by Lucy Parker
*
It was a longer drive than usual on the icy roads and past noon when they crossed the boundary of her father’s ancestral estate.
Luc’s face went totally blank when they crunched to a stop outside the house. He’d obviously never seen a photo of Kirkby. If he’d been expecting something along the lines of Aston Park, he was rapidly re-evaluating.
When they were out of the car, he remembered how to speak. “How much do the neighbours hate your father?”
They stood looking at the enormous, futuristic steel-and-glass box that had been built over a torn-down Georgian mansion. Her father had unique taste in architecture.
Whoever hadn’t listed the original Kirkby House was probably still face-palming.
“How did he even find an architect to do this?” Luc seemed torn between fascination and revulsion. Pretty much the universal reaction to Kirkby. It was a monumental feat of ugliness. The house looked like an interplanetary prison. “Or was it multiple architects? Or did he just grab a sledgehammer and a screwdriver and do it himself?”
Lily couldn’t answer. Her stomach was doing its usual Kirkby acrobatics. She associated her very few visits to this house with feeling like Jane Eyre going into the Red Room. She wasn’t supposed to be here. It was a piece of childhood knowledge that still cowed her steps as a grown woman.
“God.” With no warning, Luc put a freezing-cold palm on the back of her head and pressed warm lips to her forehead. “Don’t look like that.” He butted his nose gently against hers. “Come on, MI5,” he said, releasing her with a stroke of her hair. “Where’s the nobody-fucks-with-me woman who walked into my office and stood her ground relentlessly?”
There were excellent, rational reasons why she ought to keep her distance from him.
Yet right now, she really wanted to shove her face into the space between his ear and shoulder, and just hibernate there. She’d never experienced an attraction quite like this before. Usually if a man was off-limits for any reason, she mentally shrugged and moved him out of that box in her mind. She didn’t have prickling, driving instincts constantly nudging and needling, and saying inappropriate things.
It didn’t feel fleeting and solely physical. It didn’t feel like infatuation.
It felt like…recognition.
That was the most unsettling part.
The concern in Luc’s expression turned wry. “That look isn’t helpful, either. Especially when we’re standing right outside your father’s house.”
At least he’d provided a distraction. Nervous tension replaced by sexual tension.
She shook her head. “What are you doing to me?”
“Back at you.”
Just for a moment, Lily reached out and placed her palm against his chest, resting it there, imagining she could feel his heartbeat through the thickness of his coat. He stood still, then caught her fingers in his when her hand slipped away. He tugged gently, pulling her forward one step at a time until she was standing beneath his chin. Lowering his head, he rested his cheek against hers.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said into her ear. She didn’t know if he meant the next few minutes, or the next few months, or the rest of her life.
She closed her eyes, smelling him, breathing in sync, feeling her body relax.
He kissed her ear, her forehead again, and, so briefly, her mouth. Then, sliding a hand through her hair and cupping her cheek, he murmured, “Enough.”
She stepped away.
Her skin glowed with warmth where he’d touched her. She breathed easier.
Enough.
*
Jack Lamprey was a slight man, with hair that had once been a familiar silvery blond and was now pure white, a high forehead and a wrinkled baby face. It was as if someone had left the Gerber Baby out in the sun too long. His eyes were the same deep, dark brown as Lily’s, but they gleamed with mischief. He was fifty years older than his daughter and his eyes were somehow younger. There was rock-solid, quiet strength in Lily, even when she was doing her best to drive Luc insane.
Jack eyed Luc speculatively over Lily’s head as he hugged her. He ruffled her hair. “It’s a sad day when you bring a Savage to lunch, pet. As Christmas presents go, I think I’d return this one forthwith.”
“Nice to see you again too, Lamprey,” Luc drawled. He strongly suspected that Jack had been standing at a front window a few minutes ago. Their last meeting had been brief, but the elderly man’s attitude had radiated amusement then. There was a definite edge this time that spoke of a protective father rather than a half-hearted family feud.
