Rekindling Love (British Billionaires Series)

by Sorell Oates

  Rekindling Love

  (BRITISH BILLIONAIREs SERIES)

  By Sorell Oates

  Copyright © 2013 RascalHearts.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For questions and comments about this book, please contact us at Info@RascalHearts.com

  CHAPTER 1

  Waking to hear the news they were due to land should have excited Susan-Marie Thompson. They would be touching down in New York; she was returning home. Instead, a plummeting feeling in her stomach was consuming her. She would have preferred relief at the pending homecoming.

  Untying the velvet silk eye mask, aware there was at least half an hour till arrival, Susan took a fresh change of clothes to the bathroom. First class did make for comfortable travel. Sleeping was aided by the lavender sewn in the eye-cover. Flying conditions were no friend to anyone’s skin. There are those that would consider the flight a long haul at seven hours, but having completed the twenty-four hour flight to Australia on occasion, Susan counted her blessings at how close New York was to London.

  Inside the spacious bathroom, changing out of her plush tracksuit into a set of smart casual clothes, she applied a one-minute hydration face mask. Topping that with a hand and nail cream and instant soothing lip balm, she was feeling human again. Washing off the face mask to apply her essential moisturizer, she caught her image in the mirror. The glowing woman facing her was a miracle.

  I should be used to this by now, thought Susan. It’s not like I haven’t crossed the Atlantic back and forth constantly during my career. Why is it New York perpetually feels foreign to me? Why do I dread coming here?

  Considering her reflection in the mirror, she knew she couldn't stay hidden – crippled by fear at what lay ahead when stepping out at JFK airport. For safety’s sake, she would have to return to the cabin.

  Slumping on the half-bed, which resembled a couch, she appreciated her wealth affording her the luxury of a private suite. Even on a seven hour stint, the expansive space made flying bearable. The sliding door offered privacy for sleep as well as permitting her to delve into the individual mini fridge stocked with a variety of beverages. The adjustable lighting and vanity table (including mirror and wardrobe) enabled her to travel comfortably. She was safe in the knowledge she’d be looking refreshed and reasonably well-turned out in the airport.

  Susan knew she’d wasted twenty minutes preparing in the cramped bathroom and needed to buckle in for descent. Transforming her bed into a seat, she switched off the large TV. She wished she’d made use of the entertainment facilities available instead of popping a sleeping pill to pass the hours. Her other three cast-mates, seated in either economy or business class would be furious to discover she’d neglected the facilities at her disposal.

  The mechanical humming alerted her to the flaps on the wings extending and the shifting of gear to release the wheels. Never bothered by flying, it was the taking off and landing that concerned Susan. As the tires bumped, hitting the tarmac, she began mustering enthusiasm for her six month residence on Broadway. It had been a while since a new musical had taken off, receiving tremendous critical and popular acclaim. To be the star of the show, signed to launch the musical in Broadway was a real coup, but Susan was unable to focus on that aspect. Already missing London, she was despondent as to how she would cope settling into a town which never felt like home.

  Disembarking early off the airliner (the benefits of first class), Susan awaited her three other cast-mates. Reaping the benefits of what he paid for, producer Callum McKinley left for the baggage claim.

  Susan's anxiety was building as she patiently loitered by customs for her British counter-parts to come through the longer international visitor queue, incurring intense questioning regarding their work visas, purpose and length of stay in the country.

  Greeting them with hugs when they finally made it through, Susan made no reference to how run-down and exhausted they looked. Babbling with anticipation, it was difficult not to get caught up in their high spirits. As a quartet, the new show could be an adventure.

  “Why aren't you racing out of here to say hi to your family and get into your own bed?” asked David, her male lead.

  Dashing and handsome, his attire of loose fitting jeans and a gray Abercrombie and Fitch hoody took years off his age. Close to forty, he'd had a successful run in musical theater, thanks to his youthfulness and talent. Causing many a heart to flutter, at five foot eleven, he was comparable to a taller, younger version of Tom Cruise. Women were constantly disappointed when they learned he was in a civil partnership with another man. Desirable as he was, it was a “hands-off” situation, but it never stopped her from appreciating David as a friend. It was surprising they'd never crossed paths on the circuit before. Casting them together was an inspiration. On stage they had the chemistry and commitment to represent the childhood sweethearts reuniting throughout the arc of the show's story.

  “Because,” replied Susan, linking arms with him and her female colleague, Fiona, “I need to make sure my other family are in the country and safe and sound.”

  “You should be putting yourself first,” berated Fiona.

  At twenty-six, Fiona was the youngest member of the British four-some. Soft chestnut hair with chocolate-brown eyes on a heart-shaped face, she was every inch the feminine English Rose – even in her cargo pants and “Pineapple Dance” pullover fleece, promoting the famous dance studio located in the heart of London's Covent Garden.

