills, but the whole system was a mess so she’d redone it. “I hope I didn’t do anything bad.”

“This looks quite thorough,” Beatrice said as scrolled through the month’s entries. “Hmm.”

What did that mean? She started to ask but then she looked up at the time and gasped. “Is that what time it is?”

Fran glanced at the clock and nodded. “Are you expected elsewhere?”

“I have to pick my son up from jail.”

Beatrice’s perfect eyebrows arched. “You look too young to have birthed a criminal.”

“It’s his after-school punishment for building a trebuchet.” She sighed as grabbed her things. “It’s complicated.”

“Obviously.”

“Take this, sweetie.” Fran turned and picked up a small wrapped package. “Shortbread for your wee one.”

“My wee one will adore you.” She kissed Fran’s cheek on impulse and dashed through the house.

She was putting on her coat at the door when she heard Gigi ask, “Are you leaving, Holly?” from behind.

She turned around, buttoning her coat as Gigi approached. “Yes. I finished your accounting, and I have a call in to your publicist to see if we can arrange for an interview with Vogue, like you asked.”

“Thank you.” Gigi leaned against the table in the foyer. “And thank you for the phone number, too.”

Holly stopped what she was doing and looked up.

“I called him.” Gigi smiled, not the usual saucy upturn of her lips but a genuine one that shined from her heart. “Thank you for the prompt.”

She lowered her head and pretended to be busy with her things. “You’re welcome.”

“Did I tell you about Tuesday night drinks?” Gigi folded her arms. “Every Tuesday we girls gather at our favorite pub. My sisters and any friends we invite. You should come next time.”

“I work for you,” she said as she hiked her bag on her shoulder.

Gigi shrugged. “But you’re a friend, too. Only a friend would care enough to do what you did for me.”

“It wasn’t that important,” she murmured, the guilt heavy on her chest.

“It was. We should get to know you better.”

Holly wanted that so badly it shocked her. She didn’t have many friends except parents of Jamie’s friends. Not many people wanted to hang out with a teenager who had a baby, and now between work and Jamie she had no time. And the Summerhills were alluring.

Except she was there to spy on Gigi. Marjorie would tell her to go to Tuesday drinks to gather dirt, but just the thought made Holly’s stomach turn.

But she nodded. “If I can find a sitter for Jamie.”

Gigi smiled. “It’s an open invitation.”

Nodding again, she murmured something and hurried out of the house. It was pouring rain, and she bit her lip to keep from cursing it as she struggled with her umbrella.

Giving up, she stopped under an awning to get out of the rain, but it dripped on her anyway. Ignoring the water, she pulled out her mobile and called her boss.

Marjorie answered right away. “Holly, I hope you have something better to report today.”

“I can’t help that Imogen’s very structured.” It was the most surprising thing about Gigi, how dedicated she was. “She takes acting seriously and works harder than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“That’s fantastic, but it’s not very sexy.”

The bra was sexy. She opened her mouth to report it, but the words wouldn’t come out. It felt too much like tattling.

Marjorie continued, unaware of Holly’s dilemma. “Gigi hasn’t been in the papers in over a week, since she was photographed with that politician. We need to feed the media something juicy.”

“Juicy.” The bra definitely qualified. But she shook her head. “I’ve been thinking that maybe we should take a different approach with Imogen.”

“It’s not your job to think,” Marjorie said. “It’s your job to make sure the talent does what she’s supposed to do, and in this case it’s keeping the tabloids full of tasty bits of scandal.”

A text came in, and she lifted her phone to read it.

It was from Peter. We couldn’t reach you, so I took Jamie with me. Don’t worry. Text me when you’re free.

She frowned, not sure how she felt about Peter taking her son.

How ungrateful she was being. She shook her head and returned her attention to her supervisor. “Marjorie, I don’t know that this is the best way to use Imogen Summerhill. I think maybe if we focus on some of the good things she does—”

“No one cares about whether she saves puppies or old ladies from the street. They want to see her naked. They want to know what man makes her drop her knickers. Haven’t you watched that video she made with Dirk Ranger?”

Holly winced. She had watched it, and she’d felt awful for Gigi. “It wasn’t like that.”

“She won you over quickly, didn’t she?” Marjorie said. “She must be a great actress.”

“She is,” Holly replied with feeling. “But she’s more than that. She’s a woman who feels pain, and she’s brilliant. She speaks half a dozen languages fluently, and she taught them to herself.”

“I told you, Holly, no one cares about that.”

“Well, they should.” She folded her arms, imagining that she looked a lot like Jamie when he became obstinate.

“Holly, do I need to remind you that your continued employment depends on this?”

And no job meant no new school for Jamie—or new waterproof shoes, or jeans, or anything else that a growing boy needed.

She rubbed her forehead. Giving Marjorie something insignificant couldn’t hurt. Besides, if Holly were fired, there was no telling who they’d send to Gigi. The next person might be unscrupulous enough to snoop through Gigi’s things.

She couldn’t tell Marjorie about the bra—that was too personal. She needed to find something flattering, something cute that made Gigi relatable to people.

The singing.

She snapped her fingers. Everyone loved a good romance. “Imogen has a crush,” she announced.

“Who?” Marjorie asked intently. “Someone other than Dirk? The politician she was photographed with?”

“Not the politician,” Holly lied to protect Gigi’s privacy. “But whoever it is has her singing.”

“This is fabulous. Well done, you.”

A cold drop of water fell on the middle of her head, making her flinch. It wasn’t well done at all, and hearing Marjorie gush about it didn’t make her feel any better.

“Holly, she needs to cut loose more. Encourage her to go out with this man.”

Apparently Gigi didn’t need any prodding to go out with him. It looked a done deal. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Excellent. Good job, Holly. I knew you’d rise to the occasion.” Her supervisor hung up.

Holly stared at her phone. There was nothing to do right now. She needed to go home.

By the time she reached her apartment, she was soaked. As she unlocked the door to let herself in, she stopped. Jamie. “Damn it to hell,” she yelled.

“Mum!” Jamie rushed out of the kitchen, eyes wide. He wore an apron—she had no idea where that’d come from—and he was covered in flour. “That was two curses in one.”

She blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Sands brought me home.”

Peter walked out of the kitchen, wearing a matching apron. He should have looked ridiculous, but his shoulders were broad and his sleeves rolled up to reveal ropey forearms that she’d never seen on any teacher.

Her heart kick-started, as she imagined stripping his shirt off. She bet he had a nice chest.

Blushing, she shook her head. Bad Holly, thinking those thoughts—in front of her child no less. “I forgot to call you,” she said helplessly to Peter.

“I asked the building manager to let us in.” Peter smiled. “We’re making dinner for you.”

“Pasta,” Jamie declared. “I’m a good chef, Mum. Wait till you see.”

“Dinner’s almost ready. Holly, why don’t you go put dry clothes on?” His gaze ate her up, like he was imagining stripping her out of the wet clothes himself.

Holy hell, she was in trouble. “Jamie,” she said taking out her wallet.

“Yes, Mum?” His eyes widened as she handed him five pounds.

“For the curse jar.” She ran a hand over his head and went to change.

***

The tomatoes were undercooked and the pasta was mushy.

Jamie built a leaning tower of broccoli, which collapsed and rolled all over the kitchen floor. She’d be finding broccoli florets in strange places for weeks to come.

Peter kept touching her.

It was the best dinner she’d ever had.

It was nothing overt—he was respectful of Jamie. But when Jamie wasn’t paying attention, Peter managed to put his hands on her in some way. She shivered, thinking of when his hand had snaked under her hair and he’d massaged her neck.

No one had touched her in so long.

She listened to Jamie and Peter tell her about their days, and then she told them about hers—minus the last bit with Marjorie. They all cleared the table, and she sent Jamie to wash up and get ready for bed.

Leaving her alone in the kitchen with Peter.

Silence fell over them as they stared at each other.

She cleared her heart from her throat, putting her hands behind her, not sure what to do. “Thank you for today. I can’t believe I forgot the time.”

“It happens more than you know.” He smiled. “Jamie and I had a nice afternoon together.”

“Jamie’s never had a man in his life.”

Peter frowned. “Are you saying I’m overstepping my bounds?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying.” She swallowed. “I’m in uncharted territory.”

Comprehension lit his face. “Maybe we could navigate this together, then.”

She looked at his mouth. Her lips tingled like he was kissing her, but he wasn’t even holding her hand.

It both excited and scared her, that he could affect her like this without a single touch. She averted her eyes and tried to retreat. “You should probably go. We’ve disrupted your evening enough.”

“You’re not a disruption.”

Something crashed, and from his bedroom Jamie yelled, “I’m okay.”

She arched her brow at Peter. “You were saying?”

“Your smile is so beautiful.” Staring at her like he was in wonder, he touched the corner of her mouth. “I’ve wanted to kiss it for so long, to taste it to see if it’s as sweet as it looks.”

She wanted to throw her arms around him. She wanted to beg him to stay, to wait until Jamie was asleep and then to just take her. She wanted to throw caution to the wind and clear the kitchen table in one swoop of her arm and demand that he pleasure her right then and there.

But that was how she’d gotten in trouble in the first place.

She wasn’t that girl anymore. She had Jamie to think about, and who in their right mind would want more complications?

“Mum!”

The shout jarred her from her thoughts.

Peter rubbed her lower lip with his thumb. “I should go.”

She nodded, both meaning it and not.

“I had a great time tonight, Holly.” He lowered his head slowly, giving her time to stop him.

No way was she stopping him.

His lips touched hers, soft and warm. He explored her without pushing, as if he knew how skittish she was. At the end, he tipped her head back and gave her a taste of a real kiss.

“Mum!”

She startled away from him, her hand on her heart.

“I’ll go.” Peter smiled at her, looking nothing at all like a headteacher, and left her to put her son to bed.

Holy hell. She leaned against the counter, trying to catch her breath.

“Mum, where are you? I’m waiting.”

“I’ll be right there.” She opened her wallet, took out a pound, and put it in the curse jar herself.

Chapter Ten

“Where’s the tequila?” Portia asked, looking through the liquor bottles on the side table they’d converted into a bar.

“Since when do you drink tequila?” Gigi asked, kicking off her shoes and joining Luca on the floor. The room had been their father’s study—austere and off-limits. Since his death, they’d been slowly reclaiming it, turning it into their own den.

“I don’t, but I invited Viola over to join us, and I wanted to make sure she’d be happy.”

Gigi smiled at her sister. Portia had always been the most foreign of her siblings, but since she’d been home she’d realized she’d underestimated Portia. They all had. “Do you think Vi will show up?”

“Honestly? No.” Portia frowned over her shoulder. “She’s been scarce lately, hasn’t she? But I can hope.”

Talk about hoping. “I invited Titania.”

“The mystery sister?” Luca sat up, interest lighting his eyes. “Will she come?”

“I doubt it.” Gigi dug her toes in the furry rug they’d put in front of the fireplace. “I’m going to drag her along sometime, though. It’s ridiculous that she won’t come.”

“She was always the most stubborn.” Portia handed them each drinks. Reaching for her own, she plumped a pillow on the floor and joined them.

Luca pretended to gape. “She is the most stubborn? Are you certain? Because, of your sisters, I know which I’d say has the hardest head.”

Gigi and Portia exchanged looks. Gigi patted his knee. “Poor Luca. She’ll come around.”

His expression soured. “I don’t think any of us believe that.”

True. “Maybe you should make your intentions known.”

Portia nodded. “Launch an assault.”

“I thought I heard lovely voices in here,” their mother said.

They looked up to find their mother in the doorway of the study. She wore cashmere head to toe and an equally soft look of longing, like she was an outsider who wanted in.

It broke Gigi’s heart to see it. She’d never considered herself a bad daughter, but now she wondered if she couldn’t have been better. She patted the seat next to her, moving her feet. “Mum, come join us.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.” She looked askance at them all.

“We’d love if you joined us, Mother,” Portia said softly.

“We’re family,” Luca added.

Jacqueline’s eyes glistened, but she smiled and sat on the floor.

As Portia got up and poured their mother a drink, Gigi said, “We were just discussing Vi and Titania.”

Their mother’s forehead furrowed. “Titania may refuse to see us, but at least she’s doing well.”

“She is?” Portia asked as she handed their mother a glass of her favorite cognac.

“Her photos are gaining renown.” Jacqueline inhaled the liquor and sipped a bit. “She’s quite marvelous. She has a unique perspective on people.”

“Titania?” Luca said, suddenly perking up. “The photographer Titania is your sister?”

“You know her?” Gigi asked.

“Of her. I own a picture she took.” He frowned. “She is amazing. An artist. She can tell a person’s story in one photo. It’s a gift.”

“All my daughters are brilliant at what they do.” Jacqueline patted Portia’s hand.

Portia smiled ruefully. “Once they figure out what they want.”

“You and Viola were late bloomers.” Their mother’s face clouded. “How is she doing?”

Gigi and her sister exchanged looks, not certain how much Vi wanted discussed, even to their mother. So Gigi just said, “As well as could be expected dealing with the ass.”

Jacqueline faced her. “And you, Imogen?”

“Me?” She blinked.

Her mother studied her. “You’ve been restless.”

She flashed her media smile and shrugged. “We all know I’m not good idle.”

“Is that all it is?”

No, it was everything. She was more than restless—she was frustrated. Betty hadn’t called her back regarding Sherman and wasn’t taking her calls. Delilah was seeding the media with lies about having Ophelia. And Holly hadn’t been able to find anyone who wanted to talk about Gigi instead of the video.

Her handler had also been relentless about Craig’s script. Apparently, Gigi’s Hell no, I won’t read it had been ambiguous.

Her phone buzzed with a text. Knowing better than to think Betty could be getting back to her but curious as to whom it might be, she murmured “Excuse me” and glanced at the screen.

Merrick Graham: Come out and play.

Her breath caught, and then her heart began to pound thinking of the night before in the park. They’d gotten lucky last night, but in the harsh morning light she’d lectured herself for her lack of control.

He’d made control impossible. Not good.

Not good at all.

She set her phone aside and contemplated her next move.

“Who is it?” Portia asked in her typically curious way.

“Do you see that look?” Luca pointed at Gigi’s face. “It must be the man in the tuxedo.”

“What man in a tuxedo?” Jacqueline asked.

“No one,” she said, giving Luca a death glare.

“It can’t be no one,” Portia said with a frown. “You have a look.”

Gigi arched her brow. “Is it the sort of look that says stay out of my business?”

Luca laughed.

Their mother smiled fondly. “Perhaps now would be a good time to ask Luca about his next race.”

Luca launched into a passionate recounting of his last race and how it was no longer worth racing since his best friend and greatest nemesis no longer competed. That nemesis was going to be their sister Rosalind’s husband as soon as they set a date, so they humored Luca but didn’t sympathize too overtly.

They chatted about this and that for what seemed to Gigi like hours, though it was probably only one. She knew she was a good enough actress to hide what she was feeling behind the lounging and light banter. But on the inside, she was chomping at the bit to text Merrick back.

Finally Jacqueline stood, and Luca decided he should leave, too. Gigi and Portia stayed behind to clean up.

To cover up her impatience, Gigi asked, “Is Jackson coming to pick you up?”

Her sister shook her head as she loaded the dishwasher with the glasses. “He had to fly to the states to look at a possible investment. I’m going to stay here tonight.”

Gigi waited for Portia to wipe her hands on a towel before turning off the kitchen light.

As they headed toward the staircase, Portia said, “What’s his name?”

“Who’s name?” she asked, knowing she could be very convincing at being innocent.

Portia shook her head. “You’re good, but I recognized the look you got when the text came in. You’ve met someone, and you’re interested in him.”

“There are lots of ways to be interested in someone,” she said philosophically as they ascended to the first floor.

“And you’re acting all those ways.” She took Gigi’s hand and made her stop. “Just be careful, all right?”

Her sister’s concern touched her right in the center of her chest, right where she felt most vulnerable. She hated feeling weak, so she fell back on the flippant attitude everyone expected from her. “Of course, darling.”

Portia didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and headed to her room. She’d only gone five steps when she turned around. “When you sneak out tonight, avoid the third step from the bottom. It squeaks, and Franny always knows.”

“I won’t ask how you know that.”

Portia grinned. “Probably best. A girl needs a hint of mystery.”

***

Gigi managed to wait until almost eleven before she replied to his text. It’s late.

Merrick’s reply was instantaneous. You don’t seem like the sort of woman who’d wither at midnight.

She arched her brow, stretching out on her bed. She was still dressed, because she wasn’t deluding herself—she was going to meet him.

Even still, she wasn’t his to command, and she’d go on her own time, especially since he’d made her wait this long. So she replied: What sort of woman do I seem to be?

The sort who craves adventure.

She tapped her phone to her lips, pondering how to reply, when his next text came in.

Merrick Graham: You could be teasing me in person. Better yet, I could be teasing you in my bed right now.

Good point. She replied: Tell me where to meet you.

He sent her directions as she put on her disguise: a severe black suit, prim heels, and pearls. She twisted her hair into a bun and looked in the mirror. Perfect—if anyone saw her leaving the house, they’d mistake her for Portia.

She walked out the front door, but not before she checked to see if there was activity anywhere around. She caught a taxi but had him drop her off a couple blocks from the address Merrick had sent her.

She sauntered toward her destination, anticipation building through her body. She tried not to think of what they were going to do. She tried not to think of his hidden tattoos, or how she’d been thinking of uncovering them. She tried not to think how he kissed like it was his last moment left on earth, or how he’d touched her like she was a gift.

She arrived at the address. It didn’t look like the sort of place he’d live. In fact, it looked like the servant’s entrance to a larger manor. She double-checked it and then rang the bell. He better not have sent her on a wild goose chase.

He answered quickly, drawing her inside into a dingy space before closing the door firmly behind them.

She unbuttoned her coat and looked around. “Where—”

He pressed her against the stone wall and kissed the breath out of her.

She hummed, forgetting about her question, her hands pressed against the wall to brace herself. His hand framed her face, and the other gripped her hip, not even giving her the option to escape.

As if. Foolish, foolish man.

He lifted his mouth from hers. “You took your damn time getting here.”

“You didn’t want me to lead the press corps to your doorstep, did you?”

“I’m surprised they don’t recognize you under these clothes.” He tugged on her coat.

“It’s a good disguise. I look just like my sister.”

“You look like a librarian.”

“Just like my sister.” She leaned in and whispered. “But she has excellent underwear.”

“Come on then.” He took her hand and led her down a dark hall.

“Where are we?”

“The back entrance to my house.”

“Should I ask why your house has a back entrance like this?”

She didn’t think he was going to answer her, but then he glanced over his shoulder and said, “In my previous life, my manager had this added to my house to minimize the repercussions of my peccadilloes. The combination of music, money, and women can go to a boy’s head.”

“A previous life?” She frowned. “You were a musician?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t.” She stopped in her steps. “When?”

“It was a lifetime ago, Imogen.” He tugged at her arm, but when she didn’t move he sighed and faced her. “I was in a band.”

Narrowing her gaze, she studied him but she didn’t recognize him. “A famous band?”

He sighed. “Total Goes Wild.”

“You were in Total Goes Wild?” She gasped. “My sister Titania and I loved that group. I could still sing all the songs by heart.”

He winced. “Please don’t.”

“You guys weren’t just hot for a boy band, you actually had talent. ‘Love Leaves Dreaming’ was one of the best songs of the decade. It had such feeling.” She studied him. “I don’t remember you in the band though.”

“There were five members. I’m sure we were interchangeable.” He tugged at her hand. “It’s drafty down here. Wouldn’t you rather be in my warm bed?”

“I knew all the band members, especially Ricky Hazard, the lead singer.” She gasped, staring at him. “Say it’s not so.”

Merrick rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It was a lifetime ago, Imogen.”

She pressed herself against him. “You know, I used to have a huge crush on you. I’d lie in my room and imagine waiting for you backstage in your dressing room.”

He stilled. “Did you?”

Nodding, she ran a finger down the open collar of his shirt, edging toward where she knew his tattoo to be. “Want me show you what I imagined doing to you?”

“Yes.” He picked her up in his arms. “In my room.”

She chuckled, excited, amused. She actually had had a crush on him, but she’d been a late bloomer when it came to sex. She’d been too distracted by school and drama to be interested in sex.

Merrick carried her out of the dark corridor into an expensively decorated house. It was all wood and somber colors, no frills, no warmth—what you’d imagine a wealthy bachelor living in. It didn’t quite fit the image she was forming of him—the Merrick she knew, who had been a rocker with tattoos, should have had a few more outrageous touches.

He passed by a set of stairs, continuing down the hall.

“What’s up there?” she asked, craning her neck to see.

“Nothing. I don’t use the first floor any longer.” He kicked open a door and carried her into a bedroom.

It was as bland as the rest of what she’d seen. There weren’t any personal touches—no photos, no strewn clothing. “Aren’t we going to your bedroom?”

“This is my bedroom.” He set her on the enormous bed.

She kicked her shoes off and let them fall over the edge. “Want me to tell you the fantasies I had about Ricky?”

He unbuttoned his shirt as he went to the dresser and poured two glasses of something dark. “I’m not Ricky.”

“Aren’t you?” She wasn’t sure she believed him. “What about your tattoos?”

“A remnant of misspent youth.”

“Your music?”

“I no longer play.”

She accepted the glass and leaned back on an elbow, her bare foot trailing up the inside of her leg. “But you loved the music. You can’t fake something like that.”

“Love is lost.” He looked at his glass and then set it down.

“Is it worse that you’re lying to me, or that you’re lying to yourself?” She sipped her drink, watching him over the rim. “Sing for me.”

“No.”

“Please?” She smiled prettily, batting her lashes for affect. “‘Love Leaves Dreaming.’“

“No.”

“I’ll get you to sing for me one day.” She nodded at his glass. “Aren’t you going to drink your whiskey?”

He shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

“Do you have a problem with addiction?”

He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Not at all.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would you pour it for us then?”

“I thought you’d enjoy it.”

She suspected he’d enjoy it, too, if he only let himself. But she decided not to tackle that now. She’d learn—in good time. She held her glass out. “I don’t want it either.”

“Are you sure?” he asked as he took it from her.

She nodded. “The only thing I want is you naked next to me.”

“Done.” He eased down over her, sliding over her so she felt the length of him up her body.

“We have too many clothes on,” she murmured as he settled above her.

He framed her face with his hands. “I have you now, and I’m not moving from this spot, even if it means delaying the feel of your naked skin against mine.”

She flashed her saucy grin at him as she ran her foot up his leg. “What about the fancy knickers I have on?”

“I’ll get to them.” He nipped at her neck, soothing the bite with a kiss before moving down to her cleavage.

She was tempted to unbutton the blouse she’d put on, but before she could suggest it, he sat up, took her blouse in both fists, and tore it aside.

Her heart kicked. She listened to the ping of buttons hitting the hardwood floor, her arms flayed at her sides, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible even though she knew he’d be able to tell how excited she was by her heartbeat. “That expedited matters,” she drawled.

He ran a hand down from her neck to her chest, over the fancy lace she put on because she thought he’d enjoy it. She knew what he was seeing. The lace, a dark teal bordering on black, was so thin it hid nothing. By the way they felt, she knew her nipples were plump and visible through the lace, dusky with need.

She pushed him away and sat up. “My turn,” she said, taking his shirt in hand and ripping it off him.

He knelt on her legs without putting much weight on her. His hands fisted at his sides, where his shirt was still caught.

She raised her hand to touch the tattoo at his neck. Taking his hand, she studied the one covering his forearm—an intricate Celtic design that left a patch of skin bare in a treble clef. “Clever,” she said, running a fingertip over the symbol.

Her gaze roamed the rest of his body, snagging on the black paw that peeked out from his waistband.

Sitting up, she pushed him onto his back. “What’s this?”

“My tiger.”

“He’s all locked up.” She undid his belt and took her time unzipping his pants. She could feel him, hard and eager, underneath, and it made her wet, but she wasn’t going to rush this. She looked into his eyes. “Should I let him loose?”

“He’s coming out regardless,” Merrick said, his voice a husky growl.

Flashing him a wicked smile, she grabbed the waistband of his pants and underwear and tugged it down.

He helped her by raising his hips, and she pulled it all the way to his knees before she allowed herself to look up.

His tiger lay low on his belly, in the same sparse tribal style of the tattoo at his neck, only with splashes of orange. The paw reached up to his belly button while the body stretched between, its tail curling down.

Way down.

She put her fingers on the paw.

He flinched a little, hissing through his gritted teeth as if just that touch were unbearable.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered, tracing a path down the length of his cat. “Or does it hurt good?”

“Touch me, damn it.” He took her hand and put it over him, curling her fingers tight around his hard shaft. He arched back, agony and pleasure etched on his face.

Gigi felt powerful in a way she hadn’t in a long time. She touched him, clasping him, running her hands up and down his length. She hummed, loving the way the tiger undulated under her grip.

Merrick reared up, setting her on her back. Somehow, he got both of them naked, without tearing any more clothing.

He sat up, breathing heavily. He let his gaze take a leisurely path up her body, stopping at all the intriguing places in between.

She stretched out, letting him get his fill. “I have no tattoos. I had a different adolescence than you.”

“No groupies?” he asked with a self-deprecating smile as he ran a hand from her neck down her body.

Arching into the luxurious caress, she shook her head. “My father was very proper and disapproving. I was determined to prove that I was a serious actress.”

“Does he approve now that you’re successful?”

“He died last year.”

Merrick paused. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged with feigned nonchalance to cover up the sadness she hadn’t expected. “I wasn’t close to him.”

“I’m not close to my parents, but if something happened to them I’d be regretful.”

“It’s old news.” She smiled enticingly, trying to bring the sexy back. “I never snuck out as a girl either. Now I’ve done that and made out in a park. I wonder what else you’ll help me experience.”

“Why don’t I show you?” he said, reaching in the nightstand table and pulling out a condom.

“I may want you to show me a lot.” She watched him roll it on, shifting in barely contained excitement to feel him in her. She swallowed her anticipation and continued in feigned patience. “I never realized how many things I wanted to try until right now. I usually take the most direct route to the end result. I’m not very daring.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Merrick said huskily, covering her with his naked body.

“The video? It was the only daring thing I’d done, and look how that turned out.” She sighed, her legs wrapped around his thighs. “But he’s not worth the thought, especially right now.”

“You’ll forget his name before I’m through.” Merrick took her hands and held her wrists over her head in one hand. With his free hand, he reached between them and rubbed himself against her. “I promise.”

The first slow glide was always breathtaking, and this was especially wonderful. She gasped at the feel of him sliding in her, wiggling to get him closer even though it was physically impossible.

He held her hands up, pinning her down. Cupping her face he kissed her, hard and demanding, so when he lifted his mouth she was gasping for breath. “Open your eyes, Imogen. I want you to see who’s making you scream.”

Oh, she knew. No one had ever made her feel this way. She moaned, arching up against him. She forced her eyelids open, her gaze locking on his.

His eyes glittered with passion—the intense need for her so stark. She gasped, lifting her wrists enough to feel the bite of his hold.

He growled, holding her down, pumping into her at a slow, consistent pace. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Why would I want to? I’m right where I want to be.” She bit the base of his neck, right where his tattoo started. “I think your kitty is starting to purr.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re taunting me?”

“Only because you like it.” She thrust her hips up, arching her back. He hit her in the right spot, and she cried out. She did it again, rubbing herself on him until she was panting hard.

“Imogen. Sweet, sweet …” He lowered his head to her nipple, taking it in his mouth and sucking it between his lips.

