by Lucy Parker
Releasing her, Griff leaned against the railing, his eyes intent. “You’ve been acting strangely ever since we went to Mallowren, and I doubt very much that it’s just because we’re spectacularly good together in bed. What was the inciting incident in your case?”
Habit kicked in long enough that Freddy tossed him a look between her lashes. “It was spectacular, and I’m sure your impressive skills in the sack are enough to make anyone come over all peculiar.”
The faint lines at the corners of his dark eyes deepened in amusement, but he was waiting. She sobered. “It was a two-for-one breakdown. Thanks to Sadie Foster and one of my many and worst past mistakes coming back to bite me on the arse.” Actually, from what she remembered of that time with Drew Townseville and his own style in the sack, that was an unfortunately apt choice of phrase. She took a deep breath. “And the letters.”
His gaze sharpened, and she could almost see the jaguar pricking up his ears. “One of which you nicked and then almost did a swan-dive into the patio trying to retrieve.”
Freddy paused. “Just for future reference, I’m not sure I rate eagle eyes as an attractive quality in a man.”
It was his turn to leave a barely perceptible gap in the volley of words then, before he said, “Does that imply that I feature in your current vision of the future?” So restrained and unemotional, but his hand closed on the rail, hard.
It was all-cards-on-the-table day. And it would be quite easy to start wheezing again, from nerves this time. Just to add a real note of sexiness. “My vision of the future has been swamped in mist, like our friend the Littlebourne Fog, but...” Freddy reached out and touched him again, spreading her fingers over his ribs. “The brightest light I see right now is you.” He was very still. “I don’t know how you feel—and what I have to say might change things—but whatever happens, I feel very...blessed to have this.” She smiled faintly. “To experience this myself, for real, and not just pretend to know what it’s like by reading scripted words.” Her fingers curled into a loose fist against his shirt. “I don’t know what comes next, but I know it physically hurt this weekend to feel like I’d just found you, just found...it—” the only way Freddy could put it, rather helplessly “—and then be wrenched away from you. I know I pushed you away, but—”
His mouth was on hers again, his hands in her hair, holding her head so he could kiss her deeply, with the passion that flared between them so quickly, so easily. It was such a shell shock to go from the life she’d been living for years to this complete upheaval of everything she thought she’d known, that she was a bit afraid. But pressed against him, smelling the scent of his cologne, tasting his mouth, feeling his hair against her neck, she couldn’t imagine not having this. Not wanting this.
If anyone whistled at them this time, neither of them heard it. They were both short of breath when Griff lifted his head, his eyes still full of heat and something else that made her chest skip and flutter.
He ran his thumbs over her cheeks again. “You’re so beautiful.” As he had after the first time they’d kissed, he called her that so matter-of-factly.
Freddy’s instinctive, snorting disclaimer went unsaid, because he so obviously meant it. Stroking her lips, which felt plumped up and tingly—like the rest of her—she sought for the right words in response. Meaningful words.
“I fancy you like mad, too,” she said, because why be romantic when you could be tremendously anticlimactic.
His mouth twitched, and that amused light sprang back into his eyes. “I did get the impression you might when you started trying to climb my body in public like you were shinning up a fireman’s pole.”
If he wanted her to look around in mortification, he was out of luck. She managed to keep this blush internal. “Let’s hope some of your TV viewers were watching. It’ll do wonders for your reputation. According to reviews of your programmes, people find you sexy but stiff-necked.”
The amusement deepened. “Well, who listens to critics, anyway?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Freddy looped her arms back around his neck. “Every so often, they say very lovely things.”
“True things.” He ran his hand over the top of her head, smoothing her curls. It was such a spontaneously affectionate gesture that it affected her even more than being found beautiful.
The way she felt about him...
Enough was enough. It felt utterly wrong to hug her fears to herself when she trusted him so implicitly.
“Griff.” At the renewed seriousness in her tone, he lifted his head. “Your film on Henrietta...”
“I appreciate your encouragement on the subject,” Griff said, with surprising patience, faced with what he obviously feared was another burst of optimism, “but as we don’t have the funding, I think I’ve exhausted all current avenues where that project is concerned.”
“And what if there was renewed public interest in Henrietta and The Velvet Room?” Freddy asked. “What if there was an entirely new angle to that story? What then?” She was barely breathing, so close was her observation of his reaction.
The quiet that followed was so heavy with meaning that her skin started prickling.
“Freddy,” Griff said. “What exactly did you find in that letter?”
Her lips parted—and then, with the perfect, or imperfect, timing of everything else today, his phone rang. He ignored it, his full attention on her, but it stopped trilling for only about three seconds before another call came in.
“I think you’d better answer it,” Freddy said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, seriously on edge now. “It might be good news from your team.”
With a muttered curse and a swift, piercing look at her, Griff pulled the phone out and checked the screen. “It’s Charlie. Christ, what have they done now?” He swept his thumb across the screen. “Please tell me they haven’t ordered something else... What?” His voice went sharp and incredulous, then his eyes closed for a moment in an obvious prayer for patience. “We’re on our way back now... Freddy. She’s with me... Mind your own business.”
