by Jayne Denker
This, he thought. Absolutely this.
As he nuzzled the crook of her neck again, she murmured breathlessly, “Niall?”
“What?” he asked, his voice muffled against her skin.
“For God’s sake,” she said with a sigh, “sign the paper.”
Chapter 23
Celia looked around the auditorium, prowled among the seats for a good angle, and raised the camera to her eye. What a lovely shade of purple Ray was this afternoon. That would make a good shot. She just had to make sure he never saw it.
“Why are you here?” Ray was ranting at Audra. “It’s too early for this. We don’t need wardrobe yet.” Apparently his little crush on the younger woman was temporarily dwarfed by his panic about the show.
Audra was unimpressed. And not intimidated in the least. She cracked her gum, propped her hand on her hip, and shot back, “There’s no such thing as starting too early with wardrobe, Ray. I mean, look at these people! They all need my help—really bad, you know?”
“Speak for yourself, dear,” Missy Preston called out. “I’ve got my outfit all sorted out. I won’t be needing your help. Thanks all the same.”
Audra rolled her eyes and cracked her gum again. “Oh God,” she drawled. “Scary.”
Mrs. P opened her mouth to protest, but Ray spoke first. “Just don’t go all Miley on Brianna, Audra, you hear me? Tasteful.”
“It won’t matter, Mr. Dubois,” Brianna spoke up, coming out onto the stage from the wings. “My dad still won’t let me do the show.”
“Dammit!” Celia watched Ray’s color intensify even more. “Then why are you still here, Brianna? Huh?”
“Be-because I want to sing.”
“Exactly. Tell your father that.”
“He won’t listen.”
The rest of their discussion was drowned out by the continuing argument between Mrs. P and Audra, and someone—wait, was that Burt Womack?—banging on the top of the small karaoke machine with his fist, trying to get music to come out of it. This whole thing was quickly devolving into chaos, and it was making Celia’s head hurt.
Kraken, she thought, setting down her camera.
She started by separating Audra and Mrs. P and sending them to opposite sides of the stage. Audra grumbled something about her art not being respected and dragged her rolling rack of clothes into the wings; Mrs. P refocused on her partner, Nestor, who had been standing by quietly the entire time—as usual.
Celia asked Burt, who had recovered from being booted out of the auditions and agreed to be an odd jobs person during rehearsals, to kindly refrain from breaking the karaoke machine until they’d had a chance to use it. When he insisted it wasn’t working, she took a close look at it . . . and plugged it in. Happy blue lights danced across the display and a vocal-less Tom Jones melody wafted out of the speakers. She sent Burt off to sweep the stage.
She handed Ray a bottle of water and ordered him to take five. He nodded and almost went to sit down. Almost. Then . . .
“Let’s do this, little girl!”
Darryl was lumbering down the aisle, making a beeline for Brianna, who had no idea what he was talking about, as her wide-eyed expression showed.
“What?”
“I’m your new partner! Let’s go!”
Ray was six inches from the folding chair, but his behind never made it onto the seat. He was upright again like a shot, dropping his water bottle, which rolled away in a lazy arc. “Darryl? What the hell’s going on here?”
“I’m gonna be Brianna’s partner, man,” Darryl informed him in his booming voice.
“Now just a darn minute. I don’t appreciate you marching in here and deciding how this thing is going to go.”
“Oh yeah? You mean you forgot that it was my idea in the first place?”
“Your idea—?”
“Oh, dude! Brush up on your acting skills. You know what you did.”
“You’ve got nothing on me. Mind your own business, Sykes.”
Celia put herself in front of Ray and held Darryl off. Darryl was twice Ray’s size and half his age. It would end badly. “Ray, hold on,” she said quickly. “Darryl, what do you want?”
“I want this idiot to come clean.” No answer from Ray. “But we all know he won’t. So I want a piece of this.”
“Okay,” Celia said. “Ray, you lost Alice. Who is going to be Brianna’s partner?”