She cried out again, her fingers curling and seeing stars as she came.

He groaned, stiffening above her, roaring as he climaxed. He collapsed on top of her, rolling them so she was on top. He let go of her wrists, taking one of her hands and bringing it over his heart.

Gigi lay there, boneless. She should get up and salvage what she could of her clothing to leave. Mornings were awkward, and she didn’t want to risk being discovered, with a politician no less.

But then his hands began roaming over her body—over her back, down to her buttocks, and teasing between her legs. She felt a zing of awareness at her core as she felt him stir inside her. “Yes,” she sighed. “Again.”

“Again,” he agreed, holding her hips and thrusting into her.

She’d go soon, she decided, as she lifted her lips to his kiss.

Chapter Eleven

Merrick was losing control, and it was Imogen’s fault.

Two days.

He stalked back and forth in his office. Two days since she’d snuck out of his bed like a thief. Two days since he had anything from her except flirting texts.

Two days where all he could think of was losing himself in her again. He remembered every moment of it—every kiss, every sigh, every lick.

He’d been useless since. He should have been ensuring that he had all the support he needed to get his bill passed. Instead he was mooning over a movie star with wicked eyes and the sweetest mouth he’d ever tasted.

He dropped into the chair behind his desk and rubbed his neck. He needed to get a grip.

The gnome grinned mockingly at him from its perch on his desk.

“Easy for you to be self-righteous,” Merrick told him. “If you met Imogen, you’d understand what the fuss was about, too.”

The little guy looked at him disbelievingly.

Merrick turned the statue around and stood up. This was ridiculous—he couldn’t have Imogen. He had to talk to Howell about the safety act.

He tried to justify taking his Ducati—because it’d be more efficient in the late afternoon traffic and not just because he liked going fast.

In the end, he took the Jaguar. He went to the House of Lords, figuring they’d be sitting in session, but they’d had an odd break for the day. He went to the Carlton Club. He even went to the tennis club he knew Howell belonged to.

No luck.

Agitated, he went home and prowled through the dark, empty corridors. Restless energy beat at him, the walls closing in.

“Bugger it,” he murmured, grabbing his leather jacket and motorcycle keys.

He tried to talk himself out of it, but once he was standing alongside his Ducati he knew he couldn’t resist. He geared up and took off. Weaving in and out of traffic, he raced as fast as he could go. He wound his way through the suburbs on a road out of town.

At some point he realized two things: it was dark, and he was on a country road. He turned around and headed back to London, only he couldn’t stand the idea of going back to his house.

Instead he went to Imogen’s.

He pulled up out front, cutting the engine. The night became still, the residential neighborhood sleepy. He took off his helmet and did a visual sweep of the area. Nothing happening, no one about.

Safe to call her to come down.

A smart man would go home now. He didn’t need this complication in his life. Imogen had the power to ruin his carefully laid out plans.

One taste, his tiger prodded him. What was the point of denying himself something no one would ever know about?

Shaking his head, Merrick kicked out the stand and took out his mobile to text her. Come outside.

A light came on upstairs, and he saw her face peek out the window. A couple minutes later she exited the front door, closing it with care before walking to him.

She wore a trench coat and sunglasses. Her legs were bare, capped with heels so high it was a wonder she didn’t break her ankle with each step. Her hair was down, flowing past her shoulders, shiny and inviting to touch.

She walked right up to him. “You’re in plain sight. What if someone saw you?”

“I checked to make sure there was no one around.”

“Clever of you.” Her smile spelled trouble. She held her hand out for the helmet.

Giving it to her, he watched her put it on. His body clenched as she hopped up behind him and wrapped herself around him. “Let’s go,” she told him in her molten voice.

He couldn’t get home fast enough. When he parked, she grabbed the front of his jacket and walked him to the hidden entrance at the back of his house. Once he let them in, she led the way straight to his bedroom.

She pushed him on the bed and crawled up so her knees straddled his thighs. She undid his belt and unzipped his jeans. “I was beginning to think you hadn’t missed me at all.”

He looked down at his very obvious erection. “Is that what it looks like now?”

“It looks like the best Christmas now.” She grinned at him. “Maybe Christmas and a birthday thrown in.”

He hissed as she reached her hot hands inside his pants and drew him out. She held him with firm pressure, running her fist down over him until he had to grit his teeth to keep from exploding in her hands.

Breathing heavily, he opened his eyes in time to watch her undo the belt on her coat to reveal perfection in sheer white underwear. It cupped and cradled her in a way that made him almost swallow his tongue. It reminded him of the first time he saw her.

“Do you want to unwrap your present?” she asked, letting her coat slide down her arms. Shoving it out of the way, her shoes still on, she bent over him.

He ran his hands down her back, cupping her ass and pulling her into him. “This is much better than the last present I received.”

She nuzzled his neck. “What was it?”

“A garden gnome.”

She lifted off him, sitting on his waist. “You aren’t serious.”

He nodded. “Valerie was trying to make a point. If you knew her, it’d make some sort of strange sense.”

“What was her point?”

“That I’m dull.”

Imogen tipped her head and studied him with intensity that no longer shocked him as much as it had at first. “Are you?”

“I’m not the boy rock star any longer, Imogen.” He ran his hand down her torso. “I’m a grown man. I have responsibilities. That may seem dull to some.”

“Somehow I don’t think Valerie would care about those things.” Before he could formulate a response, she leaned down and kissed him.

He’d never cared much for kissing. It was necessary—women liked it. If he had a choice, he’d skip it and get on with the sex.

But Imogen kissed as if she was eating the most delicious meal of her life. She tasted and nibbled. She sighed and moaned. She used her whole body to experience it.

He liked that. A lot. He could see kissing her for a long time. He even shocked himself by wanting it more than he wanted to feel himself slide into her.

But she had other ideas. She produced a condom from somewhere and sheathed him quickly. Bracing a hand on his chest, she guided him into her.

They both sighed.

Then she laid her body on top of his and began kissing him again.

It was intoxicating. He felt her head to toe, her soft form pressed against his, the warmth of her enveloping him. He couldn’t breathe, his head swimming, and he gripped her to try to steady himself.

But she rocked against him, bent on pleasure—bent on breaking him.

He was powerless to resist her.

As he felt his orgasm building, he tried to distract himself from it.

Imogen gasped “Merrick” and then he felt her body begin to convulse and clench.

It pushed him over the edge. Crying out, he followed her into pleasure.

She collapsed on top of him, panting. “I’ve been thinking of that since the other night.”

He ran a hand over the gentle bumps of her spine. “But you left early.”

“It seemed better than staying and having an awkward morning,” she said, sounding a little too offhand.

Lifting her chin, he looked her in the eye. “Would it have been awkward?”

“We decided this was only sex,” she replied.

Merrick nodded, but he was oddly annoyed by her statement.

She rolled onto her back, next to him. “It seemed safer to leave under the cover of night. Less chance of anyone catching us. You didn’t want that.”

No, but he didn’t like hearing her say it. “I doubt that anyone will catch on.”

She arched her brows. “Won’t your neighbors become suspicious of a strange woman coming and going?”

“My neighbors have a vested interest in keeping the media out of their lives.” It was one of the reasons his manager had selected this house. Other celebrities inhabited the neighborhood, plus the odd cabinet member who wanted to live under the radar of the public. It was a good place to stick a teenage rock star without proper supervision—especially one who had a predilection for getting into trouble.

“Why did you go into politics?”

“Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, turning to rest her chin on his chest. “You don’t like talking about your previous public life, which one would interpret as preferring privacy. Yet you selected a public career.”

For Michaela. He touched Imogen’s hair, compelled to tell her about his sister. Instead, he asked, “Why did you go into acting?”

“It’s my calling. I wanted to be an actress from the first time my parents took me to a play. I was six, and I was enchanted. Even seeing what happened behind the scenes and the rawness of it didn’t deter me.” She looked at him, all artifice gone. “But I didn’t realize how powerful it was until my first fan mail. I give people a two-hour respite from their problems. I help them laugh or cry, and they leave my movies feeling. It’s a powerful thing.”

Her passion glowed on her face, and damn if a part of him wasn’t jealous.

“You’re surprised.” Imogen smiled ruefully. “You thought I was a bit of fluff, wanting the attention for myself and only interested in the limelight.”

“It’s a stereotype.”

“It’s what people think.”

“It’s what people assume.”

“It’s the reality they want. They don’t care about how many languages I speak. They want to know how many men I’ve kissed.”

“How many languages do you speak?” he asked to keep himself from asking the other question.

“Nine.” Then as if she hadn’t admitted something extraordinary, she said, “Quite frankly, I could do without all that. It’d be glorious to act without having the public in my daily life. Your turn to share.”

“My story isn’t very interesting.”

“And mine was? Interesting is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Are you saying you find me interesting?”

“Do you have to ask?”

She was waiting for him—he could tell. He had the normal line he gave people, about how he’d always been interested in politics, etc. But whether it was her eyes watching him so guilelessly, or the fact that they were naked and exposed, or because it was dark and safe, he gave in to the urge to tell her the truth. “My sister died when she was twenty.”

Imogen’s brow furrowed. “Was she older or younger?”

“Older. She came with me to a party. She wanted to leave, but I wasn’t ready.” He closed his eyes, seeing himself leaning toward the girl he’d been flirting with. “She decided to leave without me. She was attacked with a knife at King’s Cross station.”

“Oh no.” Imogen’s eyes filled with tears, and she placed her hand on his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was years ago.”

“But you still carry the hurt.” She cupped his face. “Tell me the rest.”

“Her attacker was caught, but the laws were such that it took forever for him to be convicted. My parents were devastated, and the prolonged process didn’t help. They moved away. I decided to use my influence for the good. To help protect people.”

Imogen studied him. “You miss her. You were close.”

“Our parents were always busy. She and I naturally took care of each other. With Valerie. Val was our third musketeer.” He touched the tattoo at his neck. The three of them had gotten matching tattoos, surprisingly at Michaela’s insistence. She’d wanted to make sure they’d be bound together forever. “Michaela was my first fan and biggest supporter. She always believed I’d do big things.”

“I’m so sorry.” Imogen laid her head on him.

After a moment, he felt wetness on his chest. Startled, he lifted her chin. “Are you crying?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course.” She sniffed, the tip of her nose red. “I’m sad for you.”

He traced a fat teardrop down her face. “No one’s ever cried for me.”

“I’m glad I’m your first.” She wiped her cheeks. “She’d be proud of you, you know.”

His heart squeezed. “Would she?”

“Definitely.”

Overcome with unfamiliar emotions, he pulled Imogen on top of him. Imogen fell asleep after a bit, her breath soft on his skin. He held her, not wanting to disturb her.

He felt strange. Calm—as though his tiger were soothed.

He looked down at her sleeping in his arms and held her close, wondering if she was an angel sent to give him deliverance or a devil there to torment him with what he couldn’t have.

Chapter Twelve

“Do you ever regret your decisions?”

Holly looked up from the mail she was sorting and frowned at Gigi. “What makes you ask that?”

The actress shrugged her elegant shoulder as she reclined on the cushions behind her. “I think about where I am and what I’ve done, and I wonder if it’s worth the price.”

“Do you love what you do?”

“Of course.”

“Then it’s worth the price.” When Gigi didn’t look convinced, she gaped at her. “Are you reconsidering being an actor?”

“Of course not. It’s what I do. It’s my passion. I just wonder if I haven’t been overly focused on that one thing, to the detriment of everything else. I don’t want to look back one day and regret the decisions I made.” Frowning, Gigi tossed the book she’d been reading aside. “It’s so easy to see in other people, but harder in yourself. For instance, I have a friend who’s so focused on one passion that he’s denying himself things that actually make him happy.”

Holly wanted to ask if this friend was a certain handsome politician, but she clamped her lips and made a noncommittal sound.

“I think I do that,” Gigi said. “I deny things to the sole exclusion of acting.”

“But you love acting,” Holly pointed out.

“Yes, but I love people, too. Before my exile home I barely knew my sisters. And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have many friends beating down the door to get to me.”

“I don’t either,” she heard herself admit.

Gigi pursed her lips. “Do you have a lover?”

She thought of Peter and flushed. “I don’t think I remember how to have one, it’s been so long.”

“But you’re blushing, so it must mean there’s someone you’re interested in.” Gigi rested her chin on her hand, studying her. “I know your son is the most important thing in your world, but would you make space for this man? For love?”

“I’d like to think I would.” Frowning, she set her work down. “Are you saying you’re in love?”

“No.” Gigi pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I’m pondering worst-case scenarios.”

“And love qualifies?” Holly grinned.

Gigi smiled ruefully. “It has for me.”

“I guess it has for me, too.” Holly smiled at the woman. “I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask for advice.”

“You’re perfect, actually.” Gigi stood up and surprised her with a hug. “Thank you for listening to my inane chatter.”

Holly held her breath, shocked speechless and touched. She nodded, her heart too full to reply.

Unaware of her emotional state, Gigi sat back down, curling her legs under her. “Bea says you’re really good at the accounting.”

She blinked at the sudden change in topic. “Your sister?

“Yes. She wants to commandeer you, but I told her she couldn’t have you. It’s nice having you here.” Gigi smiled as she picked up her sparkling water. “Did we get the newspaper today?”

“Yes. Of course.” Holly shook her head, trying to focus again. She rummaged through the piles she’d just sorted. “It’s in here.”

She found it sandwiched between two magazines and pulled it out. She began unwrinkling it when a small headline caught her eye.

Singing in the Rain!

She froze, hoping it wasn’t what she thought.

But it was.

A secret source claims there’s love in the air for Imogen Summerhill. A new man? Perhaps a politician? Does that mean Dirk is out for good, or is she gearing up for a ménage?

A ménage? Since when did a woman being in love equate to a threesome? Damn Marjorie.

Folding it up, Holly held it behind her back and looked for a trash can. “You’re not going to like this edition, Gigi. I’ll get you something else to read. What about the script the studio couriered over?”

“I don’t want something else, especially a script I have no interest in.” Gigi held her hand out. “I want the newspaper.”

She shook her head, taking a step back. “You really don’t. Trust me.”

Eyes narrowed, Gigi stood up and stalked toward her. “You know that’s just making me more determined to read it, don’t you?”

“How about I give you Marcus Craig’s screenplay instead?” She backed away, straight into a table. Arms flailing, she fell onto the surface.

“I don’t want Craig’s script.” Gigi grabbed the paper before Holly could recover.

Holly scrunched her eyes closed, feeling wretched when she heard Gigi’s gasp.

She didn’t mean it to come out this way. She wrung her hands. She knew how hard Gigi had been trying to stay out of the tabloids, but it seemed like such an innocuous thing to report. Everyone had crushes.

Only Marjorie had made a sweet thing dirty. Gigi was understandably upset, and it was her fault.

“Do you know who’s doing this?” Gigi waved the newspaper around.

Holly cringed. “Gi—”

“Delilah Jones, that’s who. That woman will do anything to get a part.” Gigi pointed at her. “And before you say that so will I, I’ll have you know I draw the line at slandering innocent people. I get work on merit.”

“I know—”

“And of course Dirk is out!” She threw her arms in the air. “Would you date someone who sold naked pictures of you to further his own career?”

“No,” she murmured, hunching in her seat.

Lady Jacqueline strode into the room, as regal as she always was, carrying the leather-bound notebook she often carried. “Imogen, I heard you down the hall. Whatever is the problem?”

“These reporters are the problem.” She waved the newspaper in the air. “Why do they cling to me? Aren’t there more interesting stars to harangue?”

“Would you prefer the alternative?” her mother asked calmly. “What if they forgot about you completely?”

Gigi frowned. “Okay, that’s a compelling argument. But being more infamous could cost me this part.”

“There will be another part.”

Gigi shook her head. “No, Mum, not like this. I need Sherman. He’s brilliant. Any actress who stars in his work is guaranteed an Oscar. If I don’t show the world my caliber now, I’ll be relegated to being the B-movie darling who prances around on screen half-naked as she’s chased by monsters.”

Jamie would have said “Wicked” to being chased by monsters. Holly knew better than to say anything, especially since this was her doing.

Sighing, Gigi dropped onto a chair.

Lady Jacqueline turned to Holly with a gentle smile. “Maybe you should take the afternoon off, dear.”

She looked at Gigi.

“There’s no reason to be here so I can abuse you simply because you’re in my face.” Gigi waved her hand. “Go home. Play with your son. Take a bath. Whatever.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. It felt like she was being rewarded for something that was her fault. She remembered how Gigi had hugged her like she meant it and felt even worse.

“Really. Go.” Gigi smiled at her, though it was tense at the edges. “I’ll be on a more even keel tomorrow.”

“You’ll call me if you need anything?”

“Yes.” Gigi rolled her eyes. “I promise. Go be with your son.”

Holly dropped her head, gathered her things, and left.

It was raining out. Pulling out her umbrella, she managed to open it on the first try and then began to walk toward the bus stop. She was too early to pick up Jamie, so she went to the office instead. The thought of going home and relaxing didn’t sit right with her.

“Holly,” Marjorie called out to her as soon as she was about to step into her cubicle.

Holly looked up to see her supervisor waving her over.

She didn’t want to go. She glanced at the elevator, wondering if she could run out before anyone caught her. But she’d have to deal with this eventually, so she trudged over, dread building in her chest.

“Holly, have you seen this?” Marjorie turned her monitor to show her the article about Gigi on her screen. It wasn’t the same as the one she’d seen in the paper, but it was similar.

Marjorie jabbed the screen. “This was a great call. You’re a natural.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I’m really not—”

“Because you did a good job, the execs wanted to give you a little something.” Marjorie opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out an envelope. “A bonus. For you.”

Holly stared at the proffered envelope, imagining that it was a snake about to bite her. “I don’t want it.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s yours regardless.” Marjorie stood, took Holly’s hand, and slapped it on her palm. “It’s incentive to keep delivering.”

She stood numbly, knowing she was dismissed when her supervisor began pecking at her keyboard.

Giving up on the idea of sitting at her desk, Holly went home, the envelope still clutched in her hand. She didn’t open it until she got home.

A check, and the sum floored her. It was enough to pay for Jamie’s schooling for half of the next year.

Not that she was going to use it. It was blood money. She folded it neatly and held it between her fingers to tear it into pieces.

Only she couldn’t do it. What if something happened and she needed it? What if Jamie broke another window—or a bone? The damage was done—nothing could change that. She’d just been doing her job.

She wouldn’t use it, she swore as she slipped it into a kitchen drawer. Not unless something really bad made it necessary.

She closed the drawer and walked out of the kitchen, needing space between her and her scruples—or lack thereof.

Chapter Thirteen

Bringing Ophelia Back to Life

The moment Gigi saw the headline her stomach convulsed with uneasiness. If the article were about Sherman’s project, in general, it would have mentioned Hamlet as opposed to Ophelia.

Her dread amplified by the gratuitous bit of raunch in yesterday’s news, she clicked through to the article.

It was all about Delilah and her next role, playing Ophelia for Russell Sherman, of course.

Gigi knew she shouldn’t have been surprised by it. Delilah didn’t pull any punches, and slander was her weapon of choice.

Still, anger and fear mixed like roiling acid in her stomach. Sherman couldn’t have cast it yet—her three weeks weren’t up. She picked up her phone and called Sherman herself.

He actually answered, though she could tell he wished he hadn’t when he found out who it was. “Imogen, it’s just a fluff piece.”

She frowned. “At least you didn’t pretend not to know why I’m calling.”

“I had nothing to do with that article. It was all Delilah.”

“So there’s no basis in reality for it?”

The silence on the other end told her everything she needed to know.

She dropped her head in her hand. “Russell, you gave me three weeks.”

“Yes, but you haven’t managed to stay clean. After the debacle of my last film, there’s only so much influence I have with my backers.” He sighed. “Tell you what, Imogen. Nothing’s final yet. I’ll talk to my financiers and see what I can do, but you need to keep your nose clean.”

No kidding. She exhaled. “Thank you, Russell.”

She hung up as Bea swept into the study, unwrapping her outer layers. “I take it that wasn’t good news.”

“Delilah Jones is telling the world she’s Sherman’s Ophelia and he won’t deny it,” Gigi said as she walked back and forth in front of the fireplace in the study.

Bea watched her from where she reclined on the couch. “Do you want me to call him? I can offer to back this movie.”

She stopped pacing. “You’d do that?”

“Of course.” Bea shrugged. “You’re my sister.”

She sat next to her oldest sister and took her hand. “The next time I hear someone say what a shark you are, I’ll tell them you’re actually sweet.”

“Don’t do that. I like my reputation as is.” Bea smiled slyly at her. Then she squeezed Gigi’s hand. “Let’s figure out what to do about you first.”

“My strategy of focusing on work is obviously not enough.”

“Singing in the rain?” Bea lifted her eyebrows.

“I have no idea where that came from.” And they’d indirectly fingered Merrick—that was the worst part. “I suspect that’s Delilah’s doing, too. She’s feeding the media stories to discredit me. It’s the way she operates.”

“Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“Gigi.” Her sister gave her a knowing look. “Having an affair, especially with a politician, isn’t the way to show Sherman you’re behaving.”

“I’m not misbehaving.” Much, she amended mentally.

“So you aren’t seeing someone.”

She shook her head. “I never said that.”

“Gigi.” Bea sighed as though exasperated. “What if he sells you out the way Dirk did? I’m concerned that you aren’t protecting yourself.”

If Bea hadn’t been so earnest, she’d have made a joke about condoms, but the care in her oldest sister’s eyes made Gigi lift Bea’s hand and kiss her knuckles. “Don’t worry, darling. He has more motivation to keep our affair private than I do.”

“If you’re sure.” Bea didn’t look convinced. “Because, and I have to point this out, but you wanted to stay out of the tabloids and you haven’t done a good job so far.”

“No kidding.”

“You need to go on the offensive, Gigi.” Bea gave her a big sister sort of look. “You need to actively show that you’re not a promiscuous harlot.”

She winced. “That’s putting it in harsh relief.”

“It’s what the media is doing.” Bea tapped the armrest on the couch. “You should have Titania do a cover on you.”

Gigi cringed. “More press coverage is the last thing I want.”

“It depends on the sort of coverage. Titania would be different. She’s popular and respected, and she’d bloody brilliant at what she does. It’s not a mistake that she’s called photojournalism’s Barbara Walters. A behind-the-scenes to get to know the real Imogen Summerhill by her could be valuable.”

She shook her head. “It won’t make any difference. Sherman won’t take me on unless he thinks I’m a stable and dependable. His backers like Delilah Jones.”

Their mother leaned in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?”

Bea shook her head. “You could never interrupt, Mother. Join us. Please.”

“I just wanted to check with Imogen.” Jacqueline faced her. “I have a charity event to go to tonight. I wondered if you might want to attend with me.”

Gigi blinked. “I’d love to.”

“I thought so.” Smiling, she said, “We’ll leave at half past eight. Cocktail attire.”

She watched her mother disappear through the doorway. “Mum knows what’s going on.”

“Of course she does. Mothers always know,” Bea said, standing. “The Countess of Amberlin is formidable. You’re lucky she’s on your side.”

“I’m lucky you are, too.” She stood and hugged her sister. “Thank you.”

“Promise you’ll think about what I said about Titania.”

“I will.” But the idea of baring more of herself to the public made her shudder.

She walked Bea out and then went to do a yoga routine followed by a jog on the treadmill. She made herself a protein shake that she sipped as she got ready for the evening.

She met her mother downstairs at twenty-five minutes after eight.

Jacqueline surveyed her with a smile. “You look lovely, of course. Ready?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath and followed her mother out to the waiting taxi.

Her father had been abysmal with money, and they’d lost what had been left of the family fortune ages ago. Yet somehow her mother maintained the air of careless wealth. Gigi had always wondered where she’d gotten her affinity for drama from. Now she knew.

They arrived at the venue where the function was being held. As they walked to the entrance, Jacqueline said, “Would you like to know what you’re supporting tonight?”

Gigi felt a pang of selfishness. “Yes, of course, although I’ve never known you to support something that wasn’t worthy.”

“I didn’t think any of you girls paid attention to my causes,” her mother murmured as they entered the building. She smiled at the doorman who opened the door for them and took her coat off. “We’re here tonight to raise money for scholarships for young women, for university as well as continuing education. Now, I have obligatory rounds to make. Would you like to go with me, or will you be fine mingling on your own?”

“I’ll be fine.” She held her hand out. “I’ll check your coat. Go do what you need.”

“Thank you.” Her mother smiled at her as she turned away. Then she looked over her shoulder. “This event attracts a good crowd. Be open, Imogen. You might meet interesting people.”

She nodded to appease her mother. Her concern was very sweet, but the last thing she needed was to meet new people. She could just imagine how they’d react once they knew who she was—like she was an alien that was fascinating in a train wreck sort of way.

After she checked their coats, she went to the bar for a glass of champagne before she meandered through the salons. Having a prop in your hand in these events was key. Especially lately when she felt like everyone was looking at her and judging.

It was ridiculous. She should have been used to being criticized. But, somehow, it was different when it was about your personal life rather than your work.

“Excuse me.”

She looked left to find herself staring into lovely gray eyes that belonged to Merrick’s best friend.

“You’re Imogen Summerhill, and I’m Valerie Hendricks.” The woman smiled and held her hand out. “We have a friend in common.”

Valerie looked as elegant in person as she did in newsprint. She was long and lanky, her hair swept back carelessly. She wore a designer dress with careless flair. Gigi had the impression that she’d wear pajamas the same way.

She took the woman’s hand cautiously. “This is a surprise.”

Valerie rolled her eyes. “Ricky makes me go to these things with him as his default date.”

Gigi lifted her head. “Merrick’s here?”

“You didn’t know?” Valerie frowned. “I’d have thought he asked you to meet him.”

The fact that he hadn’t shouldn’t have made her feel so sad. She forced her lips into a blithe smile. “I’m here separately.”

“Hmm,” was all the other woman said. Then she leaned in and inhaled. “You smell delicious, don’t you? No wonder Merrick’s so enthralled by you.”

Gigi shook her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know. Merrick, God love him, is as dense as oak. Boring as oak, too, these days.”

“There’s nothing boring about him.”

Valerie snorted. “Trust me, Ricky used to be a lot more fun. It’s as though he’s doing penitence for a crime that he didn’t commit.”

“He feels responsible for what happened to his sister,” Gigi murmured, nodding.

“Since she died, he doesn’t allow himself to live anymore either. I should have done something sooner.” The woman looked away, blinking furiously. When she face Gigi again, her jaw was set. “Michaela would have been so upset with us if she knew what we’d become in her name, which is why Merrick needs you.”

Gigi shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Whenever I see him look at you, I see a glimmer of the old Ricky, and it gives me hope. Which is why I’m going to do this.” Valerie looked around the room. “There’s a janitor’s closet on the second floor. Go there. I’ll send him to meet you.”

“That seems unnecessary,” she said, pretty sure she’d fallen down a rabbit hole. Quite frankly, she wasn’t sure meeting him here, after the announcement in the news that she had a new man in her life, was prudent. And it seemed even less prudent having the clandestine rendezvous arranged by someone who seemed mad.

“Oh, it’s necessary. Merrick is stubborn as all hell. He needs to be forced to take what’s good for him.”

“I’m good for him?” Gigi asked, blinking in shock.

“You’re brilliant for him.”

“You love him.” It was a statement and question at once.

“We’ve been through a lot together.” Valerie leaned forward. “Just so you know, I won’t stand him being hurt. That’s not really a threat, but it’s close.”

