Being together wouldn’t be easy, there were logistical issues to get out of the way, but they both wanted to be together, and that was a good start.
He toweled off, and dressed in clean jeans and a T-shirt, and wandered barefoot out of the room in search of coffee. The apartment he’d seen little of the previous night was small. Her bedroom faced the street. He opened the door of the room next to it, and stopped, shock stealing his breath. Piles of cardboard boxes covered the available floor space, stacked waist high and above.
His mind flashed back to his childhood. To his first home, where getting anywhere was impossible due to his mother’s overwhelming compulsion to hoard. He closed his eyes tight, and tried to quiet his racing heartbeat. Then he opened his eyes again and looked closer.
Yes, there were boxes everywhere. But the piles of newspapers, the random nature of things collected was absent. It’s not the same. The room was used for storage, not as a repository for clutter. The boxes had words written on them with heavy, black marker. ‘Kitchen, Living Room.’ He walked out and closed the door.
Down a short corridor, the apartment opened into a cozy living area. Two large sofas dominated the space, with a coffee table between them. He walked through a doorway on the far side of the room and found a small kitchen.
She wasn’t kidding. The fridge was empty apart from a pint of milk, and the cupboards were bare. He made a cup of coffee, took it to the sofa, and flicked on the TV at a national news channel. Maybe they could take a trip this weekend down to Kent. He’d told his uncle the news about getting the part in Solo, and the older man was delighted, just as Sholto had known he would be. At the same time, they could visit Max’s father…
“Sholto Kincaid.” His attention snapped to the television screen to see his face and that of the taxi driver from the previous night.
“On the line we have Mr. Dawson, the taxi-driver in this picture. Good morning, Mr. Dawson.”
A disembodied voice responded. “Good morning, Eamonn.”
“That’s a great selfie. Tell us about it.”
“I picked Mr. Kincaid up at the airport last night. My wife shared the picture on Facebook—I really didn’t expect what’s happened since.” The guy’s voice sounded panicked. “I mean, she just wanted to show her friends, but somehow everyone knows about it. I’ve had television, radio and the press on the phone this morning, wanting to know where I dropped him, how long he’s in the country. I really didn’t expect this.”
“And you haven’t told them, have you?” The presenter flashed a winning smile. “I have to tell you we’re hoping you’re going to tell us where you dropped him. We can make out a few details in the background, but…”
“He’s a nice bloke. He deserves his privacy. One of the tabloids offered my wife money, but I didn’t tell her either, so I want everyone to back off, because I intend to keep his location secret.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dawson.” The picture of the two of them vanished from the screen. “So there you have it, folks. Sholto Kincaid is somewhere in London this morning. If you feel like contacting the station, just give us a call, Sholto.” A number flashed across the bottom of the screen. “And if anyone has any sightings to share, just let us know.”
“Shit.” Sholto turned off the TV, strode to the window, and pulled back the net curtain.
The street was empty, but the television station had just effectively put a price on his head.
*****
The meeting was going well. Cam had given thought to their discussion on the plane, and was enthusiastic about negotiating with Shelly Green. Marie, the receptionist, was happy to go along with whatever was decided, as long as it meant she wasn’t out of a job.
When Max’s phone buzzed, she glanced at the caller ID and smiled. “Excuse me a moment.” She hadn’t told the others she had Sholto holed up in her apartment. She left the room. “Hi.”
“We’ve got a problem.” His voice was urgent and businesslike. “Have you seen the news?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“The goddamned taxi driver last night.” He let loose a string of colorful curses. “He wanted a photo with me—I should have said no.”
“Tell me what’s happened.”
“Ever since the interview the entire fucking world is obsessed with where I am. What I’m doing. Your house was in the background, and it’s splashed all over the news. I need to get out of here, pronto.”
“I’ll call you back.” Her mind raced over the possibilities as she strode back into the boardroom and sat. “We have an urgent job. That was Sholto Kincaid on the phone. The paparazzi are on his tail, and he needs to disappear.”
“Sholto Kincaid?” Marie’s voice was so high, it was probably disturbing bats within a five mile radius. “He’s in the country? I just love—”
Max shook her head. “Not helping, Marie.”
Marie sucked in her bottom lip. “Sorry, it’s just he’s so gorgeous.”
Before her receptionist had a chance to make it worse, and die of embarrassment when she learned her boss was sleeping with her crush, Max spoke. “He’s in my apartment.”
Marie’s mouth gaped. She blinked.
Max turned to Cam. “Kathryn Hazzard’s gate lodge is empty, and I have the key. I’ll call her now and clear it with her, but I need you to pick him up and drive him out there. I gave him a set of keys this morning, so he’ll be able to escape through the back garden and get into the lane behind the house. They could have identified the house by now. You know where the laneway is?”
Cam nodded.
“Go now. I’ll call Kathryn.”
Cam followed her into her office, where Max searched her top drawer for the keys to Hazzard Hall’s gate lodge. Kathryn and Daniel were in America at the moment, and she’d been given the keys for emergencies. This sure felt like one.
“I’ll call and let him know you’re on the way.”