The man spluttered for a few seconds. Then he fought out, “I’ll do it, if need be!”
“That’s insane.”
“What, you think I can’t?”
Celia was well acquainted with her old boss’s habit of wanting to steal the spotlight at every opportunity, but right now that was the worst possible idea. “Just the other day, you told everybody to focus on their jobs and not try to do other things, and here you are ignoring your own advice. You can’t be her partner. If Brianna wins, everyone’s going to think you rigged the competition. If Brianna doesn’t win, everyone’s going to think she wasn’t allowed to win because you were her partner. You can’t participate in the contest. Be the organizer, be the judge. That’s all.”
This was too much logic for Ray. He changed the subject. “And just what’s gotten into your britches, little lady?”
“Maybe you should ask ‘who,’ ” Darryl snickered.
Celia felt herself flush as Ray rounded on him. “Hey, hey—we’re keeping this clean, you hear me?”
“Ray, take a walk, man. You’re gonna blow a gasket.”
Celia whirled around at the sound of Niall’s voice, desperately hoping he hadn’t heard Darryl’s last comment, but dying inside because she was pretty sure he had. Still, he gave no indication of it (a very good actor indeed); he simply blinked mildly at Ray until the man deflated a little bit.
“And where have you been? You’re late,” Ray groused.
“Personal business. I told you, remember?” Niall got up on the stage, close behind Celia. “Now I’m done. I’m all yours.”
He was still talking to Ray, but she got the distinct impression his last words were for her benefit.
“Thanks for filling in,” he murmured in her ear, his breath tickling her neck. “Nice kraken.”
“You annoyed Ray again,” she said, but with a smile.
“Looks like he had a head start on that. Besides, I told him in advance I wasn’t going to be available most of today. By the way, when I got back to the inn last night, I woke up Casey so I could use his office. That, uh, important document was printed, signed, rescanned, and in Tiff ’s attorneys’ inbox by midnight. As for today . . . I’ll tell you about it later. I promise.”
As soon as Ray announced a dinner break, Niall took Celia to Café Olé on Main Street and surprised her by requesting a table outside. Where everyone could see them. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he knew what she was thinking.
“Starting now,” he murmured to her as they followed the hostess, “I’m going public with you. If you’re okay with that. Are you okay with that?”
“I am more than okay with that.” She smiled, enjoying the light touch of his fingers on her back. Since last night, when Niall had explained there was no relationship with Tiffany that he needed to get over, she had been hoping for just this moment.
“Well, good, then.”
They settled at a table in the warm, humid evening, the sun still high, washing the street in a golden glow.
Niall took her hand. “All right?”
“Just great.” And she meant it.
They did get curious looks—from their waiter, from the other patrons, from the people passing on the street. Mrs. Rousseau, a plastic shopping bag dangling from her gnarled fingers, passed by and stopped dead when Niall leaned over to kiss Celia on the cheek near her ear. It tickled, and Celia laughed—at the feel of his lips on her sensitive skin, and at the look Mrs. Rousseau was giving them.
“Evening,” Celia greeted the old woman, trying to ignore the fact that Niall was still nuzzling her.
&nb
sp; Mrs. Rousseau huffed, “Young man, get your nose out of that girl’s ear. Nobody needs to see that when they’re trying to eat dinner. And I don’t like your shirt.”
“My—?”
“And my name is Rousseau, not Trudeau.”
As she stalked off, Niall glanced at Celia. “How did she know I called her that?”
Celia shrugged, grinning. “She knows everything.” When Mrs. Rousseau got to the corner, Celia saw her pull a phone out of her pocket. She pointed it out to Niall. “The whole going public thing? You got your wish. Mrs. Rousseau’s a texting fiend. She’s firing off a message to half the town right now about what she just saw.”
“Oh no. That’s too bad.”
“Second thoughts?”
“Not even. It’s just a shame she missed this.”
