by JS Taylor
So much for him not caring, whispers a victorious part of my brain. But my brief joy is quickly drowned out by words like ‘stalker’, ‘control freak’ and ‘rehab’.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” says James, holding his hands up. “It’s part of our insurance policy. All company property has those apps running, in case they get lost or stolen.”
“You were tracking me?” I realise I am repeating myself, but I’m still struggling to come to terms with his behaviour.
I pause for a moment, realising that James is regarding me with an odd expression.
“What is it?” I manage, disconcerted by the strength of his gaze.
“God you’re beautiful,” he says. The words come out of him like a rush. “I’d forgotten just how beautiful you were. If anything had happened to you in that alley…”
Stay strong, I warn myself, but I feel my heart melting as he stares into my eyes.
Then his arms are around me, pulling me into a deep kiss.
My body turns to warm treacle, and the familiar taste and feel of him has an immediate effect. Despite everything going on in my mind, I find myself sinking into him.
“Oh, Isabella,” he sighs, drawing away to stare into my face, “I have missed you so much.”
He kisses me again, his arms stronger around me. His hand tunnels up to hold my neck, fixing my head against the strength of his passion. I am pinned tight in his arms.
His other hand roams over the curve of my waist, as though he wants to stroke every part of me at once. His fingertips sweep under the hem of my skirt, and my body convulses at his touch.
I can hardly tell where I end and he begins. I feel in his kiss that there is so much being said without words. It’s as though he is claiming me back as his own.
The thought brings a shock of reality, and I force myself back from the floating heavenly place James is taking me to.
“Stop,” I gasp. Marshalling every particle of self-control, I push away from him. The heat and closeness of him is unbearably difficult to leave. I feel as though I’ve been severed.
We stand staring at each other. He is breathing heavily. I can make out the definition of his chest rising and falling fast beneath his T-shirt.
There is something unreadable in his expression. For a moment he moves fractionally, as if to take hold of me again. There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite read.
“Wait,” I manage, remembering the inescapable strength of his arms.
His face twists a fraction, as though I’ve caused him pain. And then his expression changes, like he’s forcing control back into his body.
He pushes both hands though his brown hair.
“Jeez, Isabella,” he manages, “do you have any idea how difficult it is not to take you back into that alley and fuck you? Whether you want to or not?”
He says this last part with a dangerous flash of his eyes.
“You wouldn’t,” I manage. Though looking at him now, I’m not so sure.
“No, I wouldn’t,” he admits. Then he takes another step forward, and I feel myself held again on both sides. “But I could.”
There is a wicked grin on his face, and I feel a flash of pure lust surge though me.
I stare back into his green eyes, and then the events of the last few days come back to me in a rush.
“Why didn’t you call?” I blurt suddenly, the pain and the hurt tunnelling up. James removes his hands and steps back fractionally.
His face makes a round of emotions, and he settles on confusion.
“I did call,” he says. “I called and I emailed and I tried to get you on Skype and Facebook and Twitter. I thought you were ignoring me.”
I open my mouth and shut it again.
“You weren’t ignoring me,” he concludes, turning the words over slowly, as though realising something profound. There is a glimmer of something in his eyes. Relief?
He takes another step towards me, but I raise my hand, just a little.
It’s all too much to take in. His intoxicating proximity, after all the heartache.
“I haven’t seen you in…” and then I stop myself mid-protest, realising the next words out of my mouth will sound ridiculous.
“In four days,” he finishes. “But it feels like much longer. I feel that way too.”
My eyes search his face, wondering how he can say the right thing so easily. I have so many questions.
We stare at each other for a long moment, assessing, unsure.
“Come on,” he says finally, “I’m guessing one of the reasons you ended up wandering around in Camden is because you went out drinking without eating properly.”
I nod shamefacedly. This is partially right. The rest we need to talk about.
Rehab, hisses my brain, remembering the headlines.
“I know a great burger place near here,” he says. “And I have such crazy jet lag, I could eat at any time. Let me buy you a cheeseburger and we can talk.”
A cheeseburger. I can’t help but grin at him. Coming from James Berkeley, it all sounds so normal.
“Surely you mean a Michelin star steak?” I tease, unable to help myself.
“You haven’t seen this burger place,” he replies. “So. Can I tempt you, Ms. Green?”
Always, Mr Berkeley.
“Ok,” I agree, my mind whirling.
Then you can explain to me what you were doing in rehab.
Chapter 5
The burger restaurant is, quite simply, out of this world. It’s a riot of modern chandeliers and sleek black tables set in an old Regency Townhouse.
James guides me to an orange leather banquet, and I can’t keep the smile from my face.
“I should have known you wouldn’t take me to just any old burger joint,” I say, trying to control the amazement in my expression. This is some place.
He gives an innocent smile. “What? This place? It does good burgers. I only take you to the best places, Isabella. You know that.”