After she told Sholto of the plan, Max called Kathryn’s number.
“Hey, hon. What’s going on?” Kathryn’s voice was sleepy.
Max screwed up her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think. It must be the middle of the night there.”
“It’s not like you to make that mistake, hang on.” Max heard a man’s voice in the background. “It’s Max. I’ll take it in the other room.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you two.”
“Don’t worry about it. Daniel’s just being grumpy. I’m so glad to catch up. It’s been ages since we’ve spoken.”
Guilt that she was ringing Kathryn because she wanted something, not just to talk, filled Max. They’d drifted apart since Kathryn had followed Daniel out to California, and even when her friend was in the country, she was accompanied by her fiancé, so things weren’t the same. Her spare room was full of Kathryn’s possessions from Hazzard Hall while they decided where they would eventually settle.
“Are you seeing anyone? Is this a call about a boy?” Kathryn teased.
“About a man, actually. Sholto Kincaid.”
Kathryn gasped. “The Damon Fitz guy? Jeez, he’s so frigging hot. Don’t tell me you and he…”
“Yes. We’re…um…” She swallowed. “We’re moving in together.”
Her friend’s shriek was earsplitting. “You dark horse! When did this happen? I want to know all the details. Spill.”
Max didn’t have time for that. By now he’d be scaling her garden’s back wall, and climbing into Cam’s car. “I’ll call you in a few hours and fill you in, but right now I need your help.”
*****
The doorbell buzzed. And there were muffled sounds of other bells in the building buzzing too. Sholto checked out of the window to see a phalanx of reporters massed outside. One of them was pressing all the bells next to the front door, presumably hoping someone would be unthinking enough to activate the door release without checking.
It would only be a matter of time before that happened.
He walked to the back of th
e apartment, and looked out the window, down the long garden and high wall. By now, they’d have discovered the lane. The doorbell buzzed again.
He put on his shoes and socks, and pulled on his leather jacket. Max’s neighbors didn’t need this. He didn’t need it. But the window for escape was firmly closed. It was time to put an end to this.
He dialed Max. “It’s too late. They have me staked out. Call off the plan. I’m going out.”
He heard her breathe in. “You’ll need a car. I’ll get her to drive around.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll deal with it. I’ll call you later.” He terminated the call, and dialed The West Continental.
“It’s Sholto Kincaid. I have the penthouse suite booked from Sunday, but my plans have changed and I want to check in today.”
“Of course, Mr Kincaid.” A click of keystrokes, then the receptionist continued, “Your suite is free at the moment, so I can do that for you, Sir.”
“Great. There’s one other thing, I’m having a little issue with paparazzi. I need a driver to pick me up.” He gave the receptionist Max’s address.
“I’m sending one right now. They should be with you in ten minutes.”
There was no damn way he was going to be a prisoner. No way he would allow his life or Max’s to change because of others’ curiosity. Once they knew Max and he were involved they’d hound her too, and he was determined to protect her. To not let that happen.
He waited five minutes, then stowed the keys in his pocket, picked up his bag, and left the apartment.
Cameras flashed when he opened the front door. The air filled with excited questions.
He pulled the front door closed. “Give me some room, please.” He pointed at the railings outside the house. “I think the people who live here have been disturbed enough this morning. Clear the doorstep and I’ll talk to you over there.”
The crowd obediently cleared. He strode down the steps and stood with his back to the railings.
“Sholto, over here.”
“Who are you visiting, Sholto?”
“Is your girlfriend inside?”
He held up a hand. “I’ll make a short statement. I flew into the country yesterday, and stayed the night with a friend and business colleague. There’s nothing romantic going on between us.”
“Who’s the friend?” A rogue reporter shouted.
“My friend’s identity isn’t important. She’s not in the public eye.” He plastered on his most charming smile.
“A secret girlfriend?” another asked.
There was no way he would let Max be dissected by the press. She’d had a hard enough time being splashed on the front pages of the papers with the Hazzard Hall scandal, and there was still that video from school out there—he hadn’t seen it for years, but it could still surface.
“As you know from my recent interview, I’m single, and I’m not seeing anyone right now. I know you have to get pictures, but I don’t have anything else to add.”
A black Mercedes pulled up at the kerb, and flashed its lights.
“I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a business meeting and my ride is here. I would take the Tube, but I don’t want to cause a sensation.”
Laughter rippled through the rank of massed people.
“A couple more photos, Sholto?”
Sholto posed for picture after picture. He smiled till his cheeks ached. Then he glanced pointedly at his watch. “I have to go.” He grinned again. “Have a good day, guys.”
He climbed into the back seat of the Mercedes with a sigh of relief.
The driver avoided the front entrance and took him straight to the underground car park. He unlocked the private elevator with a code, and held the door open until Sholto was safely inside. “Just press P to go straight up to the penthouse, Sir. They’ll check you in up there to save you having to brave Reception.”
Sholto flicked open his wallet.
“No need, Sir. It’s all part of the service.”
“What’s your name?”
“Gerard.”
