by Lucy Parker
She fell hard into sleep and would happily have stayed there if Richard’s phone hadn’t rung at dawn. Not even dawn. The bedroom was still dark when she cracked her eyes open at the insistence of his frigging annoying ringtone.
“Richard.” His leg hair was tickling her foot. She pressed her big toe against his calf and gave it a shove. “Phone.”
He didn’t even alter his breathing.
The phone kept ringing.
“Phone.”
He clearly had no intention of getting up.
Swearing under her breath, Lainie sat up, rubbing her forehead. She leaned over him, brushed the tumbled hair from his eyes, and put her lips against his ear. “Phone.”
He made a grumpy noise, but still didn’t move.
“I don’t know what you’re grunting at me for. It’s your phone.”
His response was to put his head under his pillow. He pressed it against the ear closest to her mouth.
“Fine. I’m answering it. But you’re going to regret it if it’s some other poor woman you conned into bed.” Leaning heavily on his back, she reached over his recumbent body and snagged the phone from the bedside table. “Never mind. It’s Lynette. If you shagged her, I’m too intimidated to compare notes.”
She swallowed a squawk when Richard retracted the long leg he was dangling outside the covers and tucked his cold toes into the curve behind her knee. Sliding her thumb against the touch pad, she reluctantly answered the call. Any communication from Lynette or Pat was liable to spell trouble. “Hello?”
There was a brief silence. Lynette managed to convey her amusement before speaking a word. “Good morning, Lainie. It’s a little early for you to be answering Richard’s phone, isn’t it?”
Lainie wasn’t sure if she meant time of day or brevity of relationship. Bit of a cheek if it was the latter, considering that Lynette was partly responsible for tying them together in the first place. “We’ve taken up hot yoga,” she said blandly. “You have to get up very early to do hot yoga.” Didn’t you? “It’s part of Richard’s new healthy-living image. We’re considering naked meditation in Hyde Park next.”
“I’ll start drafting the press release now. Is Richard there, or will eagle pose end in catastrophe if he takes the phone?”
“He’s here.” She ruthlessly pulled the pillow away from Richard’s head and one blue eye stared narrowly up at her. “Lynette wants a word.”
With a sigh, he heaved himself up to a sitting position and took the phone. He looked even more of a grouch than usual first thing in the morning. And the stubble situation was acute. He was verging on a full lumberjack beard now. No wonder she had patches of irritated red skin in interesting places.
“Is the theatre on fire?” His voice had a throaty edge. “Are you on fire?”
Lainie couldn’t help smiling. He was just so...cute. All rumpled and sexy and cranky. The covers were bunched around his hips. She leaned forward and kissed his chest. Evading the grab he made for her, she scooted out of bed and snatched up her fleecy dressing gown. She didn’t fancy freezing to death in the loo. It would make embarrassing copy for the gossip blogs.
When she returned to the bedroom, Richard was off the phone and typing something into his iPad. He tapped the screen a few times, then tossed it aside. Eyeing her dressing gown, he came up on his knees and caught her around the waist. He, apparently, had no issues with subarctic nudity.
“Nice,” he said, running his hands up her arms. “Take it off.”
“It’s warm.” She captured his sneaking fingers and entwined them with her own. Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against his. She lightly kissed the bridge of his nose. “Morning.”
“It’s six thirty. It’s dark. That’s night. Bedtime.” With deft movements, he pulled his hands free and yanked open the belt of her dressing gown. It was slipped from her shoulders and thrown haphazardly behind her. Ignoring her laughing protest, he pulled her hard against him and pushed her down on top of it.
She wriggled beneath his heavy body, getting into a more comfortable position, and he gently kissed her cheek. She could feel the heat and hardness of his sleep-warmed skin along the full length of her torso. His mouth drifted to hers. He nudged her thighs with his knee, and she agreeably parted her legs, lifting them to hug his hips. He hooked an arm under her bent knee, lifting her teasingly against him.
“Warm enough?” he asked wickedly, as he bent his head to her neck. She closed her eyes, her breath quickening. His touch was leisurely, almost lazy. It was a slow drift of pleasure, rather than the intense, driven heat of their previous intimacy. She could stay in the moment, keep tabs on her own body. Focus on his.
The heat pump in the lounge was on a low heat overnight, not nearly enough to counteract the predawn chill of autumnal London. The bedroom was cold. Richard was not.
A warm hand slid firmly up her ribs and lifted the weight of her right breast. His thumb moved to flick and circle. Her back arched. Sinking her fingers into his messy curls, she tugged his face toward hers.
“I assume the Metronome is not on fire?” she murmured.
He moved his hand down her hip, sliding it beneath her, seeming to enjoy the feeling of her skin. His lips returned to her neck, moved up to her jaw and cheek. “No.” He nudged her cheek with his nose. It was an affectionate gesture, and she relaxed her grip on his hair, shaping his head with her palm.
When he would have kissed her mouth again, she held him away, staring up at him, content to just...look, for a moment.
His cheeks were already flushed. Men, in her experience, tended to pull the same facial expression during sex that they made just prior to a final touchdown in a televised rugby match. Utter concentration. Leashed anticipation. Perspiring forehead. Ready to celebrate the successful try with a triumphant shout, a pat on the back and a beer-fuelled nap.
Bad time to get an urge to giggle.
He smoothed her hair back from her own damp forehead, rubbing his thumb against her temple. “Tig.” His voice was deep and rough, and effectively banished any ill-timed amusement.
She watched her fingertips as she traced the edge of his ear, stroked the side of his neck, tested the strength of his shoulder. The muscles there were flexing as he kept his weight propped on one arm.
Her gaze returned to his. His eyes were almost black. No trace of sleepiness now.