I allow my gaze to roam around the eclectic décor. The walls are covered in edgy art and illustration works which contrast brazenly against the ornate period features. There’s a brightly lit wall of different coloured bottles, fronted by a sleek hot-pink bar. Behind it, three black-shirted barmen are mixing incredible looking cocktails at lightning speed.
The whole restaurant is like an explosion of decadent good taste.
“Do you like it?” he asks, watching me stare at the chandeliers.
“I love it,” I admit. “It’s just on the right side of too much.”
He gives a little smile. “Sounds like a girl I know.”
I look away from him, embarrassed. “I’m not too much.”
“The right side of too much,” he corrects. I look up to see he’s gazing at me intently, and I look away again, with a little smile.
Despite the drama and uncertainty, I realise I am bathing in the golden warmth of James’s presence. After four days of cold empty pain, it feels like sunshine.
It’s wrong, I know. I should be more wary. I just can’t help myself. What he does to me goes beyond logic.
Then I remember. Lorna and Sandy and Alex.
“Shit!” I crash my palm to my forehead.
“What is it?” James looks alarmed.
“I left Lorna and the others in the pub,” I confess. “They’ll be really worried. And Lorna has my phone.”
James visibly relaxes.
“Is that all?” he murmurs. “Since you manage to put yourself in life and death situations without thinking, I had assumed it would be serious.” He sighs. “Give me a moment.”
He takes out his phone and makes a brief call. I hear a few words exchanged. Then he hangs up, and in a second, his phone beeps.
“Here, that’s Lorna’s number,” he says, handing me his phone.
I stare at him in amazement.
“Are you a spy or something?”
He laughs. “I made a call to someone I don’t ordinarily speak to.”
“Ben Gracey?”
I’d forgotten about Ben Gracey.
James gives a tight nod. He and James don’t get along, but they’re relatives. And Ben must have Lorna’s number, since he was the one who she drank herself into a diabetic coma with last week.
As far as I know, Lorna hasn’t seen Ben Gracey since that night. But she is somewhat secretive, where he is concerned.
“That was good of you,” I murmur. I know how James feels about Ben. It must have cost him to ask a favour.
“How did you know Ben would take your call?” I ask.
“Let’s just say, Ben Gracey has a vested interest in taking my calls,” says James. He gives a slight smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I press to dial the number, and after talking down a frantic and tipsy Lorna, return the phone and my full attention to James.
“Let me order you a drink,” he says, signalling the waiter.
James orders two martinis and two cheeseburgers from the waiter, before turning to catch my glowering expression.
“I know the best food here,” he says, opening his hands towards me in protest. “And they do the best martinis in London. I couldn’t have you miss out. Besides,” he says, his face turning serious, “after what you just put me through, I think you should accept my being in charge.”
After what I just put him through?
“And what about me?” I counter, thinking of the torture of the last few days. “Why would you leave without telling me why?”
The two martinis arrive, and ever the gentleman, James waits for me to pick mine up first. I let the mixture of sour and sweet roll over my tongue. He’s right. It’s really good.
He takes a grateful sip of his drink.
“Have you been looking at the celebrity news?” he asks.
I blush. “Yes,” I say, and a little burst of anger goes off in my head. Why shouldn’t I look when he’s lied to me?
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,” says James mildly. He takes another sip of his martini, and leaves a maddening pause.
“So, is it true,” I accuse, after I can’t take the silence anymore. “Do I need to know this about you, James? That you can lie to me so convincingly?”
“I would never lie to you,” he says softly. The conviction in his voice startles me.
I lay my hands flat on the table, defeated.
“Then tell me,” I say, closing my eyes and feeling very tired suddenly. “What is going on?”
James nods.
“I will tell you what is going on,” he replies, his clipped aristocratic accent snapping around every word. “What’s going on is I tried calling you, emailing you. I messaged you on every social media I could think of. Do you never check your computer, Isabella?”
To my shame, James looks truly hurt.
Whoa. That’s put me in my place. I never thought to check anything but my phone. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.
“No,” I admit quietly. “But you never called me. I checked my phone.”
“I did call you,” says James. “The number would have come up blocked.”
This surprises me. I did get plenty of blocked calls; I assumed they were from my catering company, trying to book me on a shift.
“That was you?” I manage weakly.
“I only turned on the iPad tracker because I was worried about you,” he adds. “I flew back today because… Well, never mind why. But in any case, I saw you were in Camden, so I came over to this part of town thinking I could ask you why you were blanking me. And then I saw you’d disappeared into a back alley. In Camden,” he emphasises the words. “Not smart.” The anger returns to his face.
“Why were you calling me on a blocked number?” I say, a little of my own annoyance rising. What does he expect, when he doesn’t call on his own phone?
“Because I didn’t have my phone,” he admits.
Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“And why not?” I say, holding my breath in fear of his reply.
“Because I had to check it in,” he says, “for rehab.”