“Yes,” Lily said repressively. “I heard you’re fairly well acquainted with Luc’s family.”
They were startlingly alike to look at, but what translated into almost ridiculous beauty in Lily didn’t sit so well in a male septuagenarian.
“‘Luc,’ is it? Very informal, aren’t we?” Jack lifted bushy eyebrows, then deliberately let his smile turn reminiscent. “Ah, yes. Darling Célie. How is your charming mother, Luc?”
It would take more than that to provoke Luc at this point. There was already the constant barrage of innuendo and abuse from Byrne. More important, first and foremost, there was Lily, who had tipped his world upside down, without permission, in about five minutes flat. The bar had been raised.
He smiled back. “Much the same as ever. It’s interesting. Charming is the exact word she uses about you. She often sits down with a glass of wine and tells the story of how well you took your rejection.”
Jack’s laugh was genuine. When he bowed in a visual touché and the barbed smile turned into a real grin, the infamous Lamprey charm burst out like a power surge. The explanation of his success with women, Célie Verne excepted, didn’t lie solely in a Swiss bank account. He could have written the book on winning friends and influencing people. His many friends would just be well advised to keep their eyes open and their wallets closed.
“As you and your brother owe your existence to my rejection, you ought to be praising the skies that your distressingly monogamous mother has such poor taste in men. My old friend Cameron is well, I assume? Still behaving like a pair of cooing young doves, are they?”
“Jack,” Lily said before Luc could reply, and the lingering mischief in her father’s eyes faded into fondness.
He took pity on her. “Well, baby, how’s work? Have you shot your final scenes yet? Do I need to steel myself for blood and gore?”
“Final days on set Thursday night and Friday.” Lily seemed relieved to draw the focus away from Luc and his family. “No gore. A lot of flailing and choking, and cosmetic bloating. The execs at CTV weren’t exactly thrilled when I resigned. Poor Gloria is going to meet an ugly end. Don’t tell anyone; I’ll get sued for breaking the confidentiality clause.” She suddenly made a face. “Have you started watching the show again? Awkward, Jack. Really awkward.”
“I record it and get Mrs. Hastings to tell me when it’s safe to look.” Jack coughed. “PGrated, father-friendly scenes have been rather far and few between, recently. I think it’s a good thing you’re moving on. That role was always fluff and filler.” He fixed Luc with another of those assessing stares. “I’m very pleased that you’ll finally be working with a professional—” there was definite emphasis on the word “—who knows what he’s doing.”
“Why, Jack,” Luc said. “I’m touched.”
“Be as touched as you like,” Jack retorted. “Just don’t touch anything you shouldn’t. Savvy?”
“Oh my God.” Lily squeezed her eyes shut, then looked at Luc. “If you’re starting to feel homicidal again, I feel I ought to remind you whose idea this was.”
“That was a momentary outburst in unusual circumstances. I believe my usual subtitle is ‘cold, heartless bastard.’” He ignored Jack’s scowl as they excluded him from the conversation. “My self-control is legendary.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.”
Jack was watching them narrowly. “Oh, Christ,” he said, in resig
ned tones. “A Savage.”
It was a welcome interruption when the front door opened and a group of chattering people came in, until Luc realised they were led by Lady Charlotte Lamprey. She was a familiar figure from the press and public events, a physically lovely woman in her fifties with a butter-soft way of speaking and expensive taste in clothing. Her sculpted face froze when she caught sight of Lily, and Luc immediately tensed in response. Like he was a fucking mother hen.
Or a man who didn’t want to see his woman hurt.
He fully echoed Jack’s sentiments: Oh, Christ.
Jack smiled at his wife and his own body remained relaxed, but his hand curled about his daughter’s elbow in a silent show of support.
It improved Luc’s opinion of him significantly. After what Lily had said in the car, he’d been under the impression that Lamprey was a crap father as well as a substandard husband. However, despite his obvious faults, he clearly cared about her.