Gigi grinned. “I like you.”

“I’m glad we have an understanding.” Valerie took her hand, looking surprised that she did it. “I think you could be so good for Merrick. He’s in a rut, and he needs someone to lead him out.”

“I understand.”

“Actually, I think you do.” Valerie hugged her. It was a little clumsy, as though she were out of practice, but heartfelt. “Go upstairs. I’ll send Merrick shortly.”

“Okay.” Shaking her head, she headed in the direction of the elevators even though she knew this was folly.

“Imogen?”

She looked back.

Valerie smiled. “Good luck.”

***

INT. JANITOR’S CLOSET – NIGHT

Imogen waits in the dark, afraid turning the light on will out her. She doesn’t know if he’ll come. She only has hope.

The door opens, and Merrick steps inside. He closes the door and locks it.

IMOGEN

Took you long enough.

He takes her in his arms.

MERRICK

Good things are worth waiting for.

IMOGEN

I could have sworn you were all bad.

Scenes were never the same in reality, but when the door opened, she held her breath and hoped.

Merrick peeked in. His eyes widened when he saw her. “Imogen.”

She leaned against the supply rack, playing it cool. “Surprise.”

“When Valerie told me I need to come here to get a rag, I had no idea what she was up to.” He stepped in and locked the door.

Her breath hitched in her chest. Maybe sometimes life was like the movies. “Do you mind?”

“That you’re here waiting for me?” He crossed the small space and gathered her in his arms. “Yes. This isn’t discreet, but I can’t seem to resist you.”

The first touch of his lips to hers set her on fire. The second, she was sure she’d die.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he whispered against her mouth. “I saw the Delilah Jones interview.”

“You read entertainment magazines?” she asked with a lift of her brow.

“I do now.” He lifted his head and cradled her face. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, then she shook her head. “The director says they haven’t actually made a final decision and that I still have a chance, but it’s upsetting. I want that part.”

“I’m sorry,” he said with feeling. “What can I do?”

Just the offer was enough to make her feel better. “Kiss me.”

“That I can do.” He pressed her against the shelves. “But your lipstick will be smeared. I don’t think we should have that.”

She opened her mouth to tell him she had lipstick in her clutch when he kneeled in front of her. Slowly he pushed her dress up in the front.

He slid his hands up her legs, enticingly pulling her knickers down. She stepped out of them, and he stuffed them in his suit pocket. Focused on her, he thumbed her open.

She caught her breath, watching him, feeling herself go molten. “Merrick.”

He nodded. “I’ll be quick. Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone miss you.”

And then he did kiss her—right at the center of her.

His tongue curled into her, sliding up and fluttering over her. She let her head drop back against the shelf, closing her eyes. “Merrick, I wish you were inside me.”

He hummed against her. His hands joined his tongue, the finger of one sliding inside her, the other helping his tongue.

She cried out, gripping the shelves. She felt herself slipping, sliding—

And then he used his lips to suck, and she came apart. She cried out, gripping his hair, pulling him to her, seeing stars.

In the end, she would have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t been there to catch her.

She had no idea how long he held her, but when she opened her eyes, he was staring at her, his gaze feral with need.

“I want to haul you out of here in my arms right now,” he said, his voice raspy with need. “But we need to get back.”

“Appearances.” Nodding, she ran a finger along his lower lip, gasping when he bit it. “My mother is somewhere downstairs, probably looking for me.”

“I’ll text you.”

“Yes, please,” she said.

Merrick watched her straighten her clothing. Her knickers stayed in his pocket, a fact she knew both of them were aware of. She touched his face. “Wait here for a couple minutes?”

He nodded. “Go.”

She returned to the event, feeling odd. Disjointed.

Her mother glided toward her, her face lined with concern. “There you are. I lost you for a bit. Are you all right?”

“Of course.” Gigi smiled the way everyone expected of her as she filched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, not admitting that she’d been found upstairs, if only for a brief few minutes.

Chapter Fourteen

The Red Witch was just down the block from their house, which meant Gigi only had to worry about being accosted by paparazzi for two hundred meters. She’d been safe for the past couple months, but given all the recent attention she didn’t want to take a chance: she shrouded herself in black.

She was halfway there when she heard someone call “Gigi!” behind her.

So few people called her Gigi. She stopped in her tracks. The voice sounded an awful lot like—

Turning around, she watched Dirk jog toward her, wearing his usual happy-go-lucky grin.

For a moment she felt a pang of sadness. He’d been sweet when they’d been together. Who knew he’d been hiding razor blades in the confectioner’s sugar? Because only a truly heinous person would sell nude pictures of his lover to the tabloids.

She lifted her head and whirled around, continuing on her way.

He fell into step next to her. “Gigi, it’s so good seeing you.”

“This is a bad idea.” She quickened her steps. “You’re taking your life in your hands right now.”

Dirk leaned forward in her field of vision, apparently oblivious of her anger. He was pretty, but he wasn’t very bright. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but your number’s changed.”

Because after the world saw her naked all over the Internet, every Tom, Dick, and Harry had tried to call her. But she didn’t need to explain herself to Dirk. She had the Red Witch in sight.

“Gigi, I’ve been reconsidering our relationship.” He tried to take her hand.

“We don’t have a relationship,” she said, stuffing her hands in her pockets.

“You know I love you.”

She stopped, anger flushing her whole body. “You don’t sell photos of someone you love to the tabloids.”

“You aren’t going to believe me, but I didn’t sell those pictures.” When she said nothing, he threw his hands in the air. “I swear! It was my manager.”

“How does your manager know what sort of pictures you have on your phone?”

“I may have shown him.”

Of course he did. Shaking her head, she began to walk again. Maybe if she ignored him, he’d go away.

“Gigi, wait.” Dirk grabbed her arm. “I know I screwed up—”

“You didn’t just screw up. You sold me out.” She yanked her arm from his hold and hit him on the shoulder. “You exposed private things about me to the whole world, for your own personal gain. How do you think that feels?”

“Sucky,” he said sadly, with simple but unerring accuracy.

Wonderful—he was remorseful. But that didn’t change anything. She hurried toward the pub’s door. “Go away, Dirk. We’re done.”

“Is it because of the new guy you’re seeing?”

She froze and then whirled around. “What?”

“The new guy in the rags.” He walked up to her and took her hand again. “I just want to know if I still have a chance.”

“Are you serious?” She gaped when she saw that he was. “Why would I give you another chance?”

“Because I love you.”

She laughed, hearing the bitterness in her own voice. “You love me so much you had to put the video we took of us, of a private moment between us, on YouTube. Yes, that’s love, indeed.”

Dirk had the grace to flush. “I told you, I didn’t—”

“Did you show it to your manager?”

His silence was telling.

“I thought so.” She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. “Go away, Dirk. If you enter, I can’t guarantee that my sisters won’t rip you to pieces.”

He frowned at the door, obviously torn. But he took a step back. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“No, you won’t,” she said as she walked in. She walked straight back to their table, yanking her scarf from her neck.

She didn’t realize how livid she felt until Bea turned to Viola, Portia, and Summer and said, “If she starts to say ‘Say hello to my little friend,’ duck.”

Frowning, Gigi slipped out of her coat. “I look that incensed?”

“Yes,” they all replied at once.

“I feel it.” She turned on her heels and strode to the bar. Signaling Niamh over, she said, “My usual, plus a shot of vodka while I wait.”

Niamh raised her eyebrows but poured her shot without a word. She set it in front of Gigi and then began to make her martini.

Gigi downed the shot with a shudder and then pulled out her mobile. Very deliberately, she sent a text to Merrick. I want to see you.

He replied before she had her martini. I’ll pick you up. One hour. Let me know where.

“Here you go.” Niamh slid the martini glass across the bar. “I hope this helps.”

“I’m already better, thanks.” Smiling, she texted him the pub’s name and walked back to her sisters.

Bea watched her. All her sisters were astute, but Bea tended to act like a mother hen. Since Gigi’s feathers were a bit ruffled right now, so were Bea’s.

Gigi smiled at her. “I’m fine. Really.”

Her oldest sister raised her brows. “In like a lion, out like a lamb.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Gigi said as she sat next to Viola and gave her a hug.

Summer cleared her throat. “I think she means you stormed in here with a vengeance and now you seem docile.”

“Who did you text?” Bea asked.

“A friend.” She hid her satisfied smile behind her martini glass.

“The same one you’ve been sneaking out to see?” Portia asked.

Gigi kicked her sister under the table.

“Ow.” Leaning over to rub her shin, Portia scowled at her. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“Yes, it was.”

“What’s his name?” Viola asked.

“Is that important?”

Bea nodded. “If he puts a smile like that on your face, yes. Have you vetted him?”

“Do you mean have I checked his Calvin Kleins to see if he’s worthy?” She shot them a wicked grin. “The answer is bloody hell yes.”

Viola grabbed her arm. “Does he have a brother?”

“Or cousins,” Summer said.

Bea shook her head at them all. “You’re not helping.” Then she took Gigi’s hand. “Have you thought about what I said, about Titania doing a feature on you?”

Viola blinked. “Titania’s home? Has she been by and I’ve missed it?”

“I haven’t met her yet,” Summer said a little sadly.

Gigi put a hand on Summer’s. “Titania is …”

“Titania,” Bea finished for her with a wry smile. “But she’d do anything for you, Gigi. Talk to her.”

She shook her head. “They want the sordid trash. The only way I could be more popular right now is if I were arrested for drugs.”

“Is that a possibility?” Viola asked. “And will you share?”

Patting her mad sister’s arm, Gigi finished her argument with, “They don’t want to see behind the curtain.”

“That’s because they don’t know what’s behind the curtain,” Bea said with conviction. “If you showed them how fascinating you are, they may find the real you more interesting than the media’s perception of who you are. For instance, does anyone know that you were accepted on full scholarship to Carnegie Mellon, for a double major in drama and chemistry?”

“That’s ancient history, darling. No one cares about that.”

“They would if they knew,” Bea insisted. “It creates a more compelling character. How many people are fluent in eight languages?”

Nine. “I’m not entirely fluent. I just read, for the most part.”

“Semantics.” Bea pointed a finger. “Call Titania and ask her for help.”

Gigi didn’t have to answer one way or the other because Rosalind walked in with stars in her eyes, her fiancé Nick in tow. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Sorry I’m crashing your girls’ night,” Nick said as he pulled up chairs for the two of them.

Portia looked around behind them. “Where’s Luca?”

“He had other plans tonight.”

Gigi felt Bea’s hand tense. She looked at her eldest sister, whose expression was overly casual. Gigi knew acting, and she recognized Bea cared where the Italian was more than she wanted to admit.

With the same casualness, Bea lifted her glass and drawled, “That’s shocking. Normally he has nothing better to do than haunt the South Street house.”

Portia glanced at Gigi, her brows raised, but they all knew better than to comment.

Gigi hadn’t planned on saying anything, but the words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. “You know who was here though? Dirk.”

The entire table stilled, and then a chorus of outcries broke out, incoherent, all on top of each other.

Oddly, it was Viola who stopped everyone from exclaiming by brushing Gigi’s hair back and asking, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said, actually meaning it. Being with her sisters was a balm she’d only recently discovered. “But I was upset seeing him at first. He was lucky I didn’t have a sledgehammer in my purse.”

“I don’t need a sledgehammer,” Nick said. “Say the word and Luca and I will pay him a visit.”

“What did he want?” Rosalind asked.

“A second chance.”

Bea leaned forward. “I don’t have to ask how you answered, do I?”

“Of course not.” She recoiled. “How could I trust him ever again?”

“You need someone who understands what a gift you are and cherishes it accordingly,” Vi said solemnly.

So did Vi, but Gigi didn’t think her sister was ready to hear that yet. She placed her hand over Vi’s. “Dirk is part of my sordid past,” she said as her mobile buzzed with a new message.

Rosalind grinned. “Is that your sordid future?”

“It’s my ride.” She didn’t need to tell any of them who it actually was. She downed the rest of her martini and slipped into her coat.

“Call Titania,” Bea commanded. “It’s a good idea.”

Summer nodded. “Take the offensive and get ahead of the slander. It’s a great strategy.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said as she swung her purse onto her shoulder and left the bar.

At the curb, there was a motorcycle idling. A man in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket was astride it. His dark helmet prevented anyone from knowing who it was.

Gigi knew, though. The tingle in her belly gave him away.

She glanced around to make sure no one was lurking in wait. The coast clear, she sashayed up to him, surprised by how happy she felt to see him. She filed that away to think about later. For now … She stopped in front of him, her hip cocked, hand out.

He gave her a helmet.

She put it over her head, sunglasses and all. Her bag in the crook of her arm, she gathered the hem of her skirt, hiked her leg over, and tucked the material around her legs. She wrapped her arms around Merrick, tight.

He took off.

She’d driven with Luca in his Ferrari once and had loved it. Merrick drove the same way: fast but with precision. He zipped between traffic, going fast enough that Gigi felt exhilarated but not so fast that she thought she was going to die.

She laughed, hugging him with her whole body as they leaned into a curve.

They arrived at his house all too soon. He parked his bike on the street, down a ways from the back entrance, like the other times.

Gigi eased off the back, taking the helmet off. Her hair tumbled down in a matted mess. Not that she cared. Laughing, she twirled in the street. “I feel so alive.”

His own helmet in his hand, he grabbed her to him and kissed her—hard.

She hitched her leg on his hip, rubbing herself against his hardness. “We should go inside,” she murmured against his lips.

“We should,” he agreed, his hand snaking under her skirt.

Panting, she tried to gather herself, difficult as it was with his hand travelling up her thigh. “We can’t get caught, remember?”

“It’d be bad for both of us,” he agreed as his fingers edged under her panties.

She gasped as he outlined her folds with the lightest touch. Being good was so difficult sometimes. “I’d rather you got us home and replaced your fingers with your mouth.”

“Done.” He took her hand and all but hauled her to the back entrance of his house. She waited calmly until he let them in. He motioned her in, so she sauntered ahead.

A few feet from the door, she unwrapped her scarf and dropped it.

She heard his footsteps pause, probably to pick it up. Without checking on him, she unbuttoned her coat and let that fall too.

She kicked her shoes off next, with a hand on a wall to balance. Then she pulled her top over her head and tossed it behind her.

She could feel him paying attention, avidly following. Her skirt came next, stepping out of it as she walked. On the stairs to the first floor, she dropped her bra over the railing.

As she entered his bedroom, he grabbed around her waist. He turned her around so her naked front pressed against his fully dressed one. He picked her up and took her to the bed, stripping the panties off her and lowering his mouth between her legs.

She felt his breath on her, and she looked down to see him hover right over her. “What are you waiting for?”

“Just savoring the moment. I’ve been thinking of this all day.” He trailed a finger over her before his tongue followed, so softly, right after. Then he said, “Since the other night in the janitor’s closet.”

She arched up. “Remind me to thank Valerie.”

“Don’t give her too much credit. It’ll go to her head.”

“I should lecture her about encouraging public affection. With all the media there, it was lucky no one caught us.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have let her maneuver us into that position.”

“Why did you allow it then?”

Because she’d wanted him so badly. She frowned. “Maybe I really am a naughty girl. My father certainly thought so.”

Merrick leaned on his elbow and gazed at her. “Your father sounds like an ass.”

She smiled ruefully. “He was.”

“Then take his words at face value.” He caressed her hip. “You’re a generous, passionate woman, Imogen. Your love is an honor.”

He lowered his mouth and worshipped her with his tongue, showing her intimately how much he revered her. His tongue played against her slowly and sweetly, coaxing her along even though she’d have been willing to race breakneck.

Her climax came over her suddenly, unexpected. As the rolling wave continued, Merrick slid inside her to the hilt.

She gasped, his thrusts carrying her higher all over again. She hooked her legs around his and gripped his arms to hold on. He lowered his head and kissed her, deliciously mimicking the way he moved in and out of her body.

She felt herself rise again, feeling him grow ready to come himself.

It pushed her over. Moaning his name, she came again and a moment later he followed.

Spent, he covered her body with his. He kissed her shoulder, her cheek, and then her mouth.

Tears filled her eyes, feeling his affection. She snuggled closer to him, holding him tight, grateful for the gift he’d just given her.

Chapter Fifteen

The headline was a slap in the face.

It was the last thing Merrick expected to see after last night with Imogen. He stilled, holding his breath as he read it and looked at the picture.

The second time he read it, his jaw clenched. The third time he barely resisted putting a fist in the wall.

Imogen takes Dirk back!

He crinkled the newspaper in his fist. What the hell? Why was Imogen holding this man’s hand?

Holding his hand? Merrick glared at the picture. She was practically pressing herself against the man.

That body was his, and no one else was entitled access to it.

Who was the man? His tiger urged him to maul the other guy. His tiger urged him to claim Imogen, to put his mark on her so everyone knew she was his.

Which was insane, given their situation.

His phone rang, and he grabbed it. “What?” he growled.

There was startled silence on the other end, and then his secretary said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but the meeting you have scheduled with Lord Watley starts in five minutes.”

Bloody hell—he forgot about that the moment he opened the paper and saw Imogen’s picture. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Reschedule it, please. I’ve been detained.”

Another silence. “Is everything all right, sir?”

No, it wasn’t. He exhaled. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been so focused on getting your safety act passed, but lately you seem less interested.”

“I’m not.” He cursed Imogen and the way she made him feel. “Just reschedule it for later this week.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hung up. Then he shoved the phone off his desk. “Bloody hell.”

The gnome grinned, jeering at him. He was about to throw it, too, when he heard the front door slam shut.

“Merrick,” Valerie called. “Where are you?”

“Where do you think?” he yelled back.

She sashayed into his office a moment later, looking smug and amused. “I take it you’ve seen the paper.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Remember that time when we all went skinny dipping and you got caught in roots?”

“I’d have drowned if you hadn’t helped me.” She walked in and sat on the edge of his desk, her leg swinging.

“I’m regretting that decision just now.”

Valerie grinned. “You love me.”

He snorted.

She picked up the garden gnome, which had migrated around his desk since it’d arrived. “Merrick,” Valerie said in a little voice, bobbing the statue up and down, “you’re sour. I had more fun standing outside in someone’s weeds than here in your house with you.”

“Valerie, does this visit have a point other than to aggravate me?”

“Valerie always has a point, Merrick,” she said in that annoying little voice, jiggling the gnome in front of his face. Then she set it down and said, “I came to see if you’d seen that headline.”

He heard his teeth grind. “How could I miss it?”

His so-called best friend grinned. “You didn’t like it, did you?”

“Of course I didn’t like it.” He shoved his chair back and began to stalk around the room. The walls were closing in on him, and Merrick wanted to punch a wall. “We had an agreement.”

“What sort of agreement?”

“Not seeing other people.” He growled and paced more furiously, thinking about her saying it. “She was the one who suggested it, and then she goes and breaks it?”

“How many times in the past few years have you warned me against jumping to conclusions?”

“Are you saying it may not be what it looks like?” When Valerie didn’t reply, he turned to face her. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said as she tapped into her mobile.

Wait—that was his mobile. “What are you doing?” he said, reaching for her. “Give that back.”

“No.” Valerie darted out of his way, typing furiously. She avoided his hands, dancing back and forth as she kept his phone out of reach. Then she grinned triumphantly. “Done.”

“What did you do?” he asked with growing dread.

“Imogen is on her way over.” Valerie handed him the phone and patted his chest. “Ask her what’s going on.”

He glared at his friend. “My life is not a game.”

“Then stop screwing around and pay attention.” Valerie took him by the arms and stared deep in his eyes. “I have a really important question to ask you.”

“What?”

“Do you have enough condoms for make-up sex?”

He tried to swat her, but she jumped away from him, laughing. “This is so much fun,” she exclaimed. “Who knew you falling in love would be so entertaining?”

“I’m not in love,” he mumbled, sitting back down.

Valerie smirked at him. “Aren’t you?”

He didn’t know what he was. All he knew was that what he was feeling was driving him crazy.

“My work here is done.” Valerie picked up the gnome and spoke in that little voice again. “Don’t fuck this up, Merrick.”

He glanced at her. “Aren’t you leaving yet?”

She laughed all the way out of his house, her cackling punctuated by the slam of the door.

He heard the buzzer to his back door a short time later. He wanted to ignore it, angry Valerie manipulated him this way, but he was kidding himself by even considering turning Imogen away.

Imogen was bundled in black, wearing sunglasses even though it was dreary and wet out. “It’s daytime,” she pointed out as she shook her umbrella and closed it.

“I know.” He pulled her in and closed the door.

“This is about the newspaper article, isn’t it?” she said.

“Of course it is.” He strode through the dank hall, back to his office, very aware of her following behind him. He could sense the sway of her hips and his fingers itched to grab a hold of them. Feeling a growl at the pit of his throat, he stalked into his office and began to pace.

Imogen entered, quietly studying him as she took her coat off and draped it on a chair. “I had no idea there was anyone around when that picture was taken, you know.”

“At least you aren’t denying it happened.” He turned around and got caught in the heckling gaze of that damned gnome. The smug bastard.

“Of course I’m not denying it happened. The proof is in print.” Her eyes narrowed, her hands on her hips. “What are you insinuating here?”

“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m saying that we agreed not to see other people.” He picked up a book and threw it at the wall. He glared at the damn too-jolly gnome and silently warned him he was next.

She covered her mouth with a hand. “Merrick. You can’t possibly think there was something illicit going on.”

“Can’t I?” he growled.

“No, there wasn’t,” she shouted back. “Forget that it was Dirk, the man who sold pictures of me to the tabloids, a fact I’m sure you know, and that you’d think I’d even consider getting back together with him. I won’t even touch that. What I can’t believe is that you think I’d just turn to another man.”

“I see the pictures, and I don’t know what to think.” He pounded his desk with a fist. “You make me crazy, damn it.”

She walked up to him and stood toe-to-toe. “I can’t make you what you already are.”

His gaze narrowed. Did he swat her or kiss her? He couldn’t decide. “Are you calling me mad?”

“You’re the one throwing things because of a picture that has no meaning.” Her face was flushed, and fury blazed in her eyes.

“It does have meaning.” He took a step forward, willing her to take him on.

“If that’s what you think, you’re a fool, because, damn it, I like you.” She pushed him and headed for the door.

No. He grabbed her before she could leave. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her tight. He wrapped his hand in her hair and pulled her head back. “You. Are. Mine.”

He crushed his mouth to hers, tasting her, inhaling her, wanting to swallow her whole.

She relaxed against him, her arms stealing under his shirt. Her hands felt cool on him, which heated him up. Against his lips, she murmured, “Of course I’m yours. You really are an idiot to think otherwise.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, feeling the madness being replaced with desire.

“I guess you can’t help it. You’re a man.” She kissed him again, just as passionately.

He clenched her close, inhaling her. Mine, his beast declared again, urging him to take her.

“Merrick?”

“Hmm?” He nipped her lower lip as he pushed her sweater off her shoulders.

“Why is there a garden gnome on your desk?”

***

When Merrick woke up, it was dark out. He reached next to him in bed, but all he felt was the tangled sheets where Imogen had been.

Turning the bedside lamp on, he sat up, relaxing when he saw her clothing still strewn around his room. For a second he thought she’d snuck out on him again.

He wasn’t going to think what it meant that he wanted her to stay.

Pulling on a pair of workout shorts and sweatshirt, he went to look for her. He figured she’d be in the kitchen, but a quick search of the ground floor turned up nothing.

Then he noticed the light on at the top of the stairs, on the first floor.

He charged up the stairs for the first time in thirteen years. At the top, he heard the familiar strains of his piano.

The music room.

He stopped and listened, not so much to the tune she was playing but to his instrument. He closed his eyes, remembering her sound, the way she felt under his fingers, the sound of her when he caressed her.

A pang of sharp longing went through him.

He’d set all that aside though. He was a different person now. Stiffening his resolve, he went to stop Imogen.

She sat at his piano, wearing only his dress shirt, her fingers moving nimbly over the keys. The collar was open and her hair was mussed from their reconciliation. On the top of the piano, the gnome perched, grinning happily.

Merrick fisted his hands, needing to be next to her on the bench, needing to harmonize with her. In another lifetime, he’d have lifted her on top of the piano and had her every way possible. He closed his eyes, imagining his elation in music magnified by the joy of having Imogen at his side.

A longing so strong stung his heart—for things lost that could never be reclaimed. Even the air smelled differently, like dust instead of Michaela’s shampoo.

That made him saddest of all.

“Are you sleepwalking, or do you want to join me?” Imogen’s husky voice asked him.

He opened his eyes. “Stop playing.”

She tipped her head, watching him, her fingers still but poised. “Why don’t you join me instead?”

“I don’t play any longer.” He swallowed the sadness the statement inspired.

“Do you want to?”

Good God, did he. But he shook his head.

“I don’t believe you,” Imogen declared. “Neither does Malcolm.”

“Malcolm?”

She nodded at the gnome. “Not only does Malcolm think you’re completely full of it, he’s upset that you make him live in your dreary office when it’s so much nicer up here.”

“I don’t come up here anymore,” he said, not recognizing his own voice.

“Why not?”

Because it reminded him of Michaela. Every room held a memory of her. He couldn’t spend any time up there, but neither could he bring himself to redecorate it.

“Is this your sister?” she asked as her fingers resumed playing.

He followed her gaze to the framed picture on his piano. It was from Michaela’s twentieth birthday. She had a crown on her head and a piece of cake in her hand. There was icing smeared on her cheek and she was laughing as though it was the happiest day of her life.

“She died six months after that photo was taken,” he heard himself say.

Imogen stopped playing and turned around. Silently, she held her arms out to him.

He went to her. He hesitated for a moment before sitting, afraid of how the bench would feel—afraid it’d feel awkward and foreign.

It felt like home.

“She looks joyful,” Imogen said softly, holding his hands.

“She was the happiest person I’ve ever known.” He squeezed her hand. “Until I met you.”

“If she was so happy, she’d have hated that you turned this place into a mausoleum after she died.” At his frown, Imogen shrugged. “You can’t argue that this space is full of the love you two had for each other, but you don’t visit it. How would she feel about that?”

He drew his hands away. “You have no right to judge me.”

“I certainly don’t,” she agreed with a nod. “But you’re being an ass. Even Malcolm thinks so.”

He glanced at the gnome, who looked particularly condescending. “I don’t think a little man in such a goofy hat should cast stones.”

“Let me ask you this.” Imogen leaned toward him so her eyes filled his field of vision.

In his head, he heard a flash of music, a song not yet composed. Years ago, he’d have dropped everything and jotted it down. Now it’d remain unwritten. “What?”

“Why don’t you play anymore?”

His fingers flexed, urging him to turn around and just touch the keys, to play the insistent melody in his head. He crossed his arms, keeping himself in check. It was bad enough that he’d broken down and started riding his Ducati again. “It’s not the life I lead.”

“Why not?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She rolled her eyes. “I can tell you love music. I’m an actor. I know body language, and right now your body language is telling me that shackles would be hard-pressed to keep you from playing the piano.”

He glanced down at the keys. Before he realized, his hand raised.

Shaking his head, he turned away.

“You know what makes me most sad?” Imogen asked.

He looked at her.

“The look of longing on your face. You’re dying to play, but for some reason you won’t let yourself.” She blinked, her eyes glistening suspiciously. “I bet Michaela would be sad, too, if she knew you were denying yourself for her sake. She’d have wanted you to be happy.”

“I am happy.”