Chapter 6
The confession crashes around in my brain.
“So you were in rehab,” I say. “After everything you said to me.”
Two cheeseburgers arrive in front of us, and I wait a moment to be served. The waiter places ketchup and mustard bottles covered in diamante crystals alongside our burgers, and then retreats.
The food looks incredible. The burgers are thick slabs of prime beef in sourdough buns, with a pile of perfect crisp fries on the side.
“Try the fries,” suggests James. “They’re finished in parmesan and truffle oil. It’s an incredible combination.”
He’s waiting for me to eat first, but I am too mad to even consider it.
“Answer me,” I demand. “Why did you tell me the drugs problem was in the past?”
“Isabella, did you read about the movie cast in the documents I sent you?”
The unexpected question totally wrong-foots me.
“Yes. I… What has that to do with anything?”
“Did you perhaps notice that Natalie Ennis is a supporting actress?”
“Yes. Of course.” No point denying it. Natalie is beyond famous.
“And you’re aware that Natalie’s personal life is somewhat chaotic at the moment?”
I shrug. “It’s all over the newspapers and magazines.”
James raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, as if I should have now reached some logical conclusion.
I get a sudden sense of where he’s going with this, and clamp my mouth tightly shut. Oh dear. Have I got this wrong again?
He stares at me coolly. “Regrettably, Natalie has succumbed to her personal demons, at a very inconvenient time for filming. I had to visit her in rehab and decide for myself whether she is still suitable to appear in my movie.”
He pulls a strange little smile, as though he’s inwardly laughing at me.
“Why did you think I visited rehab?” he says, his voice dripping with acted innocence.
My face is now the same colour as the jewelled ketchup bottle on the table.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I thought you’d checked in.”
“Not very trusting,” he notes.
My cheeks are aflame.
“No,” I admit.
“Well then,” he says, after a moment. “However will you make it up to me?”
I stare back at him.
“Don’t worry, Isabella,” he adds. “I have a few ideas. You can start by eating your burger. You’ll find out later what I have in mind for your punishment.”
He says the words casually, but the effect they have on my body is instant. I feel a sudden flush of warmth pool in my groin. Oh no. How does he have this effect?
Berkeley gives a half smile, clearly well aware of what his words are doing to me.
“Eat your burger,” he adds, nodding to my plate.
I hesitate for a moment, and then, realising he’s waiting on me to eat himself, I pick up my burger.
I take the most ladylike bite I can manage and swallow a delicious mouthful of meat, cheese and homemade bun.
“Mmmm,” I say automatically. “This is really good.”
“I’m glad you like it.” James picks up his own burger and manages to take a man-sized bite without spilling a single shred of lettuce.
They must train them at private school, I think miserably, wondering how a society lady would manage a hamburger.
“What are you thinking about?” asks James.
I give an embarrassed smile.
“I’m wondering how a real English lady would manage to eat a burger gracefully,” I admit.
He looks genuinely surprised.
“An English lady probably wouldn’t eat a burger,” he says.
“That’s what I thought.” I feel an unwelcome surge of class anxiety.
“Which is why it wouldn’t be much fun dating one,” he says. His eyes are searching my face, trying to read me. “Besides,” he picks up his burger, “I happen to think you have beautiful table manners. But if it makes you feel any better, I will attempt to eat in a slapdash fashion.”
His upper-class accent makes everything he says sound formal. So, I’m not prepared for James to push the burger into his mouth, taking a mismatched bite and letting a healthy amount of lettuce fall onto the plate.
He grins at me and swallows. “It tastes much better this way,” he says, going in for another bite. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
“Stop,” I laugh, batting his hand.
He returns the burger to the plate and dabs his mouth with a napkin, his expression becomes serious again. “I love to see you laugh like that,” he says. For a moment he looks unsure of himself. “I don’t know how often you would laugh like that in a relationship with me.”
I feel my blood freeze, wondering where he’s leading.
“What do you mean?” I whisper, all the laughter gone from my voice.
He sighs and takes a long sip of his martini.
“Something to discuss later. In the meantime, there is something I flew back to London to tell you,” he says.
This sounds bad. I stare back at him, waiting for an answer.
“The movie has been rescheduled,” he says.
Oh. I feel disappointment wash through me. After all my uncertainty, I had been excited to act in his movie.
“When for?” I say, toying with my burger to disguise my feelings.
“For tomorrow,” he says flatly.
I almost drop the burger.
“Are you serious?”
“I never joke about movie timings.”
“You start filming tomorrow?”
I pick up my martini and take a sip.
“Yes. Well. We appear on set tomorrow. You’ll have a few days to get settled and learn your lines.”
A few days!
“Is that… normal,” I ask, “to have a few days to learn a script before filming?”
“Not ordinarily, no,” says James, “but you are superbly talented, Isabella. I’m sure the challenge will pose no problem for you.”