He hung up and returned the phone to his pocket, and Freddy winced. “Well?”
“The forklift that was supposed to be removing the crates stacked against the side of the theatre.” Griff swore again. “It had a mechanical failure.”
“What, so the crates are still there?” It was obviously more than that. Freddy wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The signs for this performance turning out well were really not promising.
“That’s the least of the problem. When the mechanism failed, that fucking idiot Dylan Waitely was driving, larking about with one of his mates on the crew, and he ended up driving straight into the wall.”
“Oh my God.” Freddy stared at him. “Are they all right?”
“They’re fine. Waitely got a minor bump on the head, but I doubt if he has any viable brain cells to lose. However, we now have a forklift sticking out of a crumbled wall, and a hell of a mess.”
Freddy put her hands on her hips. “Jesus. What else could go wrong?” Then, with a hasty glance up at the sky and a rap on a wooden post, “Rhetorical question!”
Griff put an arm around her, in a way that was both cosy and bossy, shepherding her down the road. “Can you come back with me now or do you have something to do first?” He looked down at her. “Do you need to see your father?”
“Oh, I expect he’ll be in touch before too much time has passed,” Freddy said bleakly. “No, I’ll come with you now.” He rubbed his thumb against the top of her arm. “I’d better make sure enough of The Henry is still standing that we can go ahead with the show on Friday. And check that Dylan and his friend are still in one piece, I suppose,” she added, with what she considered a perfectly understandable lack of enthusiasm.
She’d been worried about Ferren going rogue and doing something to trash the production; she hadn’t actually consi
dered Dylan as the potential, accidental saboteur. He rarely made it through a run without breaking someone’s heart, but he was usually professional enough—and had enough ego—to want the show itself to run smoothly.
This summer was turning everyone upside down.
In the car, Griff fielded constant calls through the wireless system, most of them from annoyed people back at Highbrook, while Freddy tried to study the scenes she was supposed to be rehearsing today, hoping that any disruption to the schedule would be minor.
Between two fraught phone conversations, she tapped her stylus pen against the screen of her iPad where she’d copied in her most troublesome dialogue. “By the way—what were you doing on Tower Bridge?”
Griff glanced at her as he drove. “I don’t know. I had some of the old Wythburn Group photographs on my desk, and I kept focusing on Violet.” He reached out a muscular arm and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Probably because you wouldn’t stay out of my mind, and you seem to be unusually preoccupied with my great-aunt. I had to cross the bridge for my last meeting, and I felt...drawn, somehow, to stop and see where she died. Which was ridiculous.”
“Or directed by the higher forces,” Freddy said, with resonant dramatic effect, playing with his fingers. She snuck a peek at him, and was rewarded with a derisive sound. Despite everything, it gave her a little bubbling spring of happiness in her tummy, being back with him, the grumpy, sexy cynic.
“Despite what my parents have done to the lawn,” Griff said, and, without looking away from the road, brought her hand to his mouth and gave her a playful nip, “we do not live in an Allegra Hawthorne novel. At least until you land yourself a role in the Anathorn musical. Don’t be fanciful.”
Freddy turned her head to look out the side window and hide her smile.
In a series of increasing disasters, it was nice to know that some things remained predictable.
* * *
Ignoring the raised eyebrows they got from some of the enormous population of people who seemed to be invading the place on a daily basis, Griff kept his fingers linked through Freddy’s as they cut through the woodland path to The Henry. He’d cast his eyes up at her spiralling imagination on the way back from London, but he was currently heeding a driving, internal voice that wanted her close. Just in case.
Of what, he had no idea, but enough things had been going wrong lately that his protective instincts where she was concerned were firing off with a vengeance.
He looked down at the top of her curly head. She was still bedraggled from the rainfall, there were dark smudges under her eyes, and she looked exhausted. He could hear her muttering breathlessly to herself, and God knew what bombshell she was about to drop on his life next—and he felt so fucking blessed. She’d said it perfectly. He’d never expected to experience this. If he’d tried to imagine what it would be like he’d have been so far off, and whatever happened next, he felt he’d been astonishingly, probably undeservedly blessed.
He realised she was almost jogging to keep up with his stride, and slowed down a bit to match her normal pace.
When they emerged from the cover of the trees, The Henry came into sight, looking dour and stately under the grey, overcast sky, but otherwise normal. However, from the racket coming from the far side of the building, it wasn’t difficult to locate where Waitely had decided to regress to his undoubtedly unruly childhood and joyride a forklift like it was a bloody bumper car.
Freddy’s hand came up to rub at his arm as they stood surveying the damage. An entire section of the back wall had collapsed, spilling bricks and tiles out across the grass, exactly like a toddler had been playing and thrown building blocks everywhere during a tantrum. Griff could see glimpses of the interior of the back rooms, which he sincerely hoped had been empty at the moment of collision.
Charlie came out of the side door, talking to the construction foreman, who now had a few things to add to his to-do list, and immediately came over when he saw them. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Hi, Freddy.” He kissed her cheek and grinned unrepentantly at Griff’s cocked eyebrow. “Glad to see we’ve moved past the hiccup in the epic love story.”