And he grasped her chin in his long fingers, turned her face to his, and kissed her deeply. Celia gasped but didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. The feel of his soft lips on hers, this time so determinedly, claiming her in front of the whole town, was irresistible. She leaned into the kiss, and Niall’s generous mouth curved up in a smile against hers.
“Well, hello there.”
“Shut up and kiss me again.”
“Kraken. Which is good, by the way. Very, very good. You’re not even blushing as much as you used to.”
“You mean you’ve made me shameless?”
“Oh, I haven’t even begun that project yet. Darn. Now you are blushing as much as you used to.”
“Well, stop looking at me like that.”
“Can’t help it.”
“You get the credit for it.”
“Nope. It’s all you.”
“Partial credit, then.”
“If this is a test, did I pass?”
“Not sure. Better kiss me again, and I’ll let you know.” Niall seemed more than happy to comply. “So,” she murmured as he rested his forehead against hers, “is it kraken-like to invite you to stop by after rehearsal’s over?”
Niall drew his head back, looking intrigued. “Oh?”
“When I got home last night, I found this note from my grandmother.” She handed him a slip of paper.
He unfolded it and read aloud, “ ‘Gone to the Indian res casino with the girls. Got to get my ya-yas out—’ ” He glanced up at Celia with a cocked eyebrow. “Interesting word choice. ‘Got to get my ya-yas out,’ ” he repeated, “ ‘before you lock me up and throw away the key. Hoping to win enough at the craps table to buy a mobility scooter and oxygen tank. Be back tomorrow or the next day maybe. Love, Gran.’ Well, she certainly has a flair for the dramatic, I’ll give her that.”
“For the record? The senior home has monthly bus trips to the casino.”
“Irrelevant, apparently.”
“When she wants to play the guilt card? Definitely.”
“So you’re, what, lonely? Bored? Afraid of being in the house alone?”
“Whatever excuse you want to use. Take your pick—just keep me company?”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.”
Niall kissed her again. Celia was vaguely aware of a server arriving at the table, waiting uncomfortably for a few seconds, then disappearing again. She didn’t care. About anything, other than making up for lost time with this man.
It was the sound of repeated clicking that broke them apart. They were both very familiar with the noise, but not in this context. Not in Marsden. Not when they were busy not eating dinner. Celia looked around. Sure enough, there was a man, a stranger, crouching on the sidewalk, taking their photo with a very impressive Nikon D3S. Under any other circumstances, Celia would have admired it and maybe asked him more about it. Not at the moment, however.
He craned his neck from behind his camera and said, “Wow. Sexy. Let’s have one more like that.”
Chapter 24
Dammit. It was Niall’s worst nightmare. A smug asswipe with a camera. These guys didn’t often follow him around anymore—their interest had waned as his string of flops got longer over the years and his ranking on the Hollywood power lists dropped. But now this one seemed very interested in what he was up to—enough to track him down in Marsden. What was going on?
The photographer cocked the camera with the ridiculous lens in one hand and hit speed dial on his phone with the other, all the while staring at Niall and Celia as though afraid they might bolt. He said, quite clearly, into his phone, “Found ’em. You were right. The girl from the McManus ad. Those legs are real . . . and they absolutely need to be wrapped around my—”
Niall lurched to his feet, sending his chair rocketing backward. Celia immediately put a hand on his arm, but he only felt her touch as though from a distance. The sheer fury flowing through him—made all the worse by the smug grin on the paparazzo’s face as he pocketed his phone and started clicking away once again—was like nothing he’d ever felt before.
But Niall knew this game. As much as he wanted nothing more than to shove this jerk’s camera back into his face until the imprint of the viewfinder was tattooed on his iris, he wouldn’t do it. Because that was what the guy wanted. He was obviously dying for Niall to do something stupid so he could sell the image, and maybe the story, to a trashy Web site or tabloid.
So instead Niall growled, “Do you mind? People are trying to have dinner here.”
The photographer didn’t answer, just kept snapping photos.