  “I did that when I chose to fly first class,” reminded Susan with a wicked grin.

  “So you did!” interjected Miller, throwing his arms around the three of them.

  Turning her neck, Susan planted a kiss on his cheek. Miller was twenty-eight. Similar to his traveling companions, he too was decked out in a luxury garment. The Adidas multi-colored blue onesie was certainly comfortable, but he appeared as an overgrown newborn in his adult sized baby garb. Few men were able to pull off the unmissable article of clothing, but somehow he did. She wasn't sure whether that particular trend was suitable for public wear. He was certainly eye-catching in it. With his height and dancer's physique, Susan could understand why Miller had teenage girls queuing for his autograph post-show.

  “And don't think I don't feel bad about it. I should've traveled as part of the team and stayed with the hard-core, but I couldn't face it.”

  “Why's that, then?” inquired Fiona.

  “New York holds memories that aren't associated with the favorite parts of my life. I'm dismal company. At least having had a minor dose of luxury on the way over, I could step off the plane in a relatively positive mood.”

  Reaching the exit, Susan was surveying the crowd to reunite with their loved ones or holding a card to drive people to their hotels, knowing he wouldn't be there.

  “That's us,” said Callum as he joined the group. He was brusquely pointing to a driver in a smart uniform.

  Callum was the one member of the party who was unruffled and bright-eyed. Eccentrically British, he was wearing bright red leather shoes, black corduroy trousers, a white dress shirt and a purple velvet crushed blazer.

  “What mode of transport is whisking you off, Susan?” Callum posited grandly.

  Closing her eyes, Susan wanted to ignore the question. Manners dictated that she should answer.

  “I'm...I'll be spending tonight at ho
me. I'll be moving in the same block of apartment as you guys tomorrow. Is that right, Callum?”

  Catching her eye, having an inkling as to what was distressing Susan, he nodded.

  “Well, make a move,” said Callum gruffly, ushering the other three cast members to the driver.

  With air kisses galore, she bid her theatrical family goodbye. Hearing David, Miller and Fiona insisting they linger till Susan was with her ride, Callum was forthright in sticking to the itinerary. He would gladly have stayed if he felt it would have been of use to Susan. Clocking the no-show of any of her family to welcome her, he was adamant he at least reduce her public humiliation. Susan was mouthing a “thank you,” as he walked away with a sympathetic wave.

  Shaking herself, Susan knew directing any fury toward her father was futile. He'd been in the theater game longer than Susan. He expected her to travel and live with the cast. She always did and always enjoyed it, but it would've been nice if he'd made the effort to turn up to say hello.

  She regretted over-packing with two massive suitcases and hand luggage barely fitting the restrictive dimensions the airlines requested. An entire wardrobe was ready for her, but fashions changed too quickly. Possessing both figure and youth, Susan was one to make the most of it. Not in a million years would she have hopped off the aircraft in comfortable, casual clothes. For Susan it was imperative to look immaculate at all times; she worked hard to keep a trim figure. Irrespective of her father's non-appearance, even now in simple black trousers and a tight-fitting blouse, Susan was feeling better in herself.

  Pushing the cart Miller obtained and packed her luggage on, she headed to the taxi queue. Grateful the line wasn't too long, she was soon watching her suitcases being flung into the trunk of the cab. The driver's significant sized paunch was hanging over his jeans. The t-shirt he wore clung tight to his excess weight. His arms were powerful and muscular, as opposed to his bouncy castle of a tummy. Hefting her baggage, Susan averted her eyes as his shirt rose to reveal a plumber’s crack. He had olive skin with dark, thinning hair on the top of head. He was sweating when he turned to face her. His brown eyes were wide; his nose crooked from bar fights, not genetics. His full lips were thinning with age and chain-smoking and his chin had a cleft. Clicking his tongue to her get in, she heard his skin sticking to the leather of the chair as he seated himself.

  “Should I know you?” barked the aggressive taxi driver.

  “I wouldn't have thought so,” said Susan quietly.

  “You're not keeping secrets from me are you? If I'm traveling with a famous person, I want to know who it is. I need at least one story to take to the dining table tonight to entertain the grand-kids.”

  Susan caught his eyes in the rear-view mirror. Suspecting he was of Italian descent and well into middle age, she guessed he'd been cabbing for the majority of his working life; it was natural he would tire of the job. Undoubtedly it would've lost its appeal the nearer he got to retiring, possibly dreaming of spending his twilight in Italy. She didn't know the full story. He was surly, but she didn't automatically assume he was a bad person.

  “I'm definitely not famous,” she assured him.

  “Yeah, you are,” he insisted. “I know your face. You tell me where from?”

  Other people in Susan's position and circumstances would have snapped a reply at him. Ever tolerant, Susan was keen to maintain her bubbly personality, even at her lowest. She appreciated that she had company and someone willing to engage with conversation. She wasn't going to cut the cord of communication with a bossy cab driver when her own father didn't bother to speak to her or to see her.