“Hello, darling,” Jack said mildly. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“Obviously,” Lady Charlotte murmured. Her lovely, silken voice managed to be far more grating than Lily’s technically flawed tones. Her smile didn’t reach her blue eyes as she looked first at Luc and then somewhere to the left of Lily’s ear. “Hello, Lily.”
“Hello, Charlotte. It’s nice to see you again.” If he’d ever doubted Lily’s abilities as an actor, she would have swept over his scepticism now. She was warm, she was believable, she had just enough polite distance so as not to seem an imposition. “This is Luc Savage. Luc, this is Lady Charlotte Lamprey.”
The whole discreet scene hit a wrong note. There was tangible tension in the air, and he could understand why Lily avoided this house.
He could also understand, as Lily did, why her presence would be a painful and embarrassing reminder of a liaison Lady Charlotte would prefer to forget, but his loyalty in this instance had a single focus. And she was struggling beneath the carefully perfected mask.
Lady Charlotte’s handshake was unenthusiastic. She obviously wanted them both the hell out of her house, but she was a politician to the core. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Savage. I’ve worked with representatives from your company in the past, and your charitable contributions have been very much appreciated, I assure you.”
He wasn’t aware that he’d made any charitable contributions to her campaigns. However, Maria was in charge of their annual tax write-offs and she was fairly vocal around the offices about women’s rights, usually when she was about to ask for a pay raise, so it sounded probable enough. He’d always approved of Lady Charlotte’s political activities in theory, without thinking much about her as a person.
He’d spent his career observing body language and directing the construction and display of a character, and he saw the moment when her own mask cracked. A flash of indecision and torment was quickly swallowed up by the experienced civil servant.
It seemed cruel to both women to prolong this visit. Nobody was winning anything in this situation.
When the small talk faltered, he said casually, “I’m sorry this has to be such a flying visit, but we really ought to get back on the road. We’re due in London this afternoon and I don’t want to risk an accident in this weather.”
“Oh, you aren’t staying for lunch? You’re very welcome.” Lady Charlotte was all smooth politeness again. She voiced the barefaced lie without batting a lash. He could have used her on the stage.
“Of course they’re staying for lunch.” Jack was visibly reluctant to sacrifice his daughter’s company, even for his wife’s peace of mind, but Lily stepped in then, equally firm.
“We really do have to get back to London.” Her eyes briefly held Luc’s before she smiled at her father. “Next time.”
A silent, poignant look was exchanged between husband and wife before Jack gave in.
He walked them outside to the car, under the scrutiny of the interested house guests. The snow was falling again, swirling down in light, erratic patterns, glinting in the grey light. It dusted Jack’s head and shoulders as he stood there in his shirtsleeves, suddenly looking every one of his years. The ageless rogue was gone; a tired old man had taken his place.
“I’m sorry.” Regret threaded through the abrupt words.
Lily blinked rapidly as snowflakes settled on her lashes. She glanced back at the house before she stepped forward to wrap her arms around her father’s neck. “It’s okay, Jack.”
Luc just barely heard the murmured words; the acoustics of the still, icy landscape carried them to his ears.
“Love you, pet,” Jack said gruffly, returning her hug. “Reckon I was unjustly rewarded for my sins when I got you, wasn’t I?” He flicked her cheek with the back of one finger. “We’ll have lunch in London before I go to Venice, shall we? Put on our glad rags and drop a few quid at Claridge’s?”
“Yeah.” Lily smiled back at him. “Call me and we’ll do that.”
There was an odd note in her voice, a dash of resignation underscoring her response.
Luc didn’t think she was expecting lunch at Claridge’s anytime soon.
Of course you forgot about the reservation. Margo’s voice was an ironic echo in his memory. So did I. I ate a sandwich in the green room between scenes. I don’t know why we bother. If there was a twelve-step programme for workaholics, we’d be too busy to go.
He moved his head in a jerking movement. It was one of those uncomfortable moments in life when the mirror cleared for a moment and the reflection wasn’t pretty.