“You want to ask Malcolm what he thinks of that statement?” Imogen raised an eyebrow. But then she draped her arms around him. “Today was our first contentious day. Our first fight.”

“Was it?” With her in his arms, for the first time since he came upstairs he felt like he could breathe. He inhaled her scent and felt his body relax. “Every conversation with you feels like combat.”

“You want to see combat?” she asked suggestively.

His tiger stirred at her seductive tone. “Will it be hand-to-hand?”

“It’ll include whatever body parts you want,” she promised.

“In that case.” He lifted her in his arms and carried her downstairs to his room. He glanced over his shoulder as he left the music room, relieved to be out of there.

Sad, too.

Chapter Sixteen

Her mobile pinged with a text message.

Holly knew it was Marjorie. The only other person who ever texted her was Peter, and he was in school right now.

She knew what Marjorie wanted, too: dirt. Because the past few days Holly had managed to avoid talking to her boss. She’d left vague, peppy messages that were garbled or useless. Luck had been on her side—she and Marjorie had managed not to connect.

But she felt her luck running out.

Another ping. Holly hunched over the laptop and hummed, ignoring it. She’d have turned her phone off completely except that she needed it on in case the school needed to reach her regarding Jamie.

Holly turned the computer toward Gigi, even though the actress was on the floor doing yoga. “I rearranged the way your expenses are laid out. It should make it easier for accounting.”

“Excellent,” Gigi said as she moved from one pretzel move to the next.

“You didn’t even pretend to look.”

“Not at all.” The actress grinned at her. “You’re sweet to fix all that, though I’m certain it’s not in a handler’s job description.”

She wrinkled her nose. She didn’t like the items in her job description, so it wasn’t a hardship doing something different.

“I’m surprised you’re not an accountant or something,” Gigi continued, shifting to balance on one leg. “You really love your spreadsheets.”

She shrugged as she put away the computer. “Most companies require a degree. They aren’t willing to take a girl who had to drop out of college because she got pregnant.”

Frowning, Gigi came out of the pose, her hands on her hips. “That’s not right.”

“It’s the way it is.” She shrugged.

“It doesn’t have to be. They told me I’d never make it in Hollywood. Do you know how many pretty blondes go to Los Angeles and hope to strike it big?”

“A lot?”

“Yes. The only reason I’ve gotten this far is because I won’t take no for an answer.” Gigi pointed at her. “You have what it takes, too. Just decide what you want and don’t stop until you get it.”

Ping.

“Someone’s trying awfully hard to reach you.” Gigi raised her brow. “Shouldn’t you check that?”

Holly shrugged. “I—”

Her phone rang, and Gigi waved at her. “Answer it,” the actress said as she resumed her yoga practice.

Holly glanced at the caller ID. School. She picked it up, relieved for the first time ever that they were calling her, even if it meant Jamie had probably done something again.

Sure enough, the school’s secretary told her she needed to pick up Jamie because he’d caused another disturbance. She tossed the mobile in her bag. “Gigi, I need to—”

“Go.” The actress frowned at her. “He’s okay though, yes?”

“Until I kill him, yes.” She shook her head and hurried to school.

She took a taxi to school and hurried down the hallway, straight to Peter’s office.

Peter was in the hallway, sitting with Jamie, talking to him. His words were too soft for her to hear.

They both looked up when they heard her footsteps. Jamie’s little face was scrunched with worry. Peter looked serious, except for his eyes, which were laughing.

She relaxed. Whatever Jamie had done couldn’t have been that bad.

“Holly.” Peter stood and gestured to his office.

She gave her son a look and followed the headteacher in. “What did the little animal do this time?” she asked as she set her purse on the floor and sat in her usual chair.

“During recess he decided to build a fort.”

She frowned. “It sounds like a creative idea, but obviously something went wrong.”

“Jamie needed walls for the fort. Because he didn’t have blankets, like he apparently has at home, he covered the desks that he piled up with Mrs. Neuwirth’s gym clothes.” Peter pressed his lips together, but his mouth curved despite himself. “I never realized how, um, voluminous knickers could be.”

Holly covered her mouth with a hand. “Bloody hell.”

He nodded. “That was exactly what Mrs. Neuwirth unleashed when she returned to class and found her sports bra being used as a flag.”

“At least there were no broken windows this time.”

“No, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to suspend him. For a fixed term, of course. Just four days.”

“Four days.” She gaped at Peter. What was she going to do with Jamie for four days? “Can’t anything else be done?”

“I’m afraid my hands are tied.” Peter sat on the edge of his desk, his legs stretched close to hers. “But I do have good news.”

“You found someone to adopt the kid?”

He grinned. “Close. The Athenaeum contacted me today. They wanted to remind us that the first payment is due in a couple weeks.”

Us. She frowned, liking the sound of it too much. But it only existed in fairy tales, and she gave up believing in fairy tales a long time ago.

Peter touched her foot with his. “Holly, you have money for it, don’t you?”

She thought about the bonus check in the drawer and wrinkled her nose. “I do have some, but I’d rather not use it.”

“Jamie is much better off at the Athenaeum. Their student-to-teacher ratio is much lower. They’ll be able to give Jamie the attention he needs. He needs to go.”

“I know this.”

“Then I don’t understand why you refuse to use your money.”

“It’s blood money.” She winced. “Can I tell you something? Something you can’t tell anyone.”

“You can always talk to me, Holly.”

“The studio wants me to give them gossip about Imogen Summerhill, the actress I’m working with.” At Peter’s perplexed look, she sighed. “They told me if I don’t perform, they’ll fire me. So I gave them something that I thought was innocent, but they made it sound awful and gave me a bonus for it.”

Peter was silent for a long time. Finally he said, “You should tell her.”

“I can’t tell her. I’ll lose my job.”

“But you’re obviously bothered by what happened.”

“Of course I am!” she exclaimed. “I feel wretched. I like Gigi, and I feel like I’ve tattled on her.”

“Telling her would clear your conscience.”

“It’d also cost me the job, and I love working with her. I know it’s ridiculous, because I’m just a lackey for a famous person, but I really enjoy it.” She leaned forward. “It’ll probably sound crazy, but I love her and her family. They’re so wonderful.”

“Isn’t that more reason to come clean?”

“Yes, but …” She shook her head.

Peter took her hand. “If they’re really like family, they’ll forgive you.”

“I don’t know what sort of family you have, but mine is not like that.” She frowned. “And the studio will fire me, too.”

Peter nodded. “So there’s still the problem of Jamie’s tuition.”

“I’ll figure it out.” She had no idea how, unless she used the check.

“I can help,” Peter said.

“No.” She shook her head just in case her exclamation wasn’t emphatic enough. “Thank you, but I’ll cover it.”

He crossed his arms. “You just said you can’t.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

Peter stared at her.

Shifting, she averted her gaze.

“I admire how you’ve raised Jamie on your own. I can’t even imagine everything you’ve gone through, and he’s a great kid. What you’ve done is more admirable than most things you could have done with your life. I know you were alone before, but you aren’t now.” He reached out and caressed her hair, loosely holding the back of her head. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

“You’re mad.” She withdrew from him. “We’ve barely kissed and you’re, what? Offering me thousands of pounds? In exchange for what?”

“This isn’t a barter. I want to be part your lives. I am part of your lives, whether you admit it or not.”

“You’re Jamie’s headteacher.”

“Is that all I am to you?”

Not at all, but what more could he be? What were they going to do? Date? When would she have time? Why would he want to be saddled with a child who wasn’t his own? “This makes no sense.”

“It makes more sense than anything I’ve ever done before,” Peter said, standing. He pulled her to her feet and kissed her.

It was spicy, made all the more naughty because the entire school was just outside the door. He clenched her close and kissed her as if he had something to prove.

She had to pull away—because she liked it too much, because she was afraid she’d push him onto his desk and rip his clothes off him. She put a hand over her mouth.

Peter held her close. “I wasn’t joking when I said I had a vested interest in Jamie going to the Athenaeum. I’m not going to let you shut me out.”

That was the most delicious threat she’d ever been given.

But she shook her head as she pulled out of his embrace and picked up her bag. “I’ll take Jamie home.”

“I’ll call you.”

She shook her head again, afraid of what she wanted, because it was too good to be true. Life didn’t work that way. Life was hard and pitted against you.

She walked out of the office and waved at Jamie.

She saw the worried look he gave her, but she kept walking. He hurried to catch up, slipping his hand silently in hers.

Her heart melted, but she gave him a stern look. “You’re in trouble, you know.”

“I know, Mum.”

Smiling at how morose he sounded, she squeezed his hand. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Have you seen this?” Gigi handed her phone over to Titania as she slid onto the seat across the table.

Her sister picked up the phone, looked at it, and then passed it back. “This headline is ridiculous.”

“Thank you.” Feeling justified, she glared at it one more time.

Is Imogen having her cake and eating it too?

“You don’t eat cake. If they were half-decent reporters, they’d know that,” Titania said, unfolding her napkin onto her lap. “Speaking of, I already ordered for us because I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” she muttered as she scanned the article—and she used that word loosely. It claimed that Gigi was stringing Dirk along while she dallied with a new man. “They’re saying I’m a femme fatale.”

“Stop reading that.” Titania took the mobile out of Gigi’s hand and shut it down before handing it back. “Put it away. You’re having lunch with me.”

The waitress brought their food: creamy pasta for Titania and a plain salad with chicken for Gigi.

“How do they know I’m seeing someone else?” Gigi asked the moment the waitress left. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I tried calling Russell Sherman this morning. He won’t answer my calls. My manager says he won’t return hers either. This is a disaster.”

“You should let me do a photo essay about you,” Titania said as she forked a bite into her mouth.

“Have you been talking to Bea?” Gigi picked up her fork and prodded the unappetizing salad.

“Who’s Bea?”

“Really, Tawny. Our sister. Beatrice.”

“Oh.” She scrunched her face. “Why would I talk to Beatrice? She was always bossy. She’s probably even bossier now.”

“You’re making assumptions.”

Titania gave her a flat look, her fork poised halfway to her mouth. “Are you saying Beatrice isn’t bossy?”

“No.”

“Then it’s not an assumption, is it?” She shoveled the pasta in.

Gigi watched her sister eat with her normal abandon and felt a pang of jealousy. Not that she wanted pasta, per se, but it’d been a long time since she’d allowed herself to eat anything for pleasure.

Just until she was back in the game.

“So what do you say?” Titania asked. “Let me do a photo essay on you. I promise to get your good side.”

She moved the greens around her plate. “Do you really think it’ll help?”

“Yes, I think it’ll help. Do you think I’d waste my time?” Her sister shook her head. “Gigi, no one knows the real you. Maybe if you let them see it, they’ll stop speculating about what you’re really like.”

“That’s what Bea said.” She gave Titania a doleful look. “It’s just as well that you two don’t talk. You’d be devastating if you teamed up.”

“Well, that’s never going to happen.” Titania wiped her mouth and wadded up her napkin. She pulled out her camera from the case at her feet. “Tell me about this mystery man you’re seeing.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,” Gigi said, pushing her salad away. “You know, I think I really hate lettuce.”

“You can’t switch topics on me.” She pointed and adjusted the lens. “He must be special if you’re chancing seeing him when you’re trying to clean up your image.”

Merrick was special. More than that, he made her feel special. He understood her and her ambitions, and he supported them.

Whenever she thought of his sister her heart just died for him. She tried to imagine what losing Titania would do to her. Incomprehensible.

But he was hurting himself, too, even though he’d never admit it. It was noble—he was noble—but she could see that repressing that part of him that’d been a rock star was going to break him one day.

In the meantime, she’d benefit from him letting his tiger come out to play. She grinned. Maybe she’d ask him to play tonight.

A camera shutter snapped.

She looked up at her sister, who shrugged. “It was a good shot,” Titania said. She took a few more snapshots. “When are you going to come over?”

“Come over for what?”

“Are you daft? So I can take your pictures.”

An idea popped into her head, and Gigi couldn’t help smiling wickedly. “You go to your subject’s homes to photograph them.”

“Yes. So?”

“So my home is on South Street.”

Titania’s eyes narrowed. “You’re evil.”

She grinned. “I don’t think I can be faulted for feeling a little gleeful to force you to come home.”

Titania pushed her chair back and stood. “You used to be my favorite sister.”

“Because you don’t know any of our other sisters,” Gigi called after her. She smiled and whispered to herself, “And I’d be so happy if you found another sister to love, too.”

Left with the check, like usual, Gigi paid and left.

There was a break in the rain, so she decided to walk home. She was just about to the house when she heard Dirk’s voice.

“Gigi!”

She turned and saw him jogging toward her. She waited for the feelings of anger and betrayal to rise up, but she only felt done, like that chapter was over and he was just someone she shared something with a while ago.

She also felt longing—for Merrick. Seeing Dirk made her wish it was Merrick running toward her.

Hope was a terrible thing, she decided, as she took out her mobile. I’m coming over tonight, she texted him.

His reply was instant. Good.

Smiling, she turned toward her home but ran into a broad chest blocking her way.

She sighed and instantly regretted it when Dirk’s thick cologne choked her. She stepped back out of the miasma of scent. “Dirk, you’re wasting your time.”

“Am I, Gigi?” He reached out to her.

“Don’t call me Gigi.” She evaded his hands. “Only loved ones have that privilege, and you are definitely not a loved one.”

“I want to be,” he implored with the puppy dog eyes he used in all his roles. “Please, Gigi, just one chance to make it all up to you.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” she asked incredulously. “Do you have a time machine? You plastered the world with my most private possession. You’re strangling my career with your selfishness.”

“I know.” He nodded. “I had a gift and I didn’t realize it.”

She frowned. “Are you repeating lines?”

“Of course I’m not,” he stuttered, flushing.

“I find that hard to believe.” She began to walk again. “Go away. I don’t want to be seen with you.”

“Ah, Gigi, that’s harsh,” he said plaintively. He hurried in front of her, cutting off her exit. “Wait.”

She stared at him.

He flushed. “Okay, I didn’t think it’d hurt you. It boosted my career.”

“Because you’re a man. When a man has sex he’s a god. When a woman has sex, she’s a harlot.”

He shrugged helplessly. “People must like watching harlots, because your last movie is doing great at the box office.”

“You wanker.” She hit him in the arm. “I may let Bea at you after all.”

She began to walk around him but he grabbed her hand. “Just let me make it up to you, Gi—”

She gave him a death glare.

“Imogen,” he amended. “Please. I’ll feel better if I can do something.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

“Go with me to the wrap party for Mindless Pursuits tonight. A lot of players are going to be there, and maybe if people see we’re friendly they’ll forget the video.”

She arched her brow. “You really think they’ll forget?”

“Why not?”

“You’re an idiot.” She was about to try to escape again when a thought struck. Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s attending this party?”

He shrugged. “A bunch of people.”

“Russell Sherman?”

“Hold on.” He pulled out his mobile and stepped to the side. After a short muted conversation he came back. “He’s on the guest list and is expected.”

She’d made plans with Merrick already. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, thinking. She hadn’t said what time she’d meet him. Maybe she could tell him it’d be late.

She really didn’t want to spend time with Dirk, and she didn’t want him to do her any favors.

But this was important. Beatrice would tell her not to let her ego get in the way. Besides, at a party she wouldn’t have to be at his side.

As if sensing her waffling, Dirk said, “It’s just cocktails. No strings.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He lifted his hands. “Just because I love you and hate the animosity between us.”

She rolled her eyes. “The only person you love is yourself.”

“Yeah, but you’re a close second,” he said with a grin.

Most people would have figured he was joking, but Gigi knew better.

“Come on, Imogen. Just go with me.”

He was right, damn it. She frowned. “Fine, but if you touch me, I’ll stab you with a dull pen.”

He laughed. “Fair warning.”

“Excuse me,” she said, stepping away. She pulled out her mobile and texted Merrick. I can’t make it tonight.

He replied quickly. Another time then.

She frowned at his answer. Wouldn’t he miss her? She’d miss him.

“Gi—Imogen?” Dirk smiled eagerly. “Want the address?”

“Yes.” She pushed thoughts of Merrick aside. She needed to concentrate on her career tonight. Tomorrow there’d be time for love.

***

A taxi waited for her outside. Making sure she had her phone and money, Gigi hurried downstairs.

Her mother met her halfway up the stairs, the leather journal she carried with her lately in her hand. “You look lovely,” Jacqueline said, stepping aside to let Gigi pass. “Are you going out?”

“Yes. To an industry party.”

Her mother’s smile dimmed. “Oh.”

Pausing, Gigi looked over her shoulder. “What does that mean?”

“I’d just hoped you were doing something fun for a change, or that you were going on a date.”

She bit the inside of her lip, careful not to get lipstick on her teeth. She thought about Merrick and how much more fun it’d be misbehave with him instead of going to this party.

But her career came first. She needed to focus on convincing Sherman she was his Ophelia. So lightly, she said, “I’ll work on it,” as she waved and continued on her way.

She arrived fashionably late at the address Dirk had given her. It was a posh lounge, closed to the public this evening. She gave the doorman her name, surprised she was actually on the guest list.

Dirk wanted something from her. She swept her wrap off her shoulders and went to check it in, wondering what that might be. Frankly, she didn’t care as long as she had the chance to confront Sherman.

There were a lot of people milling around. Arriving a little late meant there was enough people to camouflage her if she wanted. She wrangled herself a glass of champagne and then stopped to say hello to the host, whom she’d worked with once.

Smiling, she turned around and came face to face with Delilah Jones.

“Delilah.” Her smiled faded, but she sipped her drink to hide her displeasure. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

“I was about to say the same thing.” Delilah flashed her barracuda smile. “You must be stalking Russell.”

The proprietary way the other actress said his name put Gigi’s teeth on edge, but she bared her teeth right back. “Hardly. I just talked to Russell on the phone.”

“You’re wasting your time.” Delilah barked a laugh. “Ophelia is mine. Russell and his backers think you’re a liability.”

“Because you’ve told them so, of course.”

“Of course, darling.” The woman gave her a toothy grin. Then her face went dark, and she leaned in to hiss. “You may have stolen a part from me once upon a time, but I’m not going to let it happen again, Imogen. So just back off.”

Gigi sighed. “Delilah, can’t we just let this all go? How long can you possibly hold a grudge? It’s just business.”

“The hell it is. There’s nothing more personal.” Delilah glared at her like she was imagining eviscerating her. Then, just as instantly, her face cleared. “Here comes your boyfriend. I’ll leave you two alone. Ta-ta, darling.”

Gigi stared after the woman, wondering if she needed Beatrice’s hitman or a doctor to prescribe Delilah better medication.

“You look like you’re going to stomp on someone with your killer heels,” Dirk said with a charming smile. He leaned to kiss her.

She backed away, horrified. Pointing a finger at him, she said, “No.”

He pouted. “I’m not a dog.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“You should be nice to me,” he said. “I just saw Russell Sherman and put in a word for you.”

She shuddered, thinking of what he might have said. “Please don’t do me any more favors.”

“Maybe you could do me a favor?” he asked with a plaintive look.

“What?” she asked, suspicious.

He leaned in and lowered his voice. “My last movie didn’t do well with the test groups. It was the director’s fault. He wouldn’t let us interpret our characters in our own way.”

“Wasn’t the director Ron Howard?” she interrupted. She had great respect for Howard’s vision.

“Yes.” He frowned. “I just need you to tell a couple people here what a great actor I am and that Ron Howard is full of shit.”

“What happened to no strings attached?” she asked, hands on her hips.

Dirk shook his head. “This isn’t a string.”

She sipped her drink and stared at the man she’d spent a year with. What had she been thinking?

Turning around, she sauntered away, knowing he wouldn’t cause a scene in front of all these industry people.

Across the room, she saw Russell Sherman and someone who was obviously a moneyman. Finally. Making a detour, Gigi headed for them.

“Imogen Summerhill.”

Stopping, she came face to face with Marcus Craig.

She’d never met the man. In person, he didn’t look anything like he did in his pictures. He was short and portly with a kind face. Intelligence poured through his gaze, and he looked her right in the eye, respectfully, rather than leering at her the way a lot of men in the film industry did.

“Marcus Craig.” Smiling, she extended her hand.

“I apologize for accosting you like this, but I just wanted to say one thing.” He looked at her shrewdly. “I know the studio is pushing you to star in my movie, and I realize my last couple films don’t speak well for me.”

She shook her head. “I—”

“No, let me finish,” he interrupted. He took a deep breath. “I know that an actress of your caliber would run in the opposite direction if I came at her. But I have a vision for this remake. I want to do something meaningful, and Cole Porter has a special place in my heart. You’re the perfect actor to help me realize my vision.” He shrugged. “I just wanted to assure you that there won’t be any animal costumes in the making of the movie.”

“And sex scenes?”

He recoiled. “You’ve got to be kidding. I want to resurrect my image, not kill it with a skin flick.”

She laughed. “We’re in the same boat, then.”

Craig smiled. “I knew you’d understand.”

“I’ll look at the script,” she said, surprising both of them. She held her hands up. “I can’t promise anything.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. I want you to go with your gut. You have good instincts.” Craig grinned at her. “But I bet your gut’s going to tell you to go for it.”

She watched him walk away, laughing under her breath when she saw him make a discreet fist pump in the air. Shaking her head, amused, she turned to find Sherman.

He was gone, no sign of him anywhere. After an hour of searching, Gigi gave up and decided to go home before Dirk tempted her into violence.

Chapter Eighteen

Merrick prowled through Portcullis House, to his office. Everyone skittered out of his way, which was perfectly acceptable today with his foul mood.

He blamed it on the gnome, whose knowing leer was driving him insane. The problem was he couldn’t toss the little bugger out. He’d tried a couple times, and he hadn’t been able to do it.

Ridiculous. If that wasn’t sign enough that he’d lost his mind, he didn’t know what was.

Imogen might have played a small part in his madness, too.

He growled, startling a passing aide. He turned to apologize to her, but he must have looked fiercer than he realized because she practically ran down the hall.

His bill—Michaela’s safety act—was unraveling before his eyes. He’d lost opportunities to make inroads with members of the conservative party. He’d missed meetings and stood people up. It reflected poorly on him and the bill.

And all he could think about was that Imogen canceled on him last night.

What had she been doing?

“What difference does it make?” he muttered to himself, as he rounded the corner to his office.

All the difference in the world, and he knew it.

He’d spent the entire morning scanning all the tabloids and society pages for a clue to her whereabouts, dreading to see her picture with another man, hoping to get one glimpse of her beautiful face.

He’d become a tabloid reader. Gigi had made him a tabloid reader.

He knew he should have just called her. He should have told her how much he craved her—both her body and her mind. He missed her, damn it, even if it hadn’t been long since he’d seen her.

Instead, he was stalking her. It was beyond pathetic.

His secretary rose from her desk as he approached. Her fingers fidgeted with a button on her sweater, and she looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there. “Sir? Is everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he said, being careful to modulate his tone.

She cleared her throat. “Well, you’ve missed a couple important meetings of late. It’s not like you, sir.”

It wasn’t, but he didn’t need her to point it out to him.

She backed away slowly, as though she’d suddenly realized she was in a cage with a wild animal.

He rubbed his neck and took a deep breath. “Can you call Howell’s office and see if he’s in?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, hurrying to do as he requested, though Merrick knew she was just trying to get away from him.

He strode into his office and closed the door. He sat down and tried to think of how he could repair the damage he’d done this week.

His mobile buzzed, alerting him of a text. He pulled it out of his pocket, disappointed when he saw it was Valerie.

Then he read the text. Did you and Imogen stop seeing each other?

Jaw clenched, he replied, What are you talking about?

A second later, she sent him a web address for an entertainment site. He clicked on it and froze when he saw Gigi’s radiant smile aimed at that man she’d been photographed with in the street—the man she’d assured him she wasn’t seeing.

Logic said there was a good reason for this.

Bugger logic. He picked up a paperweight from his desk and threw it across the room.

Outside, in his main office, he heard his staff go silent.

He didn’t care. He looked at the picture again, reading the caption, the article, and anything else associated with it. An industry cocktail party.

His office phone rang. For a moment, he debated not answering it, but if it rang through past his secretary, it was important. “Merrick Graham.”

“Graham, Thomas Kane.”

He gritted his teeth. “This isn’t a good time, Kane.”

“Obviously not.” The old man chuckled. “I heard you’re cracking up.”

“Who said that?” he asked, his voice low.

“Everyone’s saying it. A lot of speculation going on. You know what I think?”

“I don’t think I want to know,” he muttered.

Kane laughed. “Probably not, which is why I’m going to tell you. It’s a woman.”

Merrick sat up, at attention. “What do you mean?”

“When a man falls apart the way you are, there’s always a woman involved. Fact of life. I’d say I’m sorry for you, but I’m not.”

“Thank you for taking pleasure in my apparent misfortune.”

“All part of the game, my boy.” The man chuckled. “I’m going to be interested to see what you decide to do. If you’re really a bad boy, or if you man up and become a true politician.”

“What do you mean become a true politician?”

“A true politician looks out for himself, son. You should know that by now.”

Merrick listened to the flat dial tone, hearing the echo of Kane’s words.

He pushed back from his desk and strode out.

The entire office stilled, as if everyone were holding their breaths.

Shaking his head, he just walked out. He considered going for a walk, but it was raining. He thought of going home and putting his rain gear on and going for a ride. Instead, after he arrived home, he went to his office, picked up Malcolm, and went upstairs.

To the music room.

For a moment, he stood in the threshold, looking in on his former life. Michaela used to lounge on the pillows on the floor, near the window, while he sat at the piano and composed. She’d plot how to make a better world as he plotted the next popular song.

He walked across the room and poured himself a drink from the decanter. He took the drink and the gnome and set them both on top of the baby grand. He hesitated.

Then he sat down.

Next to the gnome, Michaela smiled at him. Happy. Forever frozen in time. He traced her face. He’d loved her, even as a teenager when they should have always been fighting. She’d been so cool—fun. She’d been his number one fan.

He missed her with a violent ache—still, after all these years.

He heard music distantly. It confused him for a moment until he realized he’d started to play “Love Leaves Dreaming.” It’d been Michaela’s favorite song.

His fingers felt stiff on the keys, but they warmed up faster than he’d have expected.

Swallowing back his sadness, he played to the end and then began a new song—a song for Michaela.

He let it pour through him, echoing his sadness, anger, and guilt. He infused it with light moments, bits of the happiness his sister had radiated. He finished it on a soft note, drawing it out sweetly.

Closing the lid over the keyboard, he stood. He left the drink untouched and stuffed the knickers back in his pocket. Then he returned the gnome back to its spot in the office, feeling as though if he left it with Michaela’s picture, they’d gang up against him.

Chapter Nineteen

“You’ve got to give me something more, Holly.”

Marjorie’s displeasure was loud and clear even over the crackly phone line. Holly shook her head even though she knew her boss couldn’t see her. “I’m working on it,” she lied as she turned on South Street.

“It’s been days since you’ve given me any new news regarding Imogen, and you haven’t convinced her to take the part in Craig’s next film either. What are you doing over there?”

Barely keeping everything together. She tugged on Jamie’s hand as he started to wander. She’d been at her wit’s end since he’d been suspended from class, and it’d only been two days. Add Marjorie to the mix, and she wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head. “I’ve been home for a couple days, but I’m headed over to Imogen’s now.”

That was actually the truth. She’d called in sick for the first couple days of Jamie’s suspension because she hadn’t had anyone to watch him.

But she couldn’t afford to take more time off, and there was the matter of coming up with something to report.

She sighed.