“I think this could be described as another hiccup.” Freddy gestured at the battered building.
“Rubbish. Barely a hitch. Don’t start evolving into your boyfriend, for God’s sake. If anyone’s personality is going to rub off, it’s meant to be the other way around.” Charlie turned to address Griff in a more normal voice. “Apart from the obvious bit, the structure is still completely stable, and since the West End menagerie—” it was Freddy’s turn to raise her eyebrows “—aren’t using this section of the theatre, it won’t disrupt the rest of the rehearsals or mean a last-minute relocation for the performance. They’ll just have to do some creative skipping-over when they pan the exterior for their establishing shots. And if you’re concerned about the financial side of the repairs—”
“I am.”
“It was one of their conveniently insured cast members who acted like a reckless dick, so all costs to fix the damage are the responsibility of the TV network.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“I think this is my fault.” That was Freddy, and he could tell just by her voice that she was about to mess with him.
“Unless you gave Waitely the keys to the forklift and threatened him with a deadly weapon into making a break for it, I’m fairly sure it wasn’t.”
“I had thoughts.” Every syllable was enunciated with great significance, and Charlie leaned forward, obviously prepared to be impressed. Griff managed to suppress his sigh. She was lucky she was bloody cute. “When I was hedging about going into the Metronome today, I kind of briefly hoped it might fall down again and save me the bother. And look what happened to The Henry. The universe responded.”
Charlie and several eavesdropping crew members made appropriately spooked noises.
“Right,” Griff said, after he’d given her the appropriate pause for her dramatic timing. “Well, when your mind has returned from its trip to never-never land, perhaps we could finish the conversation Charlie interrupted, before you have to go to rehearsal.”
Charlie took a hasty step forward as Freddy moved to look closer at the worst of the damage. “Careful, Freddy, I wouldn’t get too close.”
Griff moved after her and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her back against him. “You’re going to turn me grey by the end of the summer.”
“You’re a platinum blond, Norma Jeane. You’ll go white.” Freddy sounded distracted. She was scanning the rise of the theatre above them. Brow creased, she bent forward again, from the curve of his arm. “Griff—I’ve done a lot of nosing about in this part of the theatre the past few days, and I’m officially confused. What is that?”
“What’s what?” He lowered his head to look under the broken beam where she pointed. “It’s—” He cut off, frowning as well, and found himself mimicking her movements exactly, looking up and around to orientate himself. It was a pointless move; he knew this building like the back of his hand and he could draw a map of the interior from memory.
Or he’d thought he could.
There were no windows on this side of the structure, so with the smashed-in wall, it was getting a lot more light and fresh air from the west than usual. He’d been silently grateful he’d moved most of the Wythburn Group research over to the library this weekend, even though it wasn’t likely to be needed any time soon, because what they should be looking at was a brand-new, unexpectedly open view of Henrietta’s old office.
But behind the crumbled wall was a tiny room, barely more than a large cupboard, which he’d never seen before in his life.
Chapter Fourteen
The figures on the tiled feature wall in Henrietta’s office had one more moment to frolic in gleeful nudity, and then the sledgehammer smashed into a scene of three very happy-look
ing people, and ceramic body parts went flying.
Freddy and Griff both put up an arm to shield each other, and they all took a step back, out of the foreman’s way.
“I hope you’re sure about this, mate,” the burly young guy said over his shoulder, as he lifted the sledgehammer again. “We usually try to preserve...art.”
He’d just noticed the subject of the art.
“I’m sure.” Griff’s hand was taut on her. “Bring it down.”
There was enough of the thick concrete exterior still standing that they couldn’t get into the secret room from the outside, just see glimpses of it through the torn wood and broken stone, so the only way in was through the office. Thanks to the hidden compartment acting as a shield, the office itself was untouched. Earlier today, when Freddy had felt the same compulsion as Griff to head towards Tower Bridge, she’d wondered if she’d wandered into a ghost story; suddenly someone had flipped the pages and she’d ended up in a children’s adventure novel. And gee whiz, kids, if there wasn’t a treasure map and a smuggler or two in that room when they got through the erotica wall, she was going to be jolly disappointed.
Once it started to collapse, the feature wall came down fast. Structurally, Freddy could see it was a makeshift brick and plaster job. The space behind it was relatively shallow lengthwise, so it wasn’t difficult to see why nobody had ever noticed that the tiles weren’t placed directly over the exterior wall.
“Hallo,” the foreman said, knocking some of the fallen bricks out of the way to clear a path. “An honest-to-goodness treasure chest. Feel like I’m in Robert Louis Stevenson.” A man after her own heart. Swiping the back of his thick wrist across the drops of sweat on his forehead, he stepped back to let them past.
Freddy hung back as Griff and Charlie navigated the mess and knelt either side of a heavy-looking metal chest. It was locked, but one whack from the sledgehammer took care of that. When Griff forced the rusty hinges the rest of the way, the lid finally opened, and they all leant forward. It was starting to feel slightly comic.