“Did you hear me? I said—” His voice was rising; he heard it, knew he was getting strident, and stopped when Celia squeezed his forearm gently.
Niall reached behind him, fumbled with his chair, and sat back down. Forcing himself to take a breath, he tried to figure out how to get control of the situation. He had always been really good with photographers, but then again, up to this point it had never really bothered him when paparazzi took his picture, because there had been very little he’d wanted to keep private, keep just for himself. Although he was proud of going public with Celia and had no interest in hiding her away, he wanted to do it on his own terms, not have it taken away from him by some douche bag who’d sell bits of his personal life for a few hundred bucks a pop.
Or maybe his photos were commanding more, now that he and Tiffany were on the ropes. Had the word gotten out yet? . . . Wait, who was he kidding? It had been nearly a whole day by now—of course word had gotten out.
And sure enough . . .
Click, click, click. “Niall! Hey, Niall! Who’s the babe? What’s her name?” Click, click, click. “Where’s Tiffany? Does she know about your new squeeze yet? Are you two really over or are you just on a break? Is that it—are you two-timing her? Tell me what’s going on—I want to get the facts straight.”
Facts? Since when did these guys care about facts? Niall looked over at Celia, who was wide-eyed with alarm. Of course she was—she wasn’t used to being accosted like this. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s no big deal. I’ll take care of it.”
Summoning every ounce of charm he possessed, and trying to remember how he used to talk to the paparazzi when he hadn’t felt like ripping their heads from their necks, he slouched a little in his chair and called out, “You traveled pretty far for a lame-ass photo, man.”
Click, click, click. “Don’t be modest, Niall. Your movies might suck, but I still get paid for shots of you. Especially now.”
He felt Celia tense up even more beside him, and he stretched his hand across the back of her chair so he could squeeze her shoulder. Stay calm. Let me handle it. Whatever he says doesn’t mean a thing. She remained quiet and still, and he was grateful she could understand what he needed from her at this moment.
“Nah, this isn’t worth it. What, two people sitting at a restaurant? Boring. At least let me order veal or something, get people pissed off, make it worth your while.”
“Yeah, I think you could come up with something more interesting to do, know what I mean?” the guy said with a definite leer.
Without further ado, Niall reached over to another table that ha
dn’t been cleaned up yet, grabbed two straws from half-finished drinks, and stuck them up his nostrils. The photographer shook his head—not what he meant. Of course not. But he didn’t stop taking photos, either.
“What else you got?” the guy called.
Pulling out the straws, he said, “Got something good going in about a week. You should come.”
“What, that singing thing? I saw the posters. Big fuckin’ deal.”
Niall felt his bile rising again. Yes, it is a big fuckin’ deal to people around here, he wanted to shout. Instead, he shrugged noncommittally. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Like you care.”
“I do, man. I was going to offer you an exclusive, but . . . if you’re not interested . . .”
“I don’t need an exclusive on that singing thing. Offer me an exclusive on you and your friend here, and you’d have my attention.”
“How about exclusive access to Night of the Shooting Stars and to me—”
“Night of what?” the photographer hooted, and Niall’s anger flared again.
Nobody makes fun of Marsden but me, he thought—irrationally, but there it was all the same. “Forget it, dude. Offer’s off the table. Get lost.”
The photographer stood up from where he’d been crouching on the sidewalk and shook out his legs. “I’ll stick around, if it’s all the same to you.”
“What for?”
The guy whipped off his baseball cap, scratched his head, and plopped it back on backward. “You don’t know yet? This should be good,” he said with a wink, then decamped down the block, already making another phone call as he walked away.
“Maybe we should go,” Celia said, watching the pap with a healthy dose of suspicion.
Niall felt terrible—about everything. That their night out had been ruined before it had even started. That Celia had been right—he really wasn’t able to keep the celebrity garbage out of his life—not even all the way out in Marsden. It still found him. And, worst of all, that she had that guarded look on her beautiful face, like some of the innocence he loved about her had just been wrenched away. All too familiar . . .