  “I'm onstage in musicals. I don't know if you've any interest in—”

  “Sure, sure. I knew I knew you,” he cut her off mid-sentence. “Me? I've no time for musicals, but the wife loves them. Drags me along once in a while.”

  “Have you ever sat through one you enjoyed?” pried a bemused Susan.

  Taken aback by the question, she saw him readjust his vision to focus on the traffic. “Maybe one or two,” he confessed roughly.

  Giggling, Susan had to pursue the line of questioning. “Don't hold back. Tell me. Perhaps I was in one of the productions you saw.”

  “I liked Jersey Boys.”

  No surprise there, thought Susan. Coming from an Italian background and given his age, that particular show would've been right up his alley.

  “I wasn't in that. Anything else?”

  “That Abba one.”

  “Mamma Mia?”

  “Yeah. My wife loved that.”

  “The musical or movie?”

  “Both. I seen 'em both.”

  “Which year?”

  “The musical? Not sure. It was a while back. 2008, I think.”

  “Did you like it or just your wife?” she grilled.

  “It was alright. They had some smashing songs. ‘Dancing Queen’, ‘Fernando’, ‘SOS’, ‘The Winner Takes It All’. I even remember the clubs playing ‘Lay All Your Love on Me’ and ‘Take a Chance on Me’ when I was younger.”

  “You don't give the impression that it was the worst night you've ever had.”

  “As long as it's between you and me, I thought it was fabulous. I could've watched it again and again.”

  “And you saw it in 2008?”

  “Yeah. I remember. It was our thirtieth wedding anniversary. It was a great show and a great night.”

  “That was me,” said Susan humorously.

  “What?”

  “That was me. I played the daughter inviting the three men to her wedding to discover which one was her father. I was Sophie in that production. That's why my face might be familiar to you.”

  “You were blonde in that.”

  “I wore a wig,” enlightened Susan, in reference to her stark black hair.

  “My wife will be thrilled to bits when I tell her I had you in the cab. What's your name?”

  “Susan. Susan-Marie Thompson.”

  “You on stage again?”

  “I am. A new production. It's called Rekindling Love. If you want to treat your wife, you should take her. It's a new show. It might not be up to your taste, but if you want to get in her good books, treat her.”

  “Rekindling Love. It sounds soppy.”

  “It kind of is, but the story is strong and the music is great. No opera, I promise. It's up to date, melodic and has a range of rhythmical beats in it.”

  “Ahh, I'll keep an eye out for it.”

  “Do that. If you do decide to suffer the ordeal on account of making your wife happy, take my agent's card and give him a call. He'll set you up with free tickets. Mention my name and he'll fix it for you.”

  “Thank you, Ms Thompson. I've had my lion’s share of famous people since I've been a cabbie, but none as generous as you.”

  “I'm sure that's not true, but thank you for saying it,” said Susan graciously.

  “This is you right?”

  Rolling to stop outside the Neo-classical town house in Manhattan, Susan knew she had to face her father. “This is me. How much do I owe you?”

  “This one's on me. I'll see the show. A favor for a favor.”

  “No way,” said Susan, slipping three $20 bills in his hand after he'd lugged her suitcases to the front door. “If you do see the show, ring the theater to let me know. Perhaps you and your wife would like to go backstage for a drink. I'd love to hear what you think of it.”

  Shaking his head at the unaffected young woman, the taxi driver placed her money in her palm.

  “Susan-Marie Thompson. I will not forget that name.”

  Watching him enter the cab, Susan skipped neatly to the passenger door, opened it, and tossed the fare on the back seat. Waving goodbye, she could see a smile on his face. It made her own face light up.

  Facing her father’s house in the darkness, it was difficult to make out the features. The white color was visible, thanks to the moonlight and clear skies. Dragging her feet up the stairs, she debated on whether or no
t to use her keys or ring the doorbell. Annoyance flickering across her face, she couldn't believe anyone visiting their father should have to contemplate an issue of this nature. She rang the doorbell.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Are you going to come or not?”

  Imogen was rapidly getting on her brother's nerves with her incessant insistence he attend a gallery opening. From the kitchen he could hear her pacing the other room, becoming more and more agitated with his vague response.

  “I've been interested in art since when?”

  Assessing her brother he was undeniably gorgeous, but his single status was unsurprising to Imogen. He was six feet tall with long lashes flattering his deep-blue eyes. His deliberately shaved black hair was a short scruffy buzz-cut. His face featured the designer stubble, which emphasized his chiseled bone structure. He looked better suited for being a catwalk model than a lawyer. However perfect he was physically, he was an annoyance in terms of personality. He couldn't even commit to a genteel art party, let alone a relationship. He called it “laid-back,” but Imogen called it “disinterest”. No woman would want to attach themselves permanently to a man with no passion.