“You can’t ride on your last success forever, Holly,” Marjorie said. “I need information. Who is the mystery man Imogen’s infatuated with? She has to be seeing him sometime.”

Exasperated, Holly rolled her eyes. “Well, given how the media’s been stalking her, she’s going to be careful about when she sees him, isn’t she?”

“That’s true,” Marjorie said, as though it hadn’t occurred to her. There was a rustle on the other end. “Damn it, I have to go. Find out when she’s seeing this man, Holly. You have until the end of the week, and it better be good or else you’re out.”

Fabulous. Frowning, Holly tucked her phone away and got out the key to the Summerhill house as they walked up the porch.

“Are you okay, Mum?”

“I’m fine, love.” She glanced down at Jamie, her heart turning over. He was so dear.

And such a terror. Was she actually taking him into the Summerhill house?

“Jamie.” She leaned down to look Jamie in the eye, so he’d know how serious she was. “I need to do some work. You’re going to sit very quietly on a couch with your books, and you will not move. Do you understand me?”

“I can’t move at all?”

“No.”

“What about my eyelids?” He fluttered them.

“Not even your eyelids.”

“That’s going to be hard.” His face puckered. “How will I turn the pages of my books if I can’t move?”

Heaven help her.

When in doubt, resort to bribery. She sighed dramatically. “I was going to give you a treat after, but I guess we’ll skip that if you don’t think you can behave.”

He perked up. “What kind of treat?”

“You’ll get to play with your robotics.”

He gasped. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He stiffened his body on the spot, holding his breath, his eyes bulging like he was going to explode.

“You can breathe, silly.” She unlocked the door. “You just have to read quietly on the couch.”

“Okay.” He relaxed and followed her inside.

She took him to the front room. No one ever went in there, as far as she knew. He tiptoed in behind her and then hopped up on the sofa she pointed to. She winced, watching him get his shoes on what was probably expensive fabric.

Shaking her head, she set his backpack next to him. “I’ll come back to check on you in a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay, Mum.” He unzipped his bag as she left the room.

Gigi was jogging down the staircase as Holly entered the hallway. The actress smiled at her, blotting her face with a towel. “Hello, stranger. Welcome back. I—”

Crash.

They both froze, staring at each other. And then Holly groaned. “I’m so sorry,” she said as she hurried to the living room.

Gigi followed on her heels, arriving a second behind her to find Jamie wide-eyed, sitting on the couch with shards of broken china on the floor next to him. “It fell,” he said guiltily.

Holly dropped her head in her hand. She was going to be fired—she knew it. For breaking what was probably priceless as well as lying about Jamie.

Fran bustled into the room. “I heard something break. Is everyone all right?”

Holly frowned at her son. “Not for long.”

Jamie looked abashed. “I’m sorry.”

Fran held her hand out to him. “Things fall all the time. Have you learned about gravity yet in school?”

He shook his head as he hopped off the couch and put his hand in hers.

“How about I tell you over cookies and milk?” Fran said, giving Holly a reassuring smile, and she neatly led the kid out.

“I assume that’s your son,” Gigi said, leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed.

“Until I find trolls who are willing to buy him.” Resigning herself to being thrown out, she bent down to start cleaning the broken bits. “I knew better than to bring him, but I wanted to check on you, and I didn’t have anyone to watch him. I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no reason to be sorry,” Gigi said. “And stop that before you cut yourself. Franny will handle it.”

Holly looked up at Gigi. From this vantage point, she was even more like a goddess than usual, especially given the benevolent expression on her face. “You aren’t going to send me packing?”

“Why would I do that? Because your son is rambunctious?”

“And the vase?”

Gigi shrugged. “There are more in the house. I’m sure Fran or my mum will replace it with another.

Holly stood and stared at the mess on the floor. “Was it very expensive?”

Gigi began to laugh.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she mumbled. She hadn’t paid for the school windows yet.

Gigi put an arm around her. “We never liked that urn anyway.”

Chapter Twenty

Gigi swept into the bakery, shaking the rain off herself and her umbrella. Normally, the scent of yeast and vanilla soothed her right away—they conjured memories of Fran and the happy parts of childhood. Today, she was so annoyed that not even seeing Titania lifted her spirits.

Titania must have felt her walk in. She glanced up, an irritated expression on her face, too.

Gigi strode over to her, waving the magazine she took out of her purse. “I realize I’m late, but I had to stop for this. So don’t even think of biting my head off.”

“I wasn’t going to rail at you.”

She arched her brow as she hung her coat on the back of her chair.

“Maybe I was,” Titania acquiesced. “But you’re the one who told me to meet you here at this ungodly hour and then show up late.”

“It’s eleven in the morning.”

“Exactly.” Titania sat back, folding her arms. “What has you so upset?”

“This.” Fueled with renewed indignation, she waved the magazine. The last thing she’d expected to see was a picture of herself, smiling at Dirk as if he were her sun. “It’s ridiculous. Do you see this?”

“How can I not when you’re waving it in my face like that?”

“Don’t they have better things to do than to follow me around and report on what I’m eating and who I’m seeing? Why does anyone care?” Incensed she tossed it on the table. The blatant lie of the picture made her sick to her stomach.

“Because you’re the Incomparable Imogen Summerhill,” Titania said as she reached for it.

She arched her brows. “Impressive that you managed to say that without gagging.”

The smallest hint of a smile curved her sister’s lips. “Do I need to remind you that this is exactly what you’ve wanted all your life? Don’t you remember how you used to crawl into my bed at night and tell me how you were going to conquer Hollywood and everyone would know your name? That’s exactly what you got.”

“I guess one should be careful what one wishes for.” She got up and went to the pastry case as Titania began to flip through the magazine. She ordered a few treats and tea and returned to their table.

Titania set the magazine away as Gigi sat down. “What’s really bothering you? This isn’t about this article. You know how to handle the press. Is it about Dirk? Or is it about this mystery man everyone’s wondering about?”

Gigi froze a moment, then laughed as casually as she could. “Mystery man? You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.”

“Somehow I believe this one.” Her sister sat back and studied her. “Who is he?”

“There’s—”

“You can’t lie to me,” Titania said. “I know you.”

She wilted, worrying the tassels on her scarf. She smiled faintly at the server who set their pastries and beverages on the table. When the boy was gone, she took a deep breath. “He’s a politician.”

Titania burst out laughing.

Gigi wadded up a napkin and threw it at her. “It’s not funny. It’s awful. It’s almost worse than dating an actor.”

Her sister sobered. “You like him,” she said with shock.

She lowered her voice. “I like him a lot.”

“Might we even call it love?” Titania asked, reaching for a treat.

She remembered when Portia had asked just a few months before how you’d know when you were in love. Gigi had equated love to the plague. She still wasn’t sure she was too far off the mark. “We don’t know what we’d call it.”

“That’s as good as an admission of undying devotion. So you must be moping because he doesn’t love you.”

“We don’t know that.”

Titania pointed her pastry at her. “But you don’t not know that either, apparently.”

Gigi frowned.

“Tell me about him.”

“No.” Then she pouted. “He’s very attractive. It’s more than being handsome. He’s intelligent and powerful.”

Her sister nodded. “You always liked the forceful, master-of-the-universe types.”

“No, I didn’t. Dirk wasn’t like that.”

“Dirk was an idiot. I don’t even know why you were with him.” Titania took a sip of tea and then said, “Jarod Roswell.”

“Jarod Roswell?”

“You went out with him in school. He owned that campus. No one did anything without his express approval first.”

She shook her head. “Jarod Roswell was in elementary school.”

“You started young.”

“You aren’t being helpful.”

Titania shrugged. “Maybe the most helpful thing would be to decide how you feel about this politician and then let him know.”

Gigi nodded slowly, thinking about it. “Logical, but it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t want to date me. Not in public.”

“What are you talking about? Didn’t you just say you’re seeing him?”

“In secret. I sneak to his house. I literally go in the back door in disguise.”

“Why?”

“To avoid this.” She poked at the paper. “He’s in the middle of securing support for an important piece of legislation and can’t afford bad press.”

“So you’re agreeable to having sex with him like a dirty little secret?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You just said it was.” Her sister scowled. “What an ass. Stop seeing him.”

“His safety act is important.” She worried her lip, knowing Merrick wouldn’t like his past bandied about. But this was Titania, and Titania was like the other half of her soul. “His sister was killed in the underground senselessly, because no one responded soon enough to her. He’s been working all these years to prevent incidents like that to happen. He was really close to her.”

“Good Lord.” Titania pursed her lips. “Okay, he’s not a complete ass.”

“And, frankly, I’m complicit in this arrangement. I can’t be seen with him. I need to be taken seriously, and that means no frivolous affairs.”

“You could just say you’re dating him.”

She shook her head. “The world still believes Dirk and I are an item. Or they want to. Me being seen out with someone else would make me look like a slut. Unless he put a ring on my finger.”

“Is that likely?” Titania asked carefully.

“I don’t want a ring,” she said, hearing the falsehood in her tone.

Her sister hummed. “But you still need to tell him how you feel.”

She would, if she could figure that out.

“You must not have been completely discreet if they”—Titania pointed at the newspaper—”found out you’re seeing someone new.”

She shook her head. “I really don’t understand how they could know. We’ve been very careful.”

“Maybe someone sold you out.”

“I can’t think of who that’d be.” She sighed. “I’m sick of thinking about this. What about you?”

Titania stilled. “What about me?”

She shrugged. “What’s going on with you? What are you working on? Are you seeing anyone? When are you coming to Tuesday night drinks? There’s one coming up.”

Her sister rolled her eyes. “Good to know.”

“You don’t have to sound so insincere,” she said, breaking off a piece of a cinnamon roll. Then she remembered that she wasn’t eating carbs and put it down.

“Even if that’s what I am?”

“Can’t you give it a shot? It’s family. You don’t even have to have a great time, but that doesn’t mean you don’t love them.”

Titania pouted, looking away. “I don’t know them.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Her sister glared at her. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?”

“No, it’s important.” Gigi leaned forward with the force of her conviction. “I know you’re a loner by nature, and I’m not trying to change that, but sometime you’re going to need someone at your back, and what are you going to do if I’m not around?”

“What I’ve always done.” Titania shrugged.

“One day that won’t be good enough. Listen to me. I’m your older sister.”

She snorted. “Barely. Not even by twelve months.”

“The facts are irrefutable.” She picked up her purse and kissed the top of her sister’s head.

“Before you make your grand exit, I have something for you.” Titania reached under the table and pulled out a rectangular package wrapped in butcher paper.

Turning it around in her hands, Gigi sat again. “What’s this for?”

Titania shrugged. “Since I’m stuck with you for life, I’m making the best of the situation.”

Gigi smiled, her heart happy, and then tore apart the wrapping. She gasped when she saw the picture. It was from when they had lunch a few days before. She looked dreamy—radiant.

“You were thinking about him, remember?” Titania stretched forward to look, too. “I asked you about him.”

Gigi nodded.

“And you still doubt whether you love him?”

She stood and hugged her sister. Wordlessly, she picked up her picture and left. Outside, she took her phone out and texted Merrick. Free tonight?

***

Gigi lay in bed, uncomfortable. Cold. Lonely, because it was missing Merrick.

She picked up her phone, laying on the pillow next to her, and looked at the terse reply he’d sent her earlier. I’m busy.

Too busy to see her? What was he doing so late at night? She swiped her mobile on to ask him.

Although it was clear he didn’t want to see her. She set her phone on the bedside table and pouted at it.

A soft knock sounded at her door. Sitting up, eager for the distraction, she readjusted her negligee. “Come in.”

She’d thought it’d be Portia, but her mother entered. “I hope I’m not intruding,” Jacqueline said.

“Of course not.” She moved her feet to give her mother space on the bed. “You’re up late.”

“I was going to say the same to you.” Her mother drew her robe over her legs as she perched on the edge. “I was having a drink with Fran.”

“You and Fran have developed a nice relationship.”

Jacqueline’s lips curled with wry amusement. “You aren’t going to accuse us of having a romance, are you?”

“No, that was just Portia.” She grinned remembering how certain her sister had been about that.

Her mum’s smile blossomed. “Portia has a wonderful knack for building stories.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but, yes, she does.”

“All you girls have your talents.” She nodded to the top of the dresser, where Gigi had propped Titania’s photo. “That’s one of Titania’s, isn’t it? May I?”

“Please.” She watched her mother carefully lift the frame, her gaze devouring the photo. Gigi imagined that she was looking for a clue to her absentee youngest daughter in it. “She’s doing well professionally,” she said.

“I know.” Her mother set it down and faced her with a sad smile. “I’ve followed all your careers very closely.”

Gigi blinked. “You have?”

“I don’t know whether I should be angry or bereft that you sound so surprised.” Frowning, Jacqueline took her spot at the end of the bed again. “I don’t deserve to be either. I wasn’t a good mother.”

She reached for her mother’s hand. “Don’t say that. You were young, and you had no support. You did what you thought was right. And we didn’t turn into serial killers.”

“That’s more a testament to you girls than it is to me.” She stood, smiling ruefully. “Don’t sacrifice happiness for what you think you should do, Imogen. Lest the bargain should catch cold and starve.”

“The quote is from Cymbeline, of course.” Gigi flashed her world famous smile. “I’d never do that. I’m intrinsically a selfish creature.”

“The world may believe your act, but I never will.” Kissing the top of her head, pausing for a moment to inhale. “Goodnight, Imogen.”

She waited until her mother closed the door, then she picked up her mobile. She thought she should leave Merrick alone, but sitting wondering what was going on in his mind wasn’t making her happy. She debated what to say.

In the end, it was simple. I miss you.

She pressed send and then laid down on her bed to wait for a reply, knowing whatever happened it wouldn’t be as much as her heart wanted.

Chapter Twenty-one

I miss you.

Merrick stared at the text. This was his out. This was the moment to step away before things became even more complicated with Imogen.

He leaned back in his chair and glared at the words. If he ignored this text, it’d be over. He’d be safe, and he could continue doing his work in peace.

It seemed rather dreary.

He glanced up, catching the garden gnome’s eyes. The little guy seemed to be mocking him with his smile, his words loud and clear: You’re pathetic.

“No, I’m just cautious.” Merrick crossed his arms. “You have to understand where I’m coming from and what I’m trying to accomplish.”

Malcolm just stared at him.

“Okay, maybe I’m using the act as an excuse. And, yes, I’m jealous of that twit she dated. Even if she chooses to kiss me.” He picked up his phone and waved it. “Even if she chooses me to text late in the night.”

And so you’re choosing to let her go?

“Damn it, I haven’t chosen anything.” He pushed back from his desk and got up, rubbing his neck. He walked around his study, trying to dispel his tension.

It didn’t work.

“Bloody hell.” He turned and glared at the gnome, who smiled at him knowingly.

“You’re going with me, for moral support.” He scooped up the little guy and went to claim Imogen.

Just because he felt reckless right now didn’t mean he wanted to act stupidly. He parked a couple streets away and hoped the walk to her house would cool him off.

It didn’t.

He arrived in front of her family’s house. The entire block was dark, as if everyone were tucked snugly in bed.

He pulled Malcolm out from his pocket. “Wish me luck.”

The little guy looked at him skeptically.

Tucking Malcolm away before he could ridicule him, Merrick withdrew his phone and texted her. I’m downstairs.

A light came on in her room. He saw a flutter at the window.

And then he waited.

Not for long—a light went on in the foyer, and then he heard the deadbolts click open.

He was blinded when she opened the door—not by the light, but by the thin, silky thing she wore. It was red and left little to the imagination. Backlit, he could see her every line, her every curve, and he loved all of them.

“In case you wondered, I was already wearing it,” she said as she stepped aside to let him in. “I almost changed so you wouldn’t think I was trying to seduce you, but then I decided to just be myself.”

“I like yourself.” He came in and let her close the door. “I take one exception.”

“What?” she asked, locking them in and facing him.

He slid his hands around her waist. “You didn’t want to seduce me?”

“I wasn’t entirely certain you wanted to be seduced.” She looked him in the eye. “You’ve been distant.”

“Tell me one thing.” He bent his knees to look her in the eye. “Was the picture telling the truth?”

“Not even a little.” She cupped his face. “I was only at that party to talk to the director I’m interested in working with. What they showed in the tabloids wasn’t even a little real. I don’t even like Dirk. There’s only you.”

“I’ve been a fool.” He lowered his lips and kissed her, the way he’d been longing to do all week.

She gasped, but she melted against him instantly.

“I love that,” he murmured against her lips, wrapping his arms around her. “I love how you surrender to me.”

“Because you surrender the same way.” Then she pushed him away. “I can’t believe you’d think I’d just go out with someone else, with what we have between us.”

“I went mad for a moment. I wasn’t myself.” He’d acted like Ricky Hazard.

She folded her arms. “It’s not going to be that easy, you know.”

“If I wanted easy, I wouldn’t be here.”

She stared at him. Then she tipped her head toward the staircase. “Skip the third step. It creaks.”

“Aren’t you allowed to have boys in your room?” he asked softly, following her.

“You better hope my sisters don’t discover you’re here, because they’ll want to interrogate you.”

“They love you.”

She laughed softly as she led him into her bedroom. “They do, but Portia would do it on principle, because I threatened her fiancé when I met him.”

He stepped inside and looked around. It was feminine, a little fussy on the edges but comfortable and lush at the core, just like Imogen.

He faced her as she closed the door. “We had to see you.”

“We?” Her brow raised, she leaned her back against the door and crossed her arms.

He pulled out the gnome from his pocket and held it aloft.

She laughed, her face lighting up in a secret way that he knew he was privileged to see. “You’ve made friends with Malcolm?”

“He’s a pain in my arse.” Merrick set the gnome on a dresser and moved toward Imogen. “But he made me see something very important.”

“What?” she asked softly, sighing as he gathered her in his arms.

“That I want you.”

She tipped her head, studying him. “You couldn’t figure that out on your own?”

“I did, but I’m not sure I’d have acted on it without his encouragement.”

She nodded, pursing her lips in thought. “So what does that mean?”

“That means I want you.”

“Till morning?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Even longer.” He kissed her, feeling her melt against him. He sighed, feeling at ease with himself for the first time in days—in years.

Since Michaela died.

Imogen rubbed her nose against his. “We should move this to the bed.”

“Yes.” He bent to lift her.

She stopped him, nodding her head toward the dresser. “Shouldn’t you put Malcolm away for the night? It’d be strange to have him stare at us while we were intimate, wouldn’t it?”

He went to the dresser, opened a drawer, and put the gnome inside.

“Well.” Imogen shrugged her nightgown off as she walked to the bed. It pooled at her feet, and she kicked it aside as she climbed on top, holding her arms out open for him.

Well, indeed. He got out of his clothes and quickly followed her straight to heaven.

***

“I think Malcolm is growing on you,” Imogen said, stretching out alongside him.

Merrick looked at where the gnome sat on the bedside table, where Imogen had placed him after they’d made love—twice. “He’s bloody annoying but a smart chap.”

She rested her chin on his chest. “Have you given him his own bedroom yet?”

“I’m not that gone,” he said, running a hand down her hair.

She grinned at him. “Aren’t you the man who brought him along for the ride?”

“He did not watch the ride.” Merrick made an exaggerated movement to examine the gnome. “Although he seems to have an embarrassed flush on his face, so he must have heard. Granted, you weren’t exactly quiet.”

“Neither were you.” Imogen gave him a saucy smile that made his heart turn.

Made his heart turn. He blinked, unsure how he should feel about that.

“I think you’re beginning to love him,” she declared, unaware of his inner turmoil.

He was beginning to love her.

Actually, there was no beginning, now that he thought about it. He couldn’t pinpoint when his feelings for her began, but he knew they ended in his heart. He clasped her to him tighter, his tiger growling Mine.

She made a contented sound. “You have so many layers,” she said, her lithe body shifting against his. “I wonder when I’ll reach the final one.”

He lifted her chin to look her in the eye. “Are you interested in trying?”

“I’m definitely interested.” She put her hand on his chest and nuzzled his side. “My sister Titania thinks I shouldn’t be.”

“Do you usually listen to your sister?”

She laughed, bright and amused. “Hardly ever. We’re all stubborn, although I’d say Titania has the hardest head. I hope you meet her one day. Despite the fact that she thinks you’re no good for me, you’d like each other.”

He frowned. “Why doesn’t she think I’m good for you?”

Imogen grinned at him. “Is Britain’s most upstanding politician upset that someone doesn’t find him suitable?”

Yes, he was. “I’m certainly a lot more suitable than Ricky Hazard ever was.”

“I’m not sure Titania would agree.” She rolled off him, getting up from the bed and slipping on her nightgown.

He sat up, the sheets pooled around his waist. “Why not?”

Imogen shrugged, holding out his trousers. “Does it matter? It’s a moot point.”

“It matters,” he said, taking the pants. He shoved the covers aside, aware of Imogen’s interested look as he put them on. “Your sister, who you obviously esteem, is advising you against me.”

“You’re not wearing your underwear.”

“Bugger the underwear.” He grabbed his shirt off the floor. “I want to know why she’d think Ricky Hazard was better for you.”

“Because she’d have found Ricky Hazard more authentic, all right?” Hands on her hips, she shook her head. “Why are you pressing this? We had such a nice time tonight and now you’re spoiling for a fight.”

He felt cagey, and he had no idea why.

That wasn’t true—he knew exactly why: he agreed with Titania. Ricky Hazard had been more authentic.

Imogen came up to him, her hands roving up over his chest to curl around the back of his neck. “Tonight was lovely. Don’t spoil it, please.”

He kissed her with a savagery he hadn’t exhibited in a long time. It felt so satisfying—so right—he lifted her off the floor and spent several minutes kissing the breath from her.

When he set her down, she was unsteady with a dazed look on her face.

Satisfied, he looked for his shoes. “I should leave.”

“Probably,” she murmured. She reached down and handed him one.

“Thank you.” He finished putting himself together, as best as he was able.

“You forgot these.” Imogen held up his boxers.

He stuffed them into a pocket. “Walk me down?”

Nodding, she took his hand and led him down. Silently, Imogen unlocked the door and turned to him.

He faced her, not wanting to go, unsure of what to say. He wrapped his hand in her hair and tilted her head up.

“I’m happy you came over,” she said softly.

He scowled. “Happy? That’s it?”

She shrugged. “That’s all you wanted.”

Yes, but it wasn’t enough.

Frustrated, angry, he did the only thing he could think of: he took her. He grabbed her in his arms and tried to imprint himself on her. He growled when she melted against him so instantly.

Opening his eyes, he ran a hand down her back, loving the feel of her. “I’m tempted to take you back upstairs.”

“Another kiss like that and I won’t even care if you make the third step creak.” Smiling, she touched his face. “You should go.”

No, he shouldn’t, but he nodded. She opened the door for him.

As he stepped outside a flash went off.

“Damn it.” Merrick stilled, scanning the bushes where it seemed to come from. Then he turned to Imogen.

She stood frozen, her face a horrified mask as she looked behind him.

He pushed her into the safety of the doorway to block her from another shot, even though he knew he was too late.

“Maybe we imagined that,” she said hopefully.

“Maybe.” But he knew it hadn’t been his imagination. He just hoped the damage wouldn’t be irreparable. In his experience, miracles happened—just not for him.

Chapter Twenty-two

When Gigi arrived down to the kitchen she didn’t have to be clairvoyant to know something was very wrong. If it wasn’t enough that her mother, Fran, Portia, and Summer were gathered around the corner, the way they all looked up at her gave it away.

She knew what it was, too. She didn’t need to go online to see it.

Some of the lingering euphoria from Merrick’s visit faded with the dread. She pasted a devil-may-care smile on her face and sashayed into the kitchen like she hadn’t messed up both hers and Merrick’s immediate futures. “How bad is it?” she asked as she poured herself juice.

Without a word, Portia handed over the paper.

The headline hit her first: MERRICK GRAHAM CAUGHT IN THE ACT!

The picture was worse. It showed him walking out of the South Street house, Gigi leaning in the doorway behind him, wearing the thin peignoir. The part of her body that Merrick hadn’t been blocking looked practically naked in the lighting. Both of them looked heavy lidded and mussed, like they’d just had five-alarm sex.

A sick feeling churned in her stomach—the feeling of having her privacy violated. She should have been used to it; she’d lived in the public eye for so long. But whoever the photographer was had taken a private moment, something that had been sweet, and turned it into a shame.

This was the harlot the media was trying to define her as. She gritted her teeth, feeling hurt. Ridiculous—she should have been immune by now.

And she’d dragged Merrick into the mire with her.

She winced, thinking about his safety act and how that was compromised now because of her.

She shoved the paper away, feeling sick. “At least it’s flattering,” she said, forcing some juice down.

“That’s our porch,” Fran said. “When did you have a man over?”

Gigi rolled her eyes. “That’s the point to hone in on?”

Fran put her hands on her hips. “Isn’t that the most important thing?”

It was, actually, but she wasn’t going to admit that when she had the coven staring her down.

“What sort of man sneaks into a woman’s home without meeting her family?” her old nanny continued.

“Merrick Graham, apparently,” her mother replied, looking at the photo.

Fran turned on Jacqueline. “You know him?”

“I haven’t met him personally, but he’s an impassioned young MP.” Her mother glanced at her. “I wouldn’t have believed the rumors about him, but maybe I should have.”

Gigi shook her head. “Don’t pin this on him. I encouraged him, and I wasn’t ready to have anyone meet him yet.”

“Too late,” Portia said in a singsong voice.

She made a face at her sister. “You’re not helping matters.”

Her mother studied her silently, her expression visually debating how much she should ask. But before she decided, Beatrice swept into the kitchen. “I suppose everyone’s seen the paper,” her oldest sister said as she set her satchel on the table and unbelted her coat. “I thought the reporters had moved on and stopped camping out around the house.”

“We all did,” Fran said, indignantly. “I’ve a mind to take my shotgun and go hunt them.”

“You have a shotgun?” Portia asked, lighting up.

“I raised six beautiful girls.” Fran lifted her chin defiantly. “Of course I have a shotgun.”

Portia looked at their mother.

Jacqueline shook her head. “I leave the military actions to Fran.”

Bea poured herself some coffee. “What made the reporters come back?”

“I’ve been back in the press’s eye the past couple weeks,” Gigi pointed out, leaning against a counter.

“Yes, but something inspired them to return. They had to have a reason.” Her oldest sister looked at her like she was waiting to confess.

Gigi shook her head. “I’ve been seeing someone, but we’ve been discreet. Before anyone suggests otherwise, he can’t afford press any more than I can.”

“I don’t think Merrick Graham counts as just someone,” Bea said with a wry twist of her lips. “You know who he is, don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes as she took a sip of her bitter juice.

“Well, I had to ask,” her oldest sister said, nodding in thanks at Fran, who handed her a cup of coffee. “Because having an affair with the Bad Boy of Politics isn’t the most logical way to prove you’re a good girl.”

Portia snickered.

Gigi glared at her.

Which only made Portia shrug. “She’s got a point.”

Beatrice faced her. “Have you talked to Titania about doing a feature on you?”

“Actually, Titania suggested it as well.”

Fran nodded as she set a plate of scones on the table. “That girl was always a sharp one.”

“And you said yes?” Beatrice pressed her.

Sighing, she melodramatically collapsed onto a chair. “I’ll call her and have her come over today.”

“Good.” Bea squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll see if I can find out who’s leaking information to the press corps.”

“You can do that?” Summer asked.

“Of course.” Bea smiled at their newest sister. “Still happy to be part of the family?”