When they neared London, the snow turned to rain, drumming heavily against the car windows. Lily didn’t seem to be in the mood for Christmas music any longer. He would have preferred endless hours of nonstop Bublé to the sight of her glum face in his peripheral vision. It had been his suggestion that they stop at Kirkby and he felt directly responsible for dragging her day down into the depths as well.
He dealt with a lot of temperament, but patient coaxing and support wasn’t his forte. He usually found that a matter-of-fact “get over it and do your job” worked equally well in rehearsals. Actors tended to take a drop of sympathy and run with it all the way to hysteria. He actually cared that Lily was hurting, though, and she wasn’t the type to indulge in self-pity.
Before he could think of something bracing to say—”Sorry that your family life is like something out of a Jackie Collins novel”?—she spoke, as if to herself, staring out the window at the rain. “Jack danced with me in the rain once. When I was about seven.”
That sounded like exactly the sort of irresponsible thing Jack Lamprey would do with a small child. Probably hadn’t even put a coat on her.
“Hmm,” Luc said noncommittally.
“I stayed at his London flat for two weeks. I had a nanny, but I remember he came home early from work on my birthday. It was pouring with rain outside, but he said you have to dance in the rain at least once.”
Luc was fairly sure you didn’t, particularly if you weren’t a fan of head colds, but again, it sounded suitably sentimental and unnecessary of Jack.
He didn’t think she would appreciate a rational reply, so he said, truthfully, “He obviously loves you. Whatever his faults. And we all have those, in one form or another.”
“I have noticed that most men do, yes.” He was relieved by Lily’s return to lightness, after he’d checked that it matched the expression in her eyes. “I, however, like most women, am perfection in human form.”
Close enough to it.
Painful. Physically painful that his mind was even capable of producing a thought that fucking lame. He wouldn’t have said it out loud for a million quid and a write-off of his mortgage. It wasn’t even true. She was a disruptive nuisance. He expected to go completely grey before the run was over.
“No arguments?” she teased him, and he grinned briefly.
“Whatever my many masculine faults, I do have a sense of survival.”
It was still raining when they got back
to her mews flat and he carried in her year’s supply of luggage, but her living room was quiet and warm, and smelled like someone had been doing Christmas baking.
“Is Trix here?” He put the suitcases down by the couch.
Lily looked up from her phone, but kept texting with one hand. “No, she’s got training all afternoon, then a show tonight. I’m just letting her know I’m back safely, despite the snow and dodgy company.”
“I’d be offended, but you did spend the weekend with Bridget and Dylan, so there’s plenty of room for my ego to shift the blame.” He heard a faint beeping in the flat as Lily smiled at him and smoothed back her sodden hair. When wet, it darkened to matte gold.
“I’m guessing that after the read-through tomorrow, I’m going to find you a slave-driving nightmare, so I’ll say thanks for everything now, while I still feel nice.”
“And I’ll acknowledge that, overall, you were slightly less irritating than Bridget.”
He wasn’t aware of walking, nor of her moving, but somehow they ended up within touching distance.
“Jocasta will be in touch with you directly to arrange a schedule around rehearsals.” He could smell her perfume over the scents of cinnamon and cloves. “It’s going to be intensive.”
“I can handle it.” She kept looking at his mouth.
“Keep the cockiness. You’ll need it.” He hesitated. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
“Yes. Enjoy knocking heads together. I hope you get everything sorted.”
Their fingers brushed, came apart and then tangled together. Her breath was quick and shallow, warm against his face.
When the door suddenly banged open and hit the wall, Lily made a noise like a strangled duck and almost shoved him into the coffee table in her haste to propel herself out of his hold.
“Wow,” Trix said from the doorway. She was wearing reindeer leggings and a lurid Christmas jumper, and looked half-asleep. “Imagine how awkward that could have been, if I’d opened the door normally just now, cleared my throat twice, still not been heard over the screaming sexual tension, and then had to go back into the hallway and come in again super loudly.”