Sholto pulled out a fifty anyway, and shoved it into Gerard’s hand. “I want to keep you sweet, I might need you again.”
The driver smiled, and stowed the note in his pocket. “Anytime, Sir. Have a good day.”
Chapter Seventeen
There’s nothing romantic going on between us. I’m single, and I’m not seeing anyone right now. Max pressed Pause. Sholto’s face froze on screen, captured in a genuine, winning smile. If it weren’t for the ache between her thighs from a night of sex she’d believe him herself.
When he’d called to say he was in the penthouse suite in The West Continental, she’d dashed home to pack an overnight bag, heart quickening in anticipation of joining him.
If she hadn’t flicked on the TV out of habit, she would have missed it.
He denied they were even casually dating. While she’d made a fool of herself telling Cam and Kathryn they were moving in together. Confusion, mixed with betrayal churned inside. The awful feeling of being exposed as a naïve idiot sickened her. Once again, courting public opinion, he’d played the part he thought other people wanted him to, and humiliated her in the process.
The reporters were gone, but the walls boxed her in, like a prison. The desire to escape, to run and hide from him and the world sped through her veins like quicksilver. A day spent with Sholto would be nothing more than a booty-call. He’d charm her. Talk her around. Use his body’s magnetism to hold her in sway, and smooth over the situation.
She didn’t want to be mollified. Didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his easy smile and clever words.
A sour taste filled her mouth, just like fifteen years ago when kids laughed and pointed as he publicly rejected her. How could she have let this happen again? With shaking hands, she snatched her car keys from the table by the front door, and ran.
*****
Thin slivers of ice floated in the silver bucket holding an open bottle of champagne. Two unfilled glasses sat next to it. The chocolate strawberries had melted. And Max wasn’t answering her cellphone. He called down to reception, and before he got out the full sentence, the receptionist was delivering the same message she had the last four times he’d called. “No, Mr. Kincaid, there have been no messages for you. Yes, I know you’re expecting a guest. She hasn’t arrived.”
He called Max again, and left another message. “I’m freaking out here. Call me and let me know you’re okay.”
The last time they spoke she’d joked about packing a bag, saying she wouldn’t bother with a nightgown or underwear because she wouldn’t be needing it. The urge to leave the hotel and go to her apartment was overwhelming, although by now she must have left. It had been two hours.
His phone rang.
“Max?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice sounded weird. “I just...I just need a little time.”
He sank onto the sofa. “What do you mean? Has your car broken down or something?” He stood. “Tell me where you are, I’ll come get you.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m fine. I’m confused. I need a little time to sort things out in my head. I’m not at home.”
“Where the hell are you then?” Hot anger flowed through his veins. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours, thinking you’re in some sort of trouble. I need to see you, Max. We had plans.”
“I know. But you have to give me some space.” She pulled in a ragged breath. “I’m sorry. We have to talk about the reunion. The client, Cam Bailey, will meet you at your hotel at seven on Sunday evening, you can get acquainted, and both travel on from there.”
Sholto rubbed the back of his head. She was acting as though last night had never happened. As if business was all they had between them.
“Max. Talk to me.”
“Just tell me you understand the arrangements.”
His teeth were gritted so hard his jaw ached. “I understand. I’ll be ready.”
“You
’ll arrange a car for the evening.”
“Yes. That was in the contract.”
“Thank you.” She was silent for a moment. “I’ll call you Monday morning and we’ll talk.”
“It’s Friday. Monday is a lifetime away.” Desperation ate at his gut. “Come on, Max. Just get in your car and drive to the hotel.”
“I can’t. I can’t now. I’ll see you Monday.”
The line went dead. Sholto’s thumb hovered over redial, then with a curse, he tossed the cell phone onto the sofa. I’m not begging. He poured a glass of champagne, downed it in one, and poured another.
Everyone gets dumped sometime or another whether they admit it or not. He’d had women tell him it was over before, but not like this. This time, he hadn’t treated her casually, hadn’t screwed around with other women.
He’d taken off his mask and showed her something real, instead of the fantasy. For the first time, he’d been open about his early life. About his mother’s hoarding and the ugly truth about how he failed to protect her.
He’d been singing in the shower this morning happy because he’d spilled his guts to Max and she accepted him. What a complete sap. It hurt. It fucking hurt. While he’d been worshiping her body the night before, she’d been preparing to run. He swallowed another mouthful of champagne and lay down on the sofa. Covered his eyes with his arm.
She’d called about the reunion, as if knowing that blowing him off might make him get on the next plane out of here. But he was bigger than that. They’d made a trade. A favor for a favor. Come Monday, he’d insist she saw him, he’d listen to what she had to say and then he’d leave.
Maybe it was payback for the way he humiliated her when they were teenagers. Maybe she was just shallow and wanted Damon Fitz in her bed, rather than Sholto Kincaid.
I don’t know, and I don’t fucking care.
If that were true, why did he feel as though someone had ripped out his heart?
The scene was set for a monumental pity party. He poured himself another glass and swallowed it like water. He could sit here getting drunk and order up more booze to keep him that way until Sunday, or he could escape this fucking purgatory.
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