“Better to be part of it than against it.” Summer held up one of Fran’s scones. “Plus there are treats. Want one, Gigi?”

She shook her head. She couldn’t stomach the thought of food right now. “I have a workout scheduled. I should probably get to that.”

She slipped out of the kitchen, aware of their concerned gazes following her. In the hallway, she took out her mobile and texted Merrick. You’ve seen the article?

He replied instantly. Yes.

She worried her lip, waiting for him to expound. But the curt reply was all he sent. He was probably livid. She’d compromised everything he’d been working so hard toward—she’d tarnished what he wanted to accomplish in his sister’s name.

Swallowing her hurt, she tapped in We should call it quits, at least until everything cools down.

His next reply wasn’t as quick to arrive. Is that what you want?

No, she wanted him to choose her. But she knew how important Michaela was to him. If he didn’t succeed with this bill, he’d never forgive her.

She wouldn’t be able to forgive herself.

Blinking back the moisture in her eyes, she quickly typed Definitely.

She waited for an answer.

Nothing.

Her sob escaped before she could hold it in. She covered her mouth, trying to breathe.

“Imogen?” her mother said behind her.

Waving her hand, she kept her back to the kitchen as she headed for her room. “Just texting Titania,” she lied in a blithe voice, knowing her tone didn’t match her expression, not caring that no one was aware of this Oscar-winning performance.

Chapter Twenty-three

Holly knew something was wrong the moment she entered the South Street house. The air inside was agitated.

Frowning, Holly went in search of someone—anyone. She didn’t have to go far: Gigi sat on a chair in the study, facing the door, with her oldest sister Beatrice standing behind her.

They were waiting for her—Holly knew it without a doubt. She slowed, dread building in her chest.

Any lingering hope that she was mistaken evaporated when Gigi said, “I trusted you, Holly. You’re a better actress than I am.”

“No.” She hurried in the room, hating how disappointed Gigi looked in her. “I’m really not.”

Beatrice put her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Let’s just dispense with any excuses. We know that Imogen’s studio leaked the stories and photos to the press, and you’re her link to the studio.”

“How could you?” Gigi asked softly. “You knew how important it was for me to clean up my image.”

She felt wretched. “Yes, I did, but—”

“You’ll be hearing from Imogen’s lawyers.” The martial glare in Beatrice’s eyes meant business.

“Lawyers?” Holly repeated, feeling the blood draining from her face.

“I’m not sure I can get you for defamation,” Beatrice continued coldly, “but I think we can find something.”

Gigi put a hand on her sister’s arm. “I think it’s enough to ask Holly to leave.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Gigi,” Beatrice said, obviously not caring the Holly was there. “She sold you out and maybe ruined your chances of repositioning your career. Of course you’re suing for damages.”

Holly winced, feeling awful. She hadn’t meant to do anything to hurt Gigi.

But she’d still done it, hadn’t she? To advance her job. She’d caused the sadness in Gigi’s eyes. She cleared her throat, wanting to explain herself, but all she could say was, “I never meant that to happen.”

Beatrice raised her brow. “You should go, don’t you think?”

She wanted to explain herself but Gigi’s sister’s glare was more intimidating than the way her father had looked when she’d told him she was pregnant. So she nodded and left with her tail between her legs.

It was raining—when wasn’t it? She pulled out her umbrella, but it wouldn’t click open. “Bugger this,” she exclaimed, startling a passerby as she tossed the stubborn thing to the curb. What was a little water? Maybe it’d cleanse her sins.

She had to call the studio to let them know she’d been kicked out of the Summerhill home. Not wanting to make the call but figuring it was better than doing it in person, she pulled out the phone.

Marjorie picked up on the first ring, giddy. “Did you see the picture? It’s brilliant, and it’s all due to you.”

Holly stopped abruptly in the middle of the block, not caring when someone ran into her from behind and cursed at her. “What do you mean, it’s due to me?”

“You were the one who gave me the idea.” When Holly didn’t say anything, her boss continued impatiently. “By saying that Imogen wouldn’t flaunt her new relationship. Of course she wouldn’t! And of course it’d be at night when you weren’t there to catch her. So I sent a photographer to wait for something to happen.”

Holly put a hand to her head, biting her lip against the curse she wanted desperately to shout.

“It worked out great,” Marjorie effused. “I gave you credit, too, Holly, so the execs are appeased for the time being.”

She didn’t care about the execs. She hadn’t even ever talked to them. “Gigi fired me.”

“Whatever. We’ll get you going with another actor.”

She didn’t want another actor, but she nodded, her eyes closed. “I need to go. I’m getting soaked.”

“By all means, go home and take a bath,” her boss said generously. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Holly hung up, numb except for the guilt that had settled uncomfortably in her belly. She was halfway home when Jamie’s school called to say she needed to come collect Jamie.

“Damn it,” she screamed, not caring when an approaching couple gave her a wide berth. She changed coursed and went to see what her son had done now.

Jamie’s head popped up the moment he heard her footsteps walking down the hall. The look of fear in his eyes both made her sorry for him and want to string him up by his ankles.

She sat in the plastic chair next to him, staring, waiting.

Her son’s little face twisted in defence. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

“I know you didn’t.” She took his hand. “Want to tell me what happened?”

“I made a new friend this morning, and I brought him to school.”

She covered her face with her free hand, imagining the ‘new friend’ Jamie had made this time. Last time it was a sanitation worker. “Oh fu—”

“Mum!” He frowned.

“Don’t start about owing money, because I think I’ll have it over you.” She tried to calm herself, not wanting to yell at him more than was necessary. “Tell me about this new friend.”

Jamie lit up. “I found him on the street. He liked me right away, and he wanted to come to school with me.”

She was picturing the homeless man when Peter opened the door and said, “Come in, Holly.”

“Stay.” When Jamie opened his mouth to say something she gave him a look that shut his mouth right away. Then she joined Peter in his office.

Gesturing to the chair across his desk, Peter closed the door. “I feel like I should put a plaque on that seat, naming it for you.”

She groaned. “Who did he bring to school, and how bad was it?”

“Not a who, a what.” Peter sat on the edge of his desk, laughter in his eyes. “He brought a rat.”

“A rat?” She blinked. “That’s his new friend?”

“Well, really more of an employee, because Jamie said the rat was his sous-chef until he proved himself.”

She dropped her head, covering her eyes. “I’m never letting him watch a movie ever again. Or TV. Or anything that’ll give him ideas.”

Peter chuckled, taking her hand and holding it in his. “Do you want to know the best part of the story?”

“Bringing a rat to class wasn’t the punch line?”

“The punch line didn’t happen until lunch. Somehow he managed to keep the rat a secret until they were eating. Apparently the food excited the rodent, who jumped out of Jamie’s pocket and onto Lucy Wilson’s head.”

She covered her mouth, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“But that wasn’t the worst of it,” Peter said. “To add insult to injury, Lucy’s friend Jeannie startled and knocked her juice onto Lucy’s brand new dress, which made Lucy go into hysterics, so her mother had to be called. Have you met Mrs. Wilson?”

Holly shook her head.

“Can you imagine the Queen of Hearts, only more severe?”

“Bollocks.” She pointed at Peter. “Don’t you dare tell Jamie about my language. I think I’m allowed in this case.”

Peter rubbed her hand. “So do you want the good or bad news first?”

“There’s good news, too? Then give me the bad, so I have something to look forward to.”

Smiling, he said, “You’re cute, you know that?”

For a brief moment, her awful day faded in the light of his smile. But then reality caught up with her when Peter said, “I have to expel Jamie from school.”

“Bloody hell.” She dropped her head into her hand.

“I wish I didn’t, but his track record the past few weeks has been worse than usual, and Mrs. Wilson is heading the lynch mob.” Peter lifted her chin. “Ask for the good news now.”

“Okay.” She nodded, not sure anything could be that good. “Give it to me.”

“Jamie got accepted into the Athenaeum. I talked to the board and asked them to take him on early and they agreed. He can start Monday, as soon as the paperwork is taken care of.”

By paperwork, she knew he also meant the payment.

How was she going to make this work? She wasn’t sure she’d have a job once Marjorie called back.

She swallowed fear and looked at Peter. “What are our other options?”

Peter’s forehead furrowed. “I thought we’d agreed that this was the best option for Jamie. He’ll be in a school where the teachers will challenge him to think and create, to focus his brilliance into positive channels. It’ll be the best thing for him.”

“I get that, but what are my other options?”

“We—”

“There’s no ‘we’ here.” She heard how shrill she sounded but couldn’t help it. She pulled her hand free of Peter’s and hugged herself. “I’m responsible for Jamie. In the end, I’m the one who has to be able to figure out how to afford this and food and clothing for him.”

Peter crossed his arms, too, looking more like a headteacher than he ever had. “I thought we agreed that it wasn’t that way,” he said.

Even his voice was stern, and it made her sad. “We didn’t agree on anything.”

The way he looked at her broke her heart. She leaned forward to say she was sorry, to tell him to hold her, to do something.

But he retreated a polite distance. “You said that you had the money for it.”

The bonus from work.

She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to use that money unless there was a dire emergency. It was more blood money now than ever, since she’d destroyed Gigi’s future.

She knew Beatrice had been making a point when she’d said that, but Holly didn’t doubt that by doing her job she’d done Gigi lasting harm. And that made her feel wretched.

“Well?” Peter asked.

“I’ll see.” She stood and turned, feeling his eyes on her back.

“You’re amazing, Holly.”

She stopped abruptly and looked over her shoulder. “Sorry?”

Peter nodded. “You’re smart, beautiful, and funny. You give so much to Jamie. You sacrifice your own happiness for him.”

“You don’t make that sound like a good thing.”

He shrugged. “What sort of example does it set for him? That he can’t ever count on anyone? That he has to be completely alone?”

“I’m not—” She shut her mouth, unable to finish the protest that was obviously not true.

“Even you don’t believe that, Holly. It’s good to be independent, but the real trick is to know when you genuinely need help, and who to trust to give it to you.” He stood up and took her by the arms. “I want to be that man.”

She opened her mouth, but she had no words. She nodded as she left his office, the bitter taste of isolation in her mouth.

Chapter Twenty-four

The melody flowed around him.

Merrick’s fingers played it softly, letting it surround him. It enveloped him, audible solace in the absence of Imogen’s presence.

Damn her for not wanting him.

He hunched over the keys, feeling the music grow with the anger that swelled in his chest. It mixed with the melody, morphing into something ominous.

Until the anger ran out and all that was left was sadness.

He hadn’t felt this sad since Michaela died—this apathetic. Since Imogen’s text, he’d found it hard to care about anything. Even the safety act. Kane had been using the latest article to malign him, telling anyone who’d listen that Merrick was back to his cheating ways. But Merrick couldn’t bring himself to care about that—not when he had another gaping hole in his heart.

He hadn’t realized how much Imogen had changed his life in the past couple weeks of their affair.

“Ricky,” Valerie called from downstairs.

He gritted his teeth, his hands pounding at the keys. He heard her footsteps on the stairs and braced himself for her onslaught.

But there was none.

He glanced up and saw her standing in the open doorway, her mouth open. She stared at him like she saw a ghost.

A fairly close assessment. He thought dispassionately about how he must look—his hair standing on end, his shirt unbuttoned and untucked. He was sure she saw the open bottle of whiskey on top of the piano, a healthy amount already consumed. He could feel her gaze pause on the knickers next to the bottle—the pair he’d taken off Imogen in the janitor’s closet, that he’d searched all his coat pockets for.

But he didn’t care what judgments Valerie made. “You’re congratulating yourself,” he said bitterly, banging out the song.

“What do you mean?”

He didn’t look up even though he felt her come closer. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Me slipping back into Ricky Hazard’s skin?”

She sat next to him and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “That’s not what I wanted.”

He snorted.

“It’s not,” she said hoarsely.

Right. He attacked the piano, taking his frustrations out on the instrument that knew him well enough to yield to him.

Valerie raised her head. “I’ve never heard this before.”

Because it was new, flowing from his emotions. The music hadn’t stopped since the night Imogen had texted him to say they shouldn’t see each other any longer. It was like a dam had unleashed and everything he’d felt since Michaela’s death rushed out of him.

“Punish me by not talking to me, fine.” She stood up. “But I know you can hear me.”

He played louder.

“Not going to work, Ricky,” Valerie shouted above the music. “I came to say something, and I’m not leaving until I say it.”

“Then say it,” he growled, turning around and glaring at her.

The absence of the piano’s voice resonated unnaturally in the room.

Valerie stood in front of him and touched his head. “I saw the picture of you and Imogen. I know how that must have hurt your safety act, and I’m sorry about that.”

“Forgive me if I’m skeptical about that.”

She yanked his head up by his hair. “You’re a fool if you think I don’t want that bill passed.”

“Ouch. Val.” He tried to dislodge her hand.

But she wouldn’t let go. “I don’t want you to be Ricky Hazard again, you idiot. I only want you to be true to who you are. You’re a politician now, I understand that. It’s important to you. But you don’t need to act like a different person. You don’t need to hide all the best parts of you.”

“Like my tattoos?” he asked sarcastically.

“Exactly.” She tugged on his hair. “Your tattoos tell your history, and you hide them like they’re something to be ashamed about.”

He touched the one at his collar. He wasn’t ashamed of them.

Val got in his face. “Ever since you met Imogen, you’ve been more true to yourself. You aren’t going to be the crazy Ricky Hazard anymore. He had to grow up. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still show some of his best qualities.”

“I didn’t realize he had any good qualities,” he muttered.

“That’s because you’re an idiot. He was loyal, and fun, and loving, and creative.” She let go of his hair. “And he played the sort of music that could make your soul weep for its beauty.”

He lowered his head, his arms propped on his knees.

“I feel like I’ve found my best friend again,” Val said softly. “I hope you give him a chance to live. He was pretty great.”

He listened to her leave the room, her steps uncharacteristically somber. The front door closed softly, entombing him once again.

Alone.

Chapter Twenty-five

“I told you, Imogen, Sherman won’t return my calls,” Betty said. “Do you know what that says to me?”

“What?” Gigi asked as she walked into the orangery.

“He’s not interested. Just let this go.”

She growled in frustration. Then she noticed her mother, who sat on a settee with her feet tucked under her, writing in some sort of journal. She held a finger up to her mum and said to her manager, “I don’t want to let this go. I’m perfect for this movie. I just want to be given a chance.”

“They already had auditions, Imogen, and they offered the part to Delilah Jones.”

She stopped walking, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

Then she opened her eyes and shook her head. Breathing to calm yourself was overrated. What would really help? Punching Delilah in the face.

“Imogen, you’re getting worked up for nothing. Do Craig’s movie for now, and then I’ll see if I can’t get you a snootier project next.” Betty said something muffled and then came back. “Listen, babe, I’ve got to jump. Think about it. We’ll talk later.”

Gigi tossed her phone on a chair and kicked off her shoes to curl up across from her mother.

Jacqueline closed her book and capped the pen. “That conversation didn’t sound like it went the way you wanted.”

“Life isn’t going the way I want it.”

“Are you sure you know what you want?”

She frowned. Three weeks ago, the answer would have been a definite yes, but now it was more complicated.

Her mother took her hand and held it in hers. “Where is your heart, Imogen?”

With Merrick.

The immediate answer startled her. Before him, she wouldn’t have hesitated to say her heart was in her work. She still loved her job—she wouldn’t stop for anyone—but she wanted more.

She wanted Merrick.

“Who knew?” she murmured. She looked up at her mother, who watched her with loving concern. “He’s better off without me. I hurt his career.”

“He could say the same thing regarding you, can’t he?” Jacqueline squeezed her hand. “Don’t you think you should give him a choice instead of making it for him? He might surprise you.”

“What if he doesn’t?” she asked, swallowing the fear that rose up her throat. “I don’t think I could bear it if he didn’t.”

Her mother nodded. “But if you don’t give him the chance, the answer is already no, isn’t it?”

“True.” But he hadn’t tried to contact her since she’d told him she thought it was better that they didn’t see each other. It might be a moot point. He might have decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. “I have a lot to think about.”

Her mother smiled. “I have every confidence in you, Imogen. I just want you to be happy.”

She leaned against her mum, putting her head on her shoulder. “I do, too.”

***

Gigi went to the Red Witch on a mission.

Her sisters were already there, sitting around one corner of the bar for a change. Portia, Rosalind, and Summer were in an intense discussion with Niamh, the bartender; Beatrice and Viola had their heads together, quietly discussing something that appeared serious.

Gigi stood aside and studied them for a moment. Then she strode up to the bar and thumped the counter with her fist.

The entire section, which included two other parties, went quiet.

“I have a monologue to make.”

Portia nudged Summer. “Check the liquor at home. It looks like Gigi’s gotten into it.”

“I’m going to ignore certain people”—Gigi cast a pointed look at Portia—”and continue by saying that I love you all, and that I’m grateful for you, and whatever happens, I’ll love you.”

Rosalind frowned. “You aren’t planning on hurting yourself, are you? Because suicide isn’t the answer.”

“Better to kill the guy,” Viola added. Her eyes narrowed. “In fact, if you need help, I’d be willing.”

Smiling, Bea put her arm around Vi. “Gigi, maybe you should just explain what you’re talking about.”

The pub’s door flew open, slamming into the wall, and everyone’s attention flitted to the front.

Gigi turned with a frown to see who was upstaging her. But then she gasped when she saw who it was. “Tawny.”

Titania looked around, obviously uncomfortable. She made eye contact with Gigi and then her glance flitted to their other sisters, staying on Summer just a touch longer than the others. Then she returned to Gigi and scowled.

Gigi grinned and went to her before she could run. She hugged her sister, holding her close. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

“It’s Tuesday,” Titania said simply. “You needed me.”

Gigi closed her eyes, burying her face in her sister’s shoulder. “I really did.”

Titania held her at arm’s length. “Who do we kill?”

Laughing, Gigi took her hand and led her to the group. “You and Viola have so much in common.”

Bea was already on her feet, walking toward them. As if knowing that Titania was uncomfortable with too much contact, Bea stopped right in front of her and smiled. Then she reached out and gently tugged on Tawny’s ponytail. “You still have a funny face, squirt.”

Titania looked away, frowning, but Gigi caught the sheen of moisture that sprung in her eyes.

As if understanding, Bea took her other hand and they led her to everyone else. “You know everyone, except I think you haven’t met our new sister, Summer.”

Summer, still a little shy of her status, stood up and held her hand out to Titania. “I’m happy to meet you.”

Titania stared at Summer’s face.

Everyone seemed to hold her breath.

Not Gigi. Tawny knew what it was like to feel like an outsider. She’d never act out against Summer.

Titania finally took Summer’s hand. “You look just like the rest of us. I’m so sorry.”

Viola laughed. “You should see my daughter Chloe. She’s like a Goth version of us. The Summerhill genes run true.”

“Titania, sit here.” Rosalind pulled a stool over to be next to her. “What do you want to drink?”

“Tequila,” Tawny said instantly.

“I always loved Titania best,” Vi said to Portia.

Portia elbowed Viola and then turned to Gigi. “Didn’t you have some major declaration to make?”

“I did. I was just saying—” She gasped and opened her purse. She pulled out the gnome and set it on the counter. “I almost forgot Malcolm.”

They all stared at the statue.

Titania was the one who said, “You named the garden gnome?”

“It’s not that she named it,” Bea said, reclining in her seat. “It’s that she named it Malcolm.”

Gigi shook her finger at them all. “Say what you will, but Malcolm is important here.”

“Because in the face of your shattering career you’ve decided to become a gardener?” Portia asked.

Both Summer and Rosalind poked her.

“No, but I’ve realigned my priorities.” She faced Titania. “I’m ready for that photo shoot, if you still have time.”

“Halleluah,” her younger sister said.

“I don’t want anything sanitized,” she warned. “If we’re doing this, Tawny, it’s going to be about the real me.”

“I’m going to chalk you having to say that to stress and let it go.” Titania narrowed her eyes. “You realize that if it’d been anyone else, my camera would be shoved up his arse, right?”

“Noted.” Gigi’s lips twitched, but she composed herself and faced her eldest sister. “Bea—”

“Hello, ladies,” Gigi heard from behind her.

She turned, unable to believe Dirk was standing there even after she heard his voice. She should have asked what he was doing there—or better yet, insisted that he leave.

Instead she threw the rest of her martini in his face.

“Gi—Imogen,” he exclaimed, wiping his face with his sleeves. “What—”

In unison, her sisters tossed their drinks at him, too.

Grinning, Gigi turned to Viola. “If you want to kill him, be my guest.”

Vi lit up. “Really?”

“Can I help?” Titania asked, glaring daggers at him.

“I think we’d all be willing to lend a hand,” Bea said, giving him her death stare.

Rosalind shook her head. “Dirk, you should leave while you still have your balls intact.”

Paling, Dirk cupped a hand in front of his fly as he tried to keep alcohol from dripping in his eyes. “I just came to ask Imogen to go back to Los Angeles with me.”

“The answer is no,” Bea said.

His forehead furrowed. “What if she wants to go?”

“I really don’t,” Gigi said, smiling at Bea who slid her arm around Gigi’s waist. She put her hand on her sister’s and leaned her head on her shoulder. “You better leave, Dirk, because in another couple seconds my sisters will unleash their wrath on you, and if I’ve learned anything the past few months, it’s that they’re a bloodthirsty bunch.”

“Wait.” Portia opened the bag and began rummaging through it. “The other day I found great-grandfather Standish’s hunting knife. Remember the one? It was curved and had the wicked serration with an extra deep blood groove.”

Dirk paled and stepped back. “You’re all crazy,” he said as he began to back away.

“Here it is!” Portia exclaimed happily.

Dirk ran out of the bar.

Rosalind turned to Portia. “Do you really have a hunting knife on you?”

“Of course not.” She pulled out a delicate looking piece of metal. “I accidentally took the letter opener from my office the other day and forgot to put it back. I figured he wouldn’t stick around to find out what it was.”

“I think this calls for a toast.” Bea motioned at Niamh, who was laughing as she brought over shot glasses and both a bottle of tequila and whiskey.

“That was brilliant,” the redheaded bartender said as she poured the shots. “And I’m joining you in celebrating whatever that was.”

“He was a wanker,” Portia said, accepting a generous pour of whiskey.

“I’ve no doubt.” Niamh passed around the rest of the shots and held up her own. “To you ladies. Bold, strong, and hopefully with me and not against.”

“Hear, hear,” Bea said, holding her glass up.

Gigi clinked her glass against Niamh’s. “Slainte.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Holly stood outside the Red Witch, looking inside through the window. She saw Gigi immediately—the actress was impossible to miss. She was surrounded by similar looking women, probably her sisters, plus a redhead who raised a shot glass in an obvious toast.

Bloody hell, she could use a shot.

Maybe she should let this go and leave. Holly took a step back. She was interrupting a celebration.

But she couldn’t let it go. She needed to make reparations. She didn’t need Gigi’s forgiveness—she wasn’t deluded enough to think she deserved that—but she had to tell the woman she was sorry.

Her heart pounding harder than even when she told her parents she was pregnant; she pushed open the door and entered the bar.

The woman with the curly red hair turned around when she heard the door. Her smile was friendly and welcoming.

Until Beatrice said something.

The redhead’s smile faded, and the other women glared at her.

But she only had eyes for Gigi, who watched her with a blank gaze that was neither discouraging nor promising.

Taking a deep breath, she strode to the table where they all sat, keeping her head high even though she wanted to turn and run. She faced Gigi, who stood as she approached.

She held her hand up as Beatrice stood, too. “I know you want to protect Gigi, but I need to apologize to her. So you can wait to kick me out until after, okay?”

Beatrice pursed her lips. “Fair enough,” she said, retaking her seat.

“Great.” She heaved a breath before facing Gigi. “The studio sent me to be your handler but also to dig up information on you and your private life. They wanted the revenue your infamy brought to the box office.”

Gigi nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“I didn’t want to give them anything, but they threatened my job and I have a child to support.” She thought about Jamie, who was at home with Mrs. Bailey, their landlady. She shook her head before any of them could say anything. “That’s not an excuse. I’m explaining, so give me a break.”

Gigi’s lips quirked. “All right.”

“I didn’t give them very much, and what I gave them I thought would benefit you with the public.” She exhaled deeply. “But even when I tried to make it positive, so it’d benefit you, they twisted what I said. Still that’s no excuse. I should have known better.”

Gigi gave a noncommittal half-nod.

“I know you won’t believe me, but I didn’t tell them anything recently. I put my boss off. It was an inadvertent comment that made her send a photographer to catch you, and I’m sorry for my part in that.” She swallowed. “Nothing I can say will change anything or make it better. You don’t have to believe me. But I wanted you to know that I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known it’d hurt you. I thought people getting to know that you’re like everyone else would make them more likely to accept you as a regular person.”

The skinny blonde who sat next to her, casual in jeans and Converse, elbowed Gigi in the ribs. “See? You should have listened to me sooner.”

Beatrice cleared her throat delicately.

The skinny blonde rolled her eyes. “You need credit, too? I knew you’d still be bossy.”

Gigi’s gaze didn’t waver from hers. “I’ll take what you’re saying with a grain of salt.”

“I can’t ask for more,” Holly said, feeling sad. She turned away.

But then she remembered one last thing. Reaching into her purse, she drew out the check they’d given her. “This is for you.”

“What is it for?” Gigi asked, frowning at it.

“It’s the blood money they gave me as a bonus.” She hugged herself. “I signed it. I figured you could give it to your favorite charity. Maybe the news of the donation might counteract some of the harm I’ve done.”

They stared at her speechlessly.

Nodding, she turned to leave. She’d done what she came to do. Her conscience, while not spotless, was at least mostly clear. There wasn’t much more she could do to clean this up. Next time she’d know better.

“Holly.”

She looked over her shoulder at Gigi. “Yes?”

“Will you still be at the studio?”

She shook her head. “I quit today.”

“You quit?” Gigi gaped at her. “What about supporting your son?”

“Nothing’s worth hurting people, especially people you care about.” She lifted her head. “I’ll figure something out.”

Gigi faced her oldest sister, her brow arched.

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Gigi said with conviction.

Holly looked back and forth, not certain what was happening.

Then Beatrice sighed and pulled a card out of her purse. “Call me, Holly. We’ll find you something in bookkeeping.”

She shook her head, putting her hands behind her so she couldn’t be tempted into taking the card. “I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be right. I shouldn’t be rewarded for what I did. I feel awful about it.”

“Working for Bea does not equate to being rewarded,” one of the other sisters said.

The skinny one nodded. “She’s bossy.”

Beatrice leaned forward, extending the card, her gaze even and intent. “I’m demanding but I’m fair. And don’t think of it as being rewarded. It’s Fate. You’re where you need to be, at the right time.”

She took the card, studying it. Then she slipped it into her purse. “Okay, I’ll call you.”

One of the sisters, prim and proper in pearls, said, “Bea’s loaded. Make sure you charge her a lot.”

She sighed. “I’ll just be happy to afford sending my kid to school.”

Gigi took Holly’s hand and pressed the check into her palm. “I’d like you to spend this on his school.”

She shook her head, trying to give the check back. “I can’t—”

“I insist.” Gigi smiled. “Not that I’m calling you my charity.”

“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered, staring at the piece of paper. She glanced up. “I came here to apologize and make reparations. I didn’t expect this.”

“We take care of our own”—Beatrice lifted her drink in a salute—”and Gigi has declared you ours.”

Gigi squeezed her by the waist. “For better or worse.”

The skinny sister waved her arm at the redhead, who was a bartender. “This woman needs a drink,” she called out. “She probably doesn’t even realize how badly.”

“What do you mean?” Holly asked as she sat in the chair Gigi pulled over for her.

The skinny one leaned across the table. “This is the most meddling, troublesome group of people on earth, and they’ve claimed you. You’re stuck for life now.”

“In other words,” Gigi said as she sat down, “we’re family.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Titania stormed into the kitchen and slapped a magazine on the table in front of her. “It’s out.”

Gigi nodded, calmly sipping her tea as though she wasn’t a bundle of nerves inside. She wasn’t this nervous the first day of filming her very first role. But then she hadn’t been naked on set that day.

She hadn’t been physically naked during Titania’s photo shoot either, but she may as well have been. She took another sip of her tea, hoping it’d drown the butterflies in her belly.

“Well?” Her sister put her hands on her hips and glared at her. “Have you already seen it?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What’s Malcolm doing down here?”

Gigi looked at the garden gnome, perched happily next to her on the table. She liked his company. It made her feel closer to Merrick.

Titania leaned down and got directly in her face. “Are you stoned?”

“Why? Do you have something good to offer me?”

Fran bustled into the kitchen, tying her apron around her waist. “No one will be offering any such thing in my kitchen. Titania Summerhill, come give your Franny a hug.”

Titania grumbled as Fran engulfed her. “It’s not as if you never see me.”

“I’d miss you even if you lived here again.” Fran surveyed Titania head to toe. “And we should talk about that, shouldn’t we? So I can put some meat on your bones. To look at you, I’d think you never eat.”

“You should see her refrigerator, Franny,” Gigi said. “The only thing in there is mustard and moldy bread.”

Titania glared retribution at her.

“Sit, sit.” Fran pushed Titania into a seat. “I just took scones out of the oven a wee bit ago. They’ll be perfect now. Why is there a wee garden figurine on the table?”

“Are they orange and clotted cream?” Titania asked, giving Gigi a look as she dropped onto the seat, letting her know she was doing her a favor by distracting Fran.

“As a matter of fact.” Fran smiled at them. “I know what my lambs need.”

Gigi looked at the magazine in front of her and murmured, “This lamb needs a shot of vodka.”

Titania rolled her eyes. “Do you really think I’d show you if it was that bad? Just open it.”

“Easy for you to say.” But she exhaled and turned the cover open.

Titania scooted her chair next to her and leaned against her. “It’s in the center.”

How appropriate, being the centerfold. Because though she was completely clothed during the entire shoot, after she’d seen a couple of the proofs she realized she’d never been so exposed in her entire life.

The first picture was her, on set. She sat in a canvas chair, her legs crossed, shoes kicked off, in elaborate makeup pouring over the script. The background was blurred, and concentration hardened her face.

Titania tapped the page. “I took that when I visited you in New Zealand last year. I took a great one of the director and camera guy, studying a scene. I sent that to each of them as a thank you for letting me hang around.”

“I didn’t know that,” she murmured, stunned by the image. It showed her how she saw herself—hard working and determined.

“Turn the page,” her sister said.

She did, to a picture of her caught in a yoga pose. “You caught the humor in my expression, Tawny.”

“Anyone who’s done yoga will be able to relate to trying to hold a difficult pose and still remain serene.” Titania shook her head. “Yoga is sadistic.”

The next photo was of her at her vanity. She was wearing a silky red robe that exposed part of one shoulder. Her hair waved down her back, and she leaned forward putting mascara, her face set with determination.

The next was with Portia. They were laughing, their heads bent close to each other. Gigi touched her older sister’s lovely face. They hadn’t been close until recently, and that was a gift she’d treasure forever. “I didn’t realize Portia and I look so alike.”

“We all do. It’s freaky.” Titania pointed to the next page. “That’s my favorite.”

Gigi touched the edge of the picture. She was curled up on a couch in the orangery, reading. She held the book up, the title in Russian visible, but her gaze was off to the side, dreamy, enhanced by a secret smile. “I don’t remember you taking that.”

“Because I’m amazing at what I do,” she said modestly. She sat back, arms folded behind her head, satisfaction written on her face. “This is exactly what you wanted, to show the world the real you.”

She nodded, looking at the series of pictures all over again.

“Well?” Titania poked her in the ribs. “What do you think?”

“It’s—” She shook her head. “Tawny, there are no words. This is beyond what even I expected, and I know how good you are.”

Titania nodded. “This may be my best work ever. Not that that’s surprising. I love the subject.”

Gigi threw her arms around her sister and squeezed her tight. Then she held her arms and looked her in the eye. “I love you, too, Tawny. One day, I hope I can do something this important for you.”

Titania frowned at her. “Now you’re being stupid. You do something important for me every day.”

“What?” Gigi blotted the wetness at the edges of her eyes with her fingertips.

“You accept me for who I am and love me despite it.”

“I love you because of it,” Gigi corrected. Then she grinned. “But it’s not easy.”

Titania snorted, but there was a smile at the corner of her lips.

“Scones.” Fran set a plate in front of them. “Eat.”

Gigi took one and dabbed extra clotted cream on it. She took a bite, sighing—Fran’s scones were delicious to begin with, but these reminded her of childhood.

Then she realized Titania just sat there gaping at her. “What?” she asked when she’d swallowed the bite.

“You’re eating. A scone.” Her sister pointed at it. “That has carbs.”

“Delicious, delicious carbs.” She smiled. “I’m trying to live more balanced. I was being too extreme, and it was taking the joy out of life. I wasn’t happy. I’m going to live differently now.”

Titania pretended to gape at her. “Who are you?”

“Your sister.” She shrugged. “Mum was right.”

“Words I live to hear,” their mother said as she swept into the kitchen. She smiled hesitantly at Titania, who went a little wooden. Then she faced Gigi. “What was I right about? And is that a garden gnome on the table?”

Gigi gave her sister a look, but Titania had already turned away. Titania had been coming to the South Street mansion, but she’d made it clear that she didn’t want anything to do with their mother.

Yet. Not even Titania was stubborn enough to withstand the Countess of Amberlin at her most determined. She hoped.

She faced her mother. “You were right about me. I’m realizing that there’s more to life than only work. I was missing out on things.”

Her mum ran a hand down her hair. “You’re clever. You would have figured it out on your own.”

“I had some help, and maybe not until it was too late.” She glanced at the magazine, biting her lip. “Mum, can I ask for your help?”

“Or course, darling.” Her mother smiled as Fran set a cup of tea for her at the table. She sat, far from Titania, Gigi noted, likely to give her space.

“I—”

Her mobile rang. Frowning, she glanced at the screen, her frown deepening when she saw who it was. “Sorry. I should take this,” she said as she got up to go into the hall to answer the phone.

The moment she picked up, Russell Sherman began to talk. “Imogen, baby, how are you doing?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m very well, thank you.”

“Listen, I’ve been talking to my backers, and they’d love to see you do a screen test. As soon as it fits in your schedule.”

She smiled grimly. Checkmate, faster than she expected. “What happened to Delilah?”

“Well, she might not be available.” When Gigi didn’t comment, Sherman sighed and said, “She’s a little abrasive, too. We hadn’t signed her on yet and she’s already becoming difficult.”

“Shocking,” she drawled, rolling her eyes. “Why are you contacting me now? My manager’s been trying to contact you for over a week.”

“One of my backers saw the magazine spread on you today and said we could, ah, reconsider you.”

“I see.” She nodded, translating what he was really saying. That he hadn’t mentioned her to his backers, but now she’d come to their attention and they wanted to know why he hadn’t thought of her.

She had him in a vise-grip.

He cleared his throat. “So … What time can you come by? Any time you want.”

She nodded. “I’ll have Betty contact you.”

“Great,” Sherman said, trying to sound happy.

She hung up and pulled up Marcus Craig’s number. “Marcus, this is Imogen Summerhill,” she said when he picked up.

“Imogen.” He sounded pleased to hear from her, without the desperate mien that Sherman had had. “Tell me you’re calling to make my day.”

“I am, in fact.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about your project, and I’d like to be part of it on one condition.”

“What’s that?” he asked carefully.

“I want to play the mother, not the French actress.”

The silence stretched on the other end. Finally, she heard him exhale. “Imogen, that could be brilliant. Unexpected and much more interesting.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” To give an Oscar-worthy performance in a film made by Craig, who wasn’t lauded by the critics, would make more of a statement. It was a good sign that he saw it, too.

“We’ll do it,” he declared. “If you’re saying you’re in.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Let’s make the best movie of the year.”

He whooped on the other end.

Gigi grinned, the feeling of a choice well-made warming her. “I’ll have my manager contact you about the details.”

“Imogen, you’re a goddess.”

“See how smart you are?” She grinned. “And please call me Gigi.”

She hung up, feeling good. She texted Betty to let her know to formally accept the offer to do Paris.

Now, there was one more thing she had to make right. She walked into the kitchen. “Mother, do you know Lawrence Howell?”

“The Leader of the House of Lords?” Her mother’s forehead furrowed. “I’ve known Larry for ages. He pursued me for a bit before I met your father. Lawrence is a dear man and dotes on his wife in the sweetest way.”

She weighed her mother’s words but didn’t find anything there other than genuine like for the man. “Do you know him well enough to arrange a dinner with him?”

“Of course. But why would you want to have dinner with him?”

“I don’t for myself. I want it for Merrick Graham.”

Understanding lit her mother’s face. “Aren’t you a clever girl?”

“Hopefully.” She smiled. If his safety act passed, his sister’s ghost would be put to rest and Merrick would be free. There wouldn’t be any reason he couldn’t be with her, if he wanted it—if he wanted her.

Gigi patted the gnome on the head. “What do you think, Malcolm? Think he’ll come for us?”

Titania snorted, but the little guy’s smile was confident and reassuring.

Chapter Twenty-eight

“Why are you so gloomy?” Valerie asked, lying across the bottom of his bed.

Merrick could hear her flipping through a magazine. He wondered what magazine it was, and if she’d seen the photo essay that had just come out about Imogen, by her sister.

Beautiful photographs. They’d exposed her in a true way that showed the innocent, the sexy, the smart, and the loving sides of her. It’d left him breathless and proud.

Not that he had that right. It’d been partially his fault that she’d had to repair her image so drastically. None of this would have happened if he’d controlled his tiger.

He focused on finishing getting dressed. He couldn’t get the knot of his tie to lie properly. It’d been difficult lately.

Life had been difficult lately.

He wanted to blame Imogen, or even Valerie, but he couldn’t hold anyone responsible but himself. He couldn’t blame Imogen for not wanting him. He fiddled with his tie, undoing it one more time.

“Is that how you’re going to be tonight? Still not talking to me?”

He glanced at her. “I’m really lucky to have you, Valerie.”

She froze, gaping at him. Slowly she sat up. “Are you sick? Do you have cancer? I swear, Merrick, if you die—”

“I like how you assume I must be terminal if I’m being sincere.” He yanked the tie from his shirt and unbuttoned the top. Better. The edge of his tattoo showed, but at least he could breathe. “Ready to go?”

“You’re going with your shirt open? Now I know you’re sick.” She came to him and held a hand to his forehead. “No fever. Let me hear you cough.”

He moved her hand from his forehead to his heart. “You’re my best friend, Valerie. I’m sorry I let you down all this time.”

Valerie blinked back sudden tears. She dropped her head to his shoulder. “You haven’t let me down. The more I think about it the more I think I’m the one who let you down.”

He lifted her chin so he could see her. “How do you figure that?”

“Michaela was the rock. She held steady when we were insane. You took her place after she died, when really I should have.” Valerie’s eyes filled. “I was lazy and a coward and let you step into the role so I wouldn’t have to.”

“I didn’t mind,” he said softly, brushing a tear that rolled down her cheek.

“I know, but it wasn’t fair to you.” She swiped at her face impatiently. “Insanity was your gift to the world.”

“I don’t know how I feel about that,” he said, amused, soothing her back.

“You know what I mean. You gave the world passion. You loved to play music, Merrick. Yes, you got detoured with the partying, but your love of music never wavered. You lit everyone up with your fire, and I snuffed your flame.”

He knew better than to grin. “You’re being a touch dramatic, aren’t you?”

“How can you say that? I helped you bury your muse the day we buried Michaela.” She looked up at him, the saddest he’d seen her since Michaela’s funeral. “When I heard you playing the other day, I had such hope that you’d reclaim that part of yourself.”

He glanced up at the ceiling, as though he had X-ray vision to the next floor. The longing felt like a boulder on his chest that he couldn’t push off. It’d been the only thing saving him since Imogen had cut him loose.

“Michaela dying was a tragedy,” Valerie said, “but it was compounded by the death of your music, too. You think you could have prevented Michaela from dying, and I understand that, but I think it was just her time. Your music’s death? That could have been prevented. By both you and me.”

He swallowed thickly, uncertain what to say.

Valerie cupped his face. “I’m not saying you should take up music again as a career, but don’t deny your love for it.”

His fingers flexed as if in reaction to her words. He just nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do more than think about it. I will, too.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to ask Joan to marry me.”

He blinked. “Valerie. That’s brilliant.”

“I’ve been hiding from life since Michaela died. I was afraid to love and lose again, but in the process, I not only lost you, I also lost myself. Michaela would have been so disgusted with us.” She gave a watery smile. “I couldn’t lecture you about love and life without stepping up, could I?”

“No, I guess not,” he murmured.

“Okay.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m going to make sure I don’t look like a racoon and then we can leave, all right?”

Merrick watched her walk to the bathroom, her step lighter. She’d managed to shove her boulder off. He was happy for her.

He was also bloody jealous.

Dinner tonight, he reminded himself, with Lawrence Howell. He needed to focus—tonight was his chance.

Why Lawrence Howell had called him this week and invited him to dinner, Merrick had no idea, but he was rolling with it. He’d have thought his recent appearances in the tabloids would have made Howell run in the other direction.

Once Valerie returned composed, they drove to the restaurant Howell had chosen. It was popular among the other MPs, and Merrick had been there before, but it wasn’t the sort of place Valerie went to. Stuffy and conservative, he expected Valerie to point out that it was the sort of place her parents frequented.

But she hung on to his arm and followed him in, a supportive smile on her face.

The hostess showed them to the table were Howell and his wife were seated. Howell stood, his gaze steady, obviously taking Merrick’s measure, and held his hand out. “Graham, I bet you never saw this day happening.”

Merrick chuckled. “You’d have that right, sir.”

“Larry, please. And this is my wife Silvia.”

Merrick shook her hand and introduced Valerie, who murmured politely and sat. After the waiter came around and took their drink orders, Larry turned to Merrick. “You’re probably wondering why I called you.”

He nodded. “The question crossed my mind.”

“Jacqueline Summerhill is a dear friend of ours. Actually, I courted Jacqueline in her youth. My, she was lovely. Still is.” Larry took his wife’s hand in his. “I found a rarer gem in Silvia though.”

His wife blushed, and Merrick heard Valerie sigh next to him.

“Jacqueline asked me to meet you,” Larry said. “Jacqueline is a smart, discerning woman. She picks her friends carefully, so if she likes you, there must be something more to you than the one-dimensional politician I’ve seen myself.”

“Thank you, I think.”

Grinning, Larry clapped a hand on his back. “We’ll let the ladies talk. Tell me about this safety bill of yours.”

He’d practiced so many times for this moment, but now that it was here he felt off-balance and clumsy. He’d never met Jacqueline Summerhill, so she’d obviously done this at Imogen’s urging.

He didn’t know what that meant, but it felt significant.

Somehow he muddled through dinner even though it was all he could do not to excuse himself and call her. He had to force himself to sit and pay attention to dinner.

It didn’t end too soon. He thanked Silvia and faced Larry.

“I’d like a copy of your proposal,” the older man said as he shook Merrick’s hand. “I like the sound of it. If the numbers work, I’ll see what we can do about securing favor.”

“I’ll forward it to you Monday.”

“Excellent.” Larry leaned in. “Valerie is really just a friend, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir. My best friend for years.” He studied the man. “Most people don’t see that.”

“Most people don’t look.”

Merrick leaned in. “Can I tell you a secret?”

The man’s eyes widened. “Please.”

“You must know Imogen Summerhill.”

“Jacqueline’s fourth daughter? No, her fifth daughter. The only thing Reginald Summerhill was ever good at was having girls.” Larry shook his head. “All of Jacqueline’s daughters are stunning. Imogen is the actress, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Merrick looked the man in the eye. “She’s more than a friend to me.”

Larry smiled. “And what are you doing about that, son?”

“Nothing yet, but I’m going to change that.”

“Excellent.” Larry thumped his back one more time and then escorted his wife out.

As Merrick and Valerie followed, she leaned in to him and whispered. “What was that about?”

“I told him I was going to marry Imogen.”

Valerie stopped, so he almost ran into her. She grabbed his shirt at the collar. “You told some old man you don’t know before you asked her? What are you, an idiot?”

“I didn’t tell him exactly.” He frowned. “And you told me you want to marry Joan before you told her.”

“Yes, but that’s different.” Valerie rolled her eyes to the sky and mumbled. Then she hooked her arm in his and dragged him out of the restaurant.

“What are we doing?” he dared to ask as she flagged a taxi.

“We need to plan our strategy.” Valerie frowned at him. “Have you even told her you love her?”

He tried to recall.

Shaking her head, she opened the door to the car that pulled up. “You are so lucky I’m here for you, Merrick.”

He smiled. “I know.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Holly walked down the hallway of Jamie’s former school. It was a completely different journey when what waited for her at the end was happiness and not punishment.

At least she hoped it’d be a happily ever after for her.

Just hoping that it’d happen was one of her biggest victories. The other was her new job. She’d started working for Beatrice yesterday, and already she knew it was going to be so cool, as Jamie would say.

She waved to the school secretary, who waved back with a confused expression. Points to her for not looking horrified, figuring Holly was there to get Jamie back in school.

Holly tossed the red apple in her hand in the air and caught it. She wasn’t there to deal with Jamie’s mistakes. This time, she was dealing with hers.

She walked right up to Peter’s door and knocked on it.

It took him a moment to answer it. He yanked it open, his furrowed brows creasing even more when he saw it was her. “Holly.”

His hair looked like he’d run his hands through it hundreds of times, and he had a shadow of stubble, as though he hadn’t shaved today. She wondered if it was strange, wanting to feel the scratchiness on her skin. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“I’m the headteacher. It’s always a bad time.” He smiled wryly. “Wait just a second while I finish up here.”

“Okay.” She went and sat on a chair across the hall, the apple in her hand. He hadn’t told her to go away—that had to be a good sign.

She hoped.

After what seemed like forever but was only five minutes or so, his office door opened and a boy shuffled out, head hanging. Peter appeared in the doorway. “Holly?”

She walked into his office and sat in her usual chair out of habit. Then she stood. She didn’t think her nerves would let her sit.

“Is everything okay with Jamie?” Peter asked as he closed the door and joined her.

“Yes.” She smiled happily. “Jamie started the new school yesterday. Last night he couldn’t stop talking about it. They have a robotics class for older students, but they’re letting him attend because they think he might be advanced enough for it.”

“It sounds like he’s already carving a space for himself.” Peter smiled as he perched on the edge of his desk.

“Thank you, for arranging it.” She smiled. “He’ll probably still break things, but at least they’ll expect it there.”

Peter nodded. “So what brings you here?”

She held out the apple.

He stared at it for a long time before he took it. “You thought I wanted a snack?”

“It’s customary to take your teacher an apple.”

He rolled the apple in his hand. “I’m not your teacher.”

“No, but I’ve learned from you.” She dared to take a step closer. “I was hoping you’d teach me the things I still obviously need to learn.”

“Like?”

“Like how to believe in the future. And how to trust, in life and another person.” She gazed at him steadily. “And maybe there are some things we can study together.”

He stood, standing directly in front of her. “I take study seriously.”

She nodded, her heart lifting as hope bloomed into something stronger. “I’m very studious.”

He wound his arms around her. “And it’s a long-term course. I only take students who can commit to the full term.”

“I don’t see that as a problem.” She pressed herself against him. “But sometimes I may need a firm hand.”

“Holly, I’m nothing but firm around you.” He lowered his lips to hers and showed her.

Chapter Thirty

Gigi soaked in the bathtub, resting her head back on a bath pillow Summer had lent her. The bubble bath was a contribution from Fran, the candles from her mother. It seemed the entire household was making a team effort to help her relax.

Relaxing had been her mission this past week, especially once it became obvious trying so hard to make life happen wasn’t working for her. In the few days since she’d slowed down, she had some realizations.

The major one was that she wasn’t cut out for relaxation. She was a doer, and when she wasn’t doing, she was miserable. She didn’t have to do work things all the time, but she needed something.

She’d found an organization that she was going to give time to: Wine Women & Shoes. WW&S partnered with charities that helped women and children to raise money in a fun, entertaining way. They were just expanding overseas, and their London event was to benefit a literacy non-profit. Gigi had already contacted the director to see how she could be involved.

But soon she’d be on set, too—she’d accepted the role in the Cole Porter remake. Everyone was happy: the studio, Craig, and Betty. Even Gigi was hopeful about this decision.

The door to the bathroom opened and Titania burst into the room. She looked on a mission, her camera gripped in one hand and her mouth set in a determined line. The only thing that belied her apparent haste was the humorous light in her eyes.

“I’m taking a relaxing bath,” Gigi pointed out calmly, not lifting her head.

“You want to see what’s going on outside.” Her sister grabbed a towel off the hook and threw it at Gigi’s head.

Gigi caught it before it hit her or the water. “Tawny—”

“Really, Gi, come and see. I promise it’ll be worth disturbing your bath,” she tossed over her shoulder as she strode out.

“Fine,” she muttered, rising from the tub. She wrapped the towel around her, heedless of the water dripping on the floor. She padded into her bedroom. Titania hung out the window so the only thing visible of her was her jean-clad rear end.

“Amazing,” she heard Titania mutter as she lifted her camera and began to take pictures.

It was probably someone wearing the perfect shade of red against a red car. Gigi rolled her eyes.

But then she heard the music.

It started out soft, strains of a piano.

“That’s ‘Love Leaves Dreaming,’“ she exclaimed, recognizing the tune. Merrick. She pushed Titania over. “Move.”

“Ow. Stop,” her sister said, not sounding like she meant it as she scooted over enough to allow Gigi to fit in the window as well.

Her gaze went directly to Merrick. He was in the middle of their walkway, sitting behind a baby grand that was parked on the sidewalk.

He looked different.

It was more than his shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoo on his forearm. It was more than the tousled hair or the leather jacket he wore.

It was in his expression. He was still Merrick, but he looked at peace, as though two parts of him had come together to form a whole.

He focused on her window, his face somber as his fingers expertly coaxed the song from the piano. His gaze, though, was full of passion and only for her.

“He’s waiting for me,” she said in wonder.

“No wonder they say you’re a genius,” her sister said.

She knocked her sister in the ribs, watching the way the tension around his mouth eased when he saw her. Nodding at her, he began to sing the song she’d loved so much as an adolescent.

An empty room.

An empty bed.

Since you left—

Dreams of love have fled.

Hope of seeing your eyes,

My only saving grace.

Love leaves dreaming,

And all I have left

Is the echo of your laugh

In an empty heart.

“He’s doing a pretty good imitation of Ricky Hazard,” Titania said, snapping some more pictures.

“He is Ricky Hazard.” Seeing him like this, she was sure he’d agree with it for a change.

Titania stopped taking pictures and gaped at her. “You’re shagging Ricky Hazard, and you didn’t tell me? What kind of sister are you? You know I had a crush on him when I was a kid.”

“He’s mine,” Gigi said, her eyes on him.

There was the whir of a camera taking pictures. She glanced over to see the lens pointed at her.

Shrugging, Titania lowered the camera. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll give you a copy to blow up at your wedding. Mine will be infinitely better than theirs.”

Gigi looked to where Titania nodded. She blinked, noticing the sea of recorders and cameras for the first time. From the greedy looks on their faces, she could tell they were reporters. How had she missed them all?

Because she only had eyes for Merrick.

“Imogen,” her mother called, hurrying into the bedroom with Fran on her heels. “Are you hearing this?”

Titania stiffened next to her.

Gigi put her hand on her sister’s. “We have a front row seat.”

“That’s your young man?” Franny asked, wedging herself next to them in the window. “He’s a fine one, isn’t he?”

Smiling, she glanced at her mother, who hung back. She watched her youngest daughter like she was a skittish creature about to bolt. Gigi wished she could do something to mend the rift between the two of them, but that was part of Titania’s journey.

She, though … She went to her mother and took her hand. “I hope one day I can guide my child as well as you guided me.”

Jacqueline blinked, her eyes bright with sudden tears. Then she kissed Gigi’s forehead. “I just want you to be happy,” she whispered.

“I think that’s imminent.” She winked and then went back to the window.

Her mother cleared her throat. “Fran, perhaps we should go.”

“Make sure your young man knows I know how to use a cleaver,” her former nursemaid called out as she followed Jacqueline out.

Titania shook her head. “Franny’s never changed.”

“And she never will.” Gigi returned her attention to Merrick.

He finished the song. There was a breath of profound silence followed by thunderous applause. He flushed, just a little, looking like when they’d just had sex.

She leaned into the window and called down. “You must be ill.”

“Actually, I’ve recently been cured,” he called back. “Right now I’m not nearly as miserable as I have been.”

Her heart began to beat faster, but she managed a faintly interested expression. “Oh? Why were you miserable?”

“Because I was an idiot.” He took a step closer. “At least that’s what Valerie believes.”

She grinned. “I really like Valerie.”

“She likes you, too. A lot. She told me I should tell you I love you.”

Imogen blinked, her blasé act slipping as she glanced at all the paparazzi snapping photos incessantly. She had to swallow a couple times before she could reply. “She told you? What do you want to do?”

“I want to be photographed with you, and learn new languages with you, and play the piano for you, and be threatened by your sisters, and grow a gnome family with you.” He nodded. “Marry me, Imogen Summerhill. I want to love you. Forever, if you’ll let me.”

She tapped a finger to her lips, pretending to think about it. “Intriguing proposition.”

He smiled slowly. “You don’t sound intrigued enough.”

She shrugged, even though she was jumping up and down on the inside screaming Take me! I’m yours!

“Well, then, I’ll just have to tempt you more.” He took off his suit coat and handed it to a reporter standing nearby. Walking to the building, she expected him to go to the front door.

Instead he went to the trellis attached to the side of the house. She watched, incredulous, as he looked for a toehold. “Merrick—”

But he found a niche and levered himself up. To his credit, he tested it before climbing up the rest of the way to her room.

But he did it.

Gigi kept her eyes on him, holding her breath, trying not to imagine him falling off. She could hear the whirring of cameras in stereo, and she wanted to rail at them for not helping him.

Though Merrick looked determined to do it himself. He agilely worked his way up and over to her window.

She grabbed his shirt and tried to help him in, though she knew he did it all himself. Then she glared at him. “That was idiotic. What were you thinking?”

“That I wanted you.” He slid his arms around her. “That I wanted the world to know I love you.”

“That’s my cue to leave,” Titania said, taking one last picture. She capped her lens. “I’d offer to stay and take more, but that’s what got you in this mess in the first place.”

Merrick chuckled as Gigi stretched for a pillow from a chair and tossed it at her sister.

With a wink, Titania left the room, closing the door firmly behind her. It opened two seconds later, and her sister poked her head back in. “Be happy, Gigi,” she said softly.

Gigi nodded, swallowing the emotion that rose in her throat.

“I’m going to make you very happy,” Merrick said as the door closed a second time.

Her heart melted. “Are you sure you aren’t sick? Because this is uncharacteristic.”

“I can assure you this is exactly in my character. Valerie can assure you I’m not feverish.”

Gigi wound her arms around his neck. “I’m glad you’re not feverish, because I’m not a great nursemaid.”

“It’s good that I don’t need one then.”

“I’m also not a good housekeeper.”

“I don’t want you for your domestic skills.” He brushed her hair back from her face and framed it with his hand.

“And I work, sometimes a lot. I’ll be on location again soon. I’m more a Marilyn than a Jackie.”

“Marilyn was hot, and I don’t care as long as you come home to me.” He kissed the edge of her mouth. “That’s all I ask.”

“That’s it?” she asked, sighing as he feathered kisses on her face.

“That, and that you love me.”

“I already do.” She wrapped her arms around him. “I’ve loved you from the moment you told me it was a bad idea to date me.”

“Did I mention I have lapses of judgment? I’m working on it.” He grabbed her by the towel, bunching it up. Then he lifted her and tossed her on the bed.

Grinning, she held her towel in place as he closed the curtains so there wasn’t a millimeter open to view. Then he faced her.

She reached for the bedside lamp and moved the dimmer so there was the softest glow.

He began unbuttoning his shirt. “How thoughtful of you waiting for me in a towel.”

“I’m considerate like that.” She watched him hungrily as he took his shirt off. He stood in front of her, bare, his tattoos beautiful against his skin.

His hand went to his belt buckle. “Take the towel off.”

She stared at his sprawled tiger tattoo. “If I do, can I kiss your kitty?”

“I think that’s my line.” His eyes followed her fingers, which dipped into the vee of her cleavage. “Take the towel off, Imogen.”

She heard the command behind the soft, husky words. She tipped her head, giving him a sultry smile. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

He dropped his pants.

She unwound the towel and tossed it on the floor. Then she reclined on the pillows at the head of her bed. “I like the view.”

“So do I.” He stalked toward her, crawling up the bed until he knelt on her waist. He took her head in his hands. “Do you know the best part of the view?”

“What?”

“I get to look at it for the rest of my life.” He lowered his lips to hers.

It was as passionate as all their kisses, but deeper—a promise. She held him to her, her heart expanding and full of joy.

A thought struck her, and she pushed him away from her enough to say, “Did I officially accept your proposal?”

“You didn’t, actually.” He kissed his way down her neck and took a nipple between his lips.

“Oh,” she said casually, gripping the sheets alongside her as her body bowed under his mouth. “Okay, I say yes.”

He lifted his head, his gaze feral. “I’m not playing games, Imogen. It was a serious proposal.”

“And I seriously say yes.”

He stared at her. Then he rolled off.

She sat up, frowning. “What are you doing?”

Without a word, he ripped open the curtain, opened the window, and leaned out. “She said yes!” he yelled.

There was a chorus of cheers below. He waved and then shut the window and curtains again.

“It had to be done.” Rejoining her in bed, he covered her with his body. “For the record, Imogen, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m done behaving.”

Laughing, she wrapped herself around him possessively. “You and I were always better at misbehaving anyway.”

“You bring out the best in me,” he said, kissing her shoulder. “I love you.”

“I heard a rumor to that effect.” She smiled, sighing happily. “Bold move, by the way, proposing in front of all these people. What if I’d said no?”

He lifted his head, a smile curving his mouth. “You can’t say no to me.”

She traced his lips with a fingertip. “Awfully confident of yourself, aren’t you?”

He sobered, taking her hand and putting it on his heart. “No, I’m confident of you.”

Epilogue

Titania sat huddled in a corner of the orangery, gripping her Nikon, watching everyone wearily. She didn’t want to be here.

Actually, that was a gross understatement. She could think of so many places she’d rather be. Like even on that trek she’d taken through a Kenyan forest, to find the Maasai leader she’d been sent to photograph by National Geographic. It’d been miserable—hot and grueling, made worse by her heavy equipment. Compared to being around her family, that Kenyan hell seemed like heaven.

She wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t that she hated her family. She preferred people, in general, at a distance. Through her lens, she had the space to understand them. Up close, they were messy.

Her family was especially messy.

It was fine, because she was leaving for another assignment the following week, to photograph the Pope. She’d have distance again soon.

Just the thought of working soothed her. From behind the lens, life was much more manageable. You controlled the outcome—you could highlight something or make it go away completely, depending.

“Tawny.” Gigi pulled a chair up next to her and sat down. “I’m so happy you came tonight.”

“I only came for you.” She’d do anything for her sister, and Gigi had insisted.

Gigi grinned, leaning into her shoulder. “You’re so self-sacrificing.”

Titania snorted, trying not to be amused.

“Remember how we used to run through here?” Gigi asked, her gaze soft with memories.

“You used to pretend you were on the set of a movie, and I liked to think I was exploring the jungle, looking for aborigines to take pictures of.”

Her sister laughed, the soft, genuine laugh she reserved for those she loved.

Titania lifted her camera and took a picture of it. She knew instinctively that it was going to be perfect. She’d frame it to give to Merrick for his desk.

She wasn’t sure about the politician when she’d first heard about him, but she was beginning to accept him. He certainly loved her sister. When Gigi headed to Barcelona to begin filming the Cole Porter movie in a week, Titania wouldn’t be surprised if Merrick stowed away in her luggage.

Lowering her camera, she looked over to where the men congregated. “The house is full of men. It’s odd.”

“They fit though, don’t you think? Have you met them all?”

She shrugged. She’d been introduced, but she hadn’t really talked to any of them. She preferred getting a feel of them through her lens first. Jackson and Luca were trying to outdo each other in their brash ways. At the moment, they were comparing Luca’s handmade Italian shoes to Jackson’s handmade Texan boots.

Nick, the tall handsome one who was Rosalind’s, goaded them both. Merrick watched their antics with barely veiled humor, all the while keeping a prowling eye on Gigi.

Titania took a picture of them. “How did Portia, of all people, end up with a cowboy?”

“It defies the imagination, doesn’t it?” Gigi shook her head. “But he’d give her the moon if she asked for it.”

“Like Merrick would for you.”

“Just like Merrick,” she agreed softly, her gaze going to her fiancé.

As if sensing her, he looked up.

There. That was the picture Titania had wanted to take—one of the way Merrick looked at her sister, like he wanted to cuddle her and take a bite out of her at once. It was the perfect picture of love. It amazed her.

It made her the tiniest bit jealous, too.

She cleared her throat. “I know who Jackson, Nick, and Merrick belong to. What’s Luca’s story?”

“Luca is in love with Beatrice.” Gigi nudged her to look at where their oldest sister perched on the arm of a couch, her hand on Viola’s shoulder.

She snapped a picture of her oldest sisters, not certain yet how she felt about them. Growing up, it’d been her and Gigi—their older sisters were already living their lives.

Viola looked a little worn around the edges, as though she contemplated falling apart but didn’t have the energy to actually do it. Her daughter Chloe, who sat near her, watched her warily, as though she were afraid of the same thing. Gigi had said Viola was going through a messy divorce.

She’d never been seriously involved with anyone—she was on the road too much for that sort of commitment—but it seemed like messy divorce was redundant.

Her sister nudged her again. “Summer’s headed this way.”

“Great.” Titania grunted, deliberately holding her camera up to cover her face.

Gigi pushed it away. “Be nice to her. She’s more an outsider than you are.”

“Thanks,” she murmured. “Remind me again why you’re my favorite.”

Laughing, Gigi squeezed her shoulders. “Because I’m irresistible.”

Summer approached them cautiously, as though Titania could pounce at any moment.

Rolling her eyes, she set her camera on her lap. “I’m not that bad.”

“Yes you are,” Gigi said cheerfully.

Their half-sister cleared her throat. “I don’t want to interrupt you two, but I wanted to tell Titania I look forward to getting to know her.”

She stared at the other woman. It was amazing how much like a Summerhill she looked, especially given she hadn’t grown up with them. Titania wondered what Reginald had thought of that. Gigi had told her he’d actually loved Summer and her mother. It baffled her. Reginald Summerhill hadn’t loved anyone but himself.

Gigi elbowed her—hard.

“Ouch.” She glared at her sister. “What?”

Rolling her eyes, Gigi turned to Summer. “Once you get to know Titania, you’ll get used to her lack of verbal skills.”

“I have skills,” she protested.

“Limited to photography,” Gigi acquiesced.

She shrugged. Her reputation as the Barbara Walters of photography wasn’t achieved lightly.

“Everyone,” Jacqueline called.

Titania stiffened, not even relaxing when Gigi’s arm stole around her waist for comfort.

“Rosalind asked for the ladies to meet her upstairs.” Jacqueline faced the men. “You can continue your odd bonding rituals down here.”

“Come on.” Gigi pulled Titania to her feet.

But she shook her head. “I’ll just stay down here with the men. I doubt Rosalind needs me up there.”

“She may not need it, but she wants it.” Her sister dragged her toward the door.

“How do you know?”

“I have a feeling,” Gigi said with a mysterious smile. “Come on, Tawny. Just play along.”

Sighing, she followed.

They went up to their mother’s room.

Of course, she thought. She lifted her camera and took unfocused pictures as she entered, of any random thing, just to have something to do.

It was silly that something as simple as walking into her mother’s room could make her feel the old longing to have the love and approval of her parents. The youngest was supposed to be a favorite, but she’d always felt forgotten.

She used to sneak in the room and hide under the bed and take candid pictures of their mother. Her mother had always stunned her. When Titania was a kid, she thought for sure that Jacqueline Summerhill was an actual fairy princess come to life.

The room wasn’t any different than it had been twenty years before, except perhaps shabbier. The wallpaper had aged and there were obvious scratches in the wood floor, but it was still magical. It even smelled the same.

Titania inhaled, overcome by a peculiar feeling in her chest, as though she missed something she hadn’t realized. Swallowing the emotions she didn’t want, she went to a corner and stood out of the way, taking pictures.

Slowly, the act of snapping photos brought her back to calm. She eased into it, changing her view and taking pictures of the sisters, Chloe, Fran, and even Jacqueline.

The closet door opened and Titania automatically shifted her viewfinder toward it. She snapped a photo of Portia walking out, followed by Rosalind, who wore the most beautiful wedding dress she’d ever seen.

Titania lowered the camera, stunned by her older sister’s beauty, which was defined by the joy on her face rather than her Summerhill features. Rosalind looked like a fairy princess, the kind Gigi used to tell her stories about.

Like their mother had looked like.

“Nick and I set a date,” Rosalind announced with an elated smile. “Next Valentine’s day. I haven’t finished my dress yet, but I couldn’t wait to show you.”

There was a chorus of exclamations. Titania raised her camera and quickly shot pictures of all the sisters. She captured Fran, doing a happy jig.

She turned.

In the frame, Jacqueline stood, as regal as always, tears in her eyes as she stared at Titania.

Titania took the picture reflexively, but then faltered and lowered her camera. What did that look mean? She wanted to study the photo, but she turned the camera off so she wouldn’t give in to the temptation now, in front of everyone. Later, in private, she’d dissect it.

“Titania.”

She looked up, suddenly aware everyone was looking at her. She cursed internally as she felt her face heat.

Rosalind walked toward her, her hand outstretched. “I was thinking maybe you could take pictures of the entire process, until the end.”

That’d require being around the family for the foreseeable future. She glanced at Gigi.

Who smirked back, obviously knowing what she was thinking.

Rosalind added, “I thought for the actual wedding day you could help me find someone good, because of course you’ll be in the wedding.”

Impossible. She shook her head. She had assignments lined up. After the Pope, she was headed to the States to photograph a senator and his family for TIME Magazine. She’d been looking forward to it more than usual because it gave her a reason to get away from Cole, too—to give that one mistake of a night a chance to fade into memory.

“Of course, she’ll do it,” Gigi agreed for her. “She was talking about how she was going to spend more time in London, especially now that I’m back.”

“No I wasn’t.” She glared at the traitor. “And you’re leaving next week.”

“Just for a couple weeks. I’ve decided to relocate from Hollywood to London.” Gigi flashed the smile of a woman in love.

Rosalind squeezed her hand. “I don’t expect you to be around the entire time, but I can’t think of anything I’d like more than to have your perspective on everything. Your photos are so lovely, Titania. Say you will.”

Titania looked into Rosalind’s face. Despite the color of her eyes, she looked so much like Jacqueline.

That old feeling rose in her chest—the one where she wanted her mother to notice her, to tell her how clever and talented she was. It nearly choked her, it was so strong. She glanced at Jacqueline and heard herself say, “I think about it.”

The disappointment in Jacqueline’s eyes hurt. Titania lifted her camera and took a few more pictures, knowing she had her decision: nothing was going to make her stick around. Rosalind would find a different photographer. Gigi would forgive her eventually—she always did. And Jacqueline …

The Countess of Amberlin had made it clear years ago that she had more important things to do than concern herself with her youngest daughter. Jacqueline Summerhill wouldn’t even notice Titania was gone.

She never had before.

***

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***

Over 3.5 million readers have already fallen for Kate’s best-selling Laurel Heights series. Check out all of Kate’s books here.

Fall in love with the book that started it all…

From Perfect for You (Laurel Heights, Book 1)…

Graphic designer looking for hot sex.

Freya Godwin shook her head and crossed out the sentence. Too blatant. That may be what she was looking for, but perhaps she should be a touch more subtle. She didn’t want every freak in San Francisco to respond to her ad.

Doodling faceless lovers entwined in different passionate embraces, she thought about what she really wanted. Finally she scribbled:

Female web designer seeking inspiration in order to complete a very important project. Bring your muse to share.

Lame. Accurate, sure, but it sounded desperate.

Who was she kidding? She was totally desperate.

Her office door slammed open. Flinching, she looked up to find Charles scowling in the threshold.

Hell. She quickly flipped the notebook shut. If he knew she was spending her valuable time working on a personal ad instead of the Sin City redesign, he’d blow a gasket.

“What the hell is this?” He waved sheets of paper in the air.

Maybe he’d blow a gasket anyway. “I can’t see the pages with you flapping them around like that.”

He strode into her office and slammed them on her desk. “Here.”

Freya glanced down and mentally winced. The design was even more white-bread than she remembered. She didn’t need Charles to tell her that Sin City wasn’t shelling out the big bucks for white bread—they were paying for buttery French pastry.

“Well? What the hell is this crap?”

It was the last throes of a web designer who hadn’t felt an iota of creativity in over a year. But she just shrugged. “They’re some initial ideas I had. They’re not the final mock-ups to show the client.”

“Damn right, they aren’t. If they saw this”—he stabbed a blunt finger at the printouts—”they’d run out of the building in horror. This is crap.”

“Tell me what you really think, Charles.”

Ignoring her, he braced his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Do you understand what a coup it was for them to choose Evolve to redesign their website and revamp their branding?”

Yeah, she did. Evolve was well-regarded in San Francisco’s competitive web design field, but to call Sin City hiring Evolve a coup was understating matters. It was unheard of for a huge corporate entity like Sin City to go outside the biggie web design firms to a boutique shop like Evolve.

And Sin City was huge. They were Amazon and Facebook combined but for all things sexual. Store, blogs, chats, reviews, live video feeds—you name it. They even had their own publishing branch that put out several magazines in addition to a line of erotica for women. Compared to Sin City, the Playboy empire looked like a business run out of someone’s garage.

“They didn’t just choose Evolve, Freya.” Charles’s blue eyes burned with the zeal he was renowned for among his colleagues. His employees called it The Mania. “They chose you.”

Because of the site she’d designed for a local sex-toy shop two years ago. Back before her creative juices had dried up. “I understand, Charles.”

“I’m not sure you do. If you screw this up, you’re out of here.”

Her mouth fell open. It took a couple tries before she could get any words out. “You can’t fire me for one bombed design.”

“I’m the boss. I can do whatever the hell I want. Especially if one of my employees blows the biggest opportunity this company has ever had.” His eyes sparked with dollar signs. “This is our opportunity to play with the big boys. Maybe even go public. I won’t let anyone screw it up.”

“But—”

“And your work over the past year hasn’t been up to your usual standards. I know Marcus bailed you out of the Accordiana job,” he said bluntly.

She cut off her protest. She couldn’t deny it—Marcus hadn’t just helped her out with the design, he’d taken the crap she’d come up with and turned it into gold.

“If you can’t perform, I can’t afford to keep you. Just because you’re Evangeline’s best friend doesn’t mean I’m going to make allowances for you.”

“I can’t lose my job.” Her stomach lurched at the thought.

“Then I suggest you produce a design they’ll fall in love with.” He snapped his suit coat straight and turned to leave. At the door he looked over his shoulder. “I mean it, Freya. Fuck this up and you’re out of here.”

She winced as the door slammed shut. She couldn’t afford to lose her job. It wasn’t that she cared about herself—if she lost her paycheck she’d figure something out. But she wouldn’t be able to support her sister Anna through college, and that wasn’t acceptable. She’d vowed after the fallout from her parents’ accident that Anna would never have to compromise her dreams like she’d had to.

That meant she had to produce a kick-ass design.

In the pit of her stomach she felt a spasm of worry. She’d been off her game—she’d never felt such an utter lack of creativity.

She grabbed the notebook and opened it to her ad. She crossed it out and wrote

Artist in trouble. HELP.

The office door reopened, and her best friend Evangeline poked her shiny blonde head in. “You still alive in here?”

Freya slapped the notebook shut. “For the time being. Did you hear your dad?”

“Me and everyone else in the office.” Eve closed the door and perched on the desk’s corner. “I was just happy it was you and not me for a change.”

“Why do you let him treat you like that?” She shook her head. Charles loved Eve, but it was tough love. “He may be your boss but he’s your father, too. If you stand up to him, he’ll respect you more.”

“I don’t want him to respect me. I want him to leave me alone.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Besides, you’re the fiery one. You stand up to him enough for everyone. Except for today.”

“I’m not fiery, and today was just strategic.” Everyone assumed that just because she had cinnamon red hair she had a temper to match. Not true. Not that much, anyway.

“Strategic?”

“I didn’t want to aggravate him any more than he was.”

“Hmm.” Eve gazed at her like she didn’t believe her. Then she picked up one of the discarded printouts. “Did you do this mock-up?”

“Yes,” Freya answered cautiously.

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“What does it look like?”

“Boring.”

“It’s just a mock-up.” She stretched to take the paper, crumpled it, and tossed it at the trash can.

Eve leaned forward and picked up the notebook. “Interesting sketches.”

Freya groaned. “Give that to me. I was just messing around.”

“By drawing porn?” Her friend frowned as she flipped pages, faint parentheses lining the space between her eyebrows. “Artist in trouble? Are you writing a personal ad?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Why are you whispering?”

“I wouldn’t put it past Dad—I mean Charles—to bug the place.”

Freya rolled her eyes. “Your dad is megalomaniacal, but he’s not that far gone.”

“Did he or did he not threaten to fire you?”

“You heard that, too?”

“Everyone heard. He’s a beast. Especially given how he knows you’re paying for Anna’s college and can’t afford to lose your job. I’d call him something worse, but it’d be too disrespectful.” She tapped the notebook. “But let’s get back to this.”

“It’s nothing. A moment of insanity.”

“If it’s nothing, why are you blushing?”

“I’m not,” she said even as she felt her face burn hotter.

“Right.”

Eve stared at her with a narrowed gaze that was too much like Charles’s for comfort. Then she said, “I have ways of making you talk.”

“It’s really nothing.” Freya sighed. “I had the fleeting thought that if I found someone who made me feel like a sex goddess I’d be able to channel that newfound sexuality into the design for Sin City.”

“And to find a sex slave you decided to do a personal ad?”

“I didn’t say anything about a sex slave, and I haven’t decided anything.”

“Well, it’s brilliant.”

Freya blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s brilliant. You’ll find a guy who’ll help you get your sexy back so you can design something sensual and creative.” She nodded. “It’s just what you need. How long has it been since you’ve played footsy with a guy? The last one was Brad.”

Brad. She sighed. “He was a good kisser.”

Eve made a face. “He was boring. I rejoiced the day you broke up with him. You yourself said he didn’t excite you.”

True. She’d liked Brad, but when he’d proposed to her she’d realized she couldn’t spend her life with him. Something was missing. Sometimes she was afraid the something that was missing was her.

“You know what you need?” Eve leaned forward, her gaze intense. “You need spicy.”

“Spicy gives a person indigestion.”

“You used to love spicy.” Her friend tapped the notebook. “Do the personal ad. It’s the answer.”

“It was only an idea in a second of desperation.”

Eve shook her head. “No, it’s a creative solution to a problem. It’s old Freya shining through. It’s exactly what I’d do in your place.”

“Yes, but you have a habit of coming up with crazy schemes that backfire. Like that time you and I went to Napa for a day at the spa—”

“I just wanted to see what tipping a cow was like. How was I supposed to know that guy was out patrolling his pastures?”

“And when you decided we should take a road trip the summer after we got our driver’s licenses even though we didn’t have money or parental consent—”

“You have to admit it was a genius idea picking towns where the fire stations were holding free ice cream socials and spaghetti feeds. We saved so much money. And we met all those cute firemen.”

“Yes, but we still ran out of money for gas and had to call our parents to wire us enough to get home. Which only sucked because you’d said we should tell them we were spending the week at each other’s house, and they didn’t know we were on a road trip.”

Eve wrinkled her nose. “We did get busted that time.”

“We got grounded for the rest of the summer,” Freya corrected.

“That was unfortunate, but you can’t deny you loved every minute of it. And I may have had the ideas, but you were the gung-ho one who acted on them.”

True, and she did love those times. But that was before she had to take care of Anna.

Eve frowned for a brief moment before she lifted her determined chin. “No one’s going to get grounded this time. The fact of the matter is you are desperate, and desperation requires drastic measures. Also, I’d like to point out that this was originally your idea, not mine.”

“It’s years of your bad influence.” Freya sat back in her chair. “People always assume you’re the angelic one, with your cherubic looks. But it’s the innocent-looking ones who’re the most diabolical.”

“I know,” her friend said with a proud smile. “But I try to use my powers for good.”

Freya sighed. “I don’t know, Eve.”

“Remember how you always wanted to be a bohemian artist? After high school, you planned to go to Paris, live in an attic, wear lots of scarves, and smoke Gauloises. But when your parents died, it all changed.”

“I remember.” Familiar sadness filled her chest, and Freya rubbed her heart to try to ease it. It’d been years since her parents’ accident, but she still missed them every day.

Eve took her hand. “You had to be responsible, because you had to take care of Anna, so you started to play it safe. Somewhere along the way, you lost yourself. You’ve dried up.”

“It really is that bad, isn’t it?”

“Freya, you’re turning into a human Sahara. You’ve become as bland as your designs.” She waved at the trash can.

“Ouch.” She winced, but she couldn’t dispute that bland was exactly how she felt.

“Don’t get me wrong. You don’t look bland. You’re hot. The programmers eye your butt every time you walk through the office. Those pencil-thin cords are great.” Eve sighed in longing. “I wish I could wear pants like that. If only I were tall like you.”

“Five-five is tall for women. You shouldn’t compare yourself to me. Five-eleven is abnormal.”

“I wish I could be abnormal like a supermodel, too. At least your chest is flatter than mine. It’d be terrible if I had to hate you for that, too.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“I’m just saying you need to shake things up before you’re tempted to buy white cotton underwear.”

“I’m not that far gone.”

“You’re one step away from it.” Eve waved the notebook. “This is what’s going to save you. Do it.”

Freya sighed. “I’m a visual artist. I suck at writing.”

Eve flipped the notepad to a fresh page and extended a hand. “Pen.”

Handing one over, she watched Eve frown at the blank page before scribbling a few lines. Then her friend held out the notebook. “Here.”

Taking a deep breath, Freya looked it over:

Fiery goddess in search of the perfect god. Soar with me through clouds, frolic under the stars, hand me the moon for my own. Mortals need not reply.

She blinked and reread it. Not a blatant I want you to give me hot sex, but it hinted that she wanted to share sensual pleasures, sex or otherwise, without sounding desperate.

More than that, reading it stirred something inside her. It took her a moment to pinpoint that the feeling was excitement. “This is actually kind of good.”

“I know,” Eve said modestly. “It’s perfect for you. Promise me you’ll use it.”

Nerves set her stomach lurching again. But Eve was right—instinctively she knew she had to do something big to move out of the corner she’d backed herself into. “I’ll do it.”

“Then my work here is done.” Her friend hopped up.

“What would I do without you?”

“That’s too horrible a fate to even contemplate.” Eve tugged one of Freya’s curls. “Good thing for you you’re stuck with me.”

“Yeah, good thing.”

Get Perfect for You (Laurel Heights #1) now!

Et Cetera, Et Cetera

Please don’t ride a motorcycle—or anything—directly through Hyde Park. Although a horse might be okay. And I certainly don’t condone breaking any park rules about being there at night. Ahem.

I played fast and loose with all things regarding the Carlton Club. Meaning I’m not certain they’d just let someone walk in, even if he were as hot as Merrick. I probably wouldn’t try it. Probably.

Wine Women & Shoes is a great organization that helps charities raise money for their causes. They do fun events that celebrate women, and I’m proud to be a supporter. They haven’t expanded out of the United States, but I have every confidence they’ll host a fabulous shindig in London one day soon. Keep your Jimmy Choos at the ready.

Special smooches to My Boudoir, in San Francisco, who graciously hosted the cover shoot for this book. If you’re ever in the city, visit Geri and she’ll hook you up—quite literally.

Kate’s Shelf

Summerhill

Say You Will

Lost in Love

Let’s Misbehave

Stay the Night

The Laurel Heights Series

Perfect for You

Close to You

Return to You

Looking for You

Dream of You

Sweet on You

Tamed by You

Here with You

All for You (novelette)

Mad About You

Loved by You

Pillow Talk Novels

Playing Doctor

Playing for Keeps

Project Date

The Guardians of Destiny

Marked by Passion

Chosen by Desire

Tempted by Fate

Standalone

Project Daddy

Legend of Kate

Kate has tangoed at midnight with a man in blue furry chaps, dueled with flaming swords in the desert, and strutted on bar tops across the world and back. She’s been kissed under the Eiffel Tower, had her butt pinched in Florence, and been serenaded in New Orleans. But she found Happy Ever After in San Francisco with her Magic Man.

Kate’s the bestselling author of the Laurel Heights Novels, as well as the Pillow Talk and Guardians of Destiny series. She’s been translated into several languages and is quite proud to say she’s big in Slovenia. All her books are about strong, independent women who just want love.

Most days, you can find Kate in her favorite café, working on her latest novel. Sometimes she’s wearing a tutu. She may or may not have a jeweled dagger strapped to her thigh…

For more on Kate, visit:

www.kateperry.com

www.facebook.com/TutuKate

www.twitter.com/KatePerry

Table of Contents

Praise for Kate Perry’s Novels

Other Titles by Kate Perry

Thank you …

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Et Cetera, Et Cetera

Kate’s Shelf

Legend of Kate

Table of Contents

Praise for Kate Perry’s Novels

Other Titles by Kate Perry

Thank you …

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Et Cetera, Et Cetera

Kate’s Shelf

Legend of Kate

Table of Contents

Praise for Kate Perry’s Novels

Other Titles by Kate Perry

Thank you …

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Et Cetera, Et Cetera

Kate’s Shelf

Legend of Kate