“What did Lynette want?” she asked quietly. The room felt hushed. She touched his chin. Ran her thumb across his lower lip.
He caught it, briefly, between his teeth. “To spread the misery of insomnia.” He shifted against her, and they both drew in a hitching breath. “She’s had an email from...” He exhaled sharply when her hand crept sneakily down between them. “Ministerial bigwig. Requesting that I speak on cultural funding at a parliamentary conference next month.”
“What?” Lainie’s lashes had drooped to a languid half-mast, but she looked up at that. She withdrew her prowling hand to grip his biceps. “That’s awesome. It’s exactly the sort of opportunity you want, isn’t it?”
Richard retrieved her fingers and firmly returned them to their previous site of exploration. “It’s a very good start.”
She had questions about the conference—very bright, astute questions—but he’d never know how perceptive she was, thanks to his bossy, demanding lips.
God, he tasted good.
“You’re not bad at this sex thing,” she gasped a few minutes later, her arm inadvertently tightening in a chokehold around his neck.
He reached up and loosened her grip, pulling her hand around his torso so she could grip his back. Taut muscles moved under the smooth, warm skin there.
“Although, you know, regular rehearsals. Important for any performance.”
The tip of his tongue teased hers. “You’re adorable,” he said. “Stop talking.”
She let the man hone his craft.
Chapter Nine
London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 35m
Richard Tr
oy’s tragic past revealed! The truth behind his father’s death and how it’s impacted his life today...goo.gl/NK5ivF
There were a number of things that Lainie liked to do on Sunday afternoons, and they all involved pyjamas. They did not include choosing a suitable outfit to wear to dinner with a man who licked the hands of brand-new acquaintances, but needs must. With a cup of tea in one hand, held at a safe distance from her outfit, she examined her reflection in the mirror. Midi-length pencil skirt and knockoff Chanel jacket from Topshop. Decorous heels. Sleek waves of hair.
She looked like a bustier, ginger Jackie O. Pity she didn’t have a pillbox hat. When dressing for a part—today’s role being a sort of political consort, which seemed more hilarious every time she thought about it—might as well go all out.
The front door buzzed, and she checked her watch in surprise. Richard wasn’t supposed to be picking her up for an hour. They had been so busy with performances and appearances that she’d barely spoken to him the past couple of days, except for brief stolen moments alone in their dressing rooms. She would have liked time to eat her chocolate biscuit and put on her lipstick before he arrived, but she was looking forward to seeing him properly, in private.
She was smiling when she pulled the door open, but her expression quickly sobered. “Will.”
He lowered the hand that was raised to buzz again—always impatient—and shoved it into the pocket of his crisp trousers. His black hair was combed in a smooth wave above his ear, and he was freshly shaved. The GQ effect was not as appealing as lazy stubble and tangled curls.
“I want to talk to you,” he said with no preliminaries, already pushing his way past her into the lounge. “I’ve been trying to get you alone all week, but you’re either dashing off to interviews or slobbering over Troy in the wings.”
Untrue. She had decided opinions about public displays of affection in the workplace, and Will knew it.
Closing the front door, she hoped that Richard didn’t break the habit of a lifetime and turn up early after all. She strongly suspected that these confrontations between former and current lovers were less titillating than they were presented in fiction. In fact, she would put her money on them being a bloody nightmare.
Will stood by her coffee table, watching her through narrowed eyes. His arms were folded. Chin up, pecs out, lips set. Great. She had the haughty Jacobite Geoffrey in her flat.
“You didn’t congratulate me at the Awards last week.”
“Congratulations.”
“I expect you were devoting your considerable talents to consoling the loser,” he said nastily, and she clenched her hands.
“Mind your own business,” was all she said, but it was a struggle to keep her reply mild.
“I looked for you later, but Jack Trenton said he saw you leaving early with Troy.”
From what she recalled, it hadn’t been that early. The public part of the night had seemed interminably long. The private part, she wouldn’t have minded extending. And repeating more times than they’d managed in the days since.
She shrugged, and Will looked at her intently. “Trenton and Sadie Foster have called it quits.”
Unsurprising, if Jack was shagging his director and didn’t fancy the idea of castration.
“He had a few too many after the ceremony. You know the way his mouth runs off. Admitted they were only in it for the publicity. He can’t stand her.”
A warning bell sounded in the recesses of Lainie’s mind. She continued to say nothing.
“Which got me thinking,” Will went on, still watching her fixedly, waiting for any change of expression. “Bob Carson and Pat Bligh seem very interested in your private life at the moment. And you took up with Troy pretty fucking quickly. One day you’re not even on his radar—” Lainie couldn’t help wincing at that “—and the next you’re in his bed. I reckoned it was a rebound fling,” he said with odious complacency, “but is it even that much?”
Lainie gave one short, hard tug on the hem of her jacket to straighten it. “Dropping the unconvincing impression of a Yard ‘tec, are you implying that I’m faking an affair with Richard Troy to get my name in the tabloids?”
“No,” Will said, surprising her, but he added, “I don’t think you would lie for publicity. You’ve never wanted cheap fame, and you’ve always had a high standing in the press. Particularly after what I did to you.” That last was stated candidly. “But Troy’s name has been mud this year. Suddenly, he’s looking a bit more like the blue-eyed boy, with his sweet, philanthropic girlfriend. If she’ll give him the time of day, he can’t be all that bad. Such an earnest little do-gooder as she is.” His scrutiny was now positively unsettling. “I’ve been thinking about it all week, and I realised there is one reason why you might agree to back up a harmless lie.”
Lainie had never deluded herself that Will was unintelligent, whatever his more carnal failings. Nor was he above using said intelligence in a morally questionable way if he thought it would benefit himself.
In other words, he would run squealing to the press at the drop of a hat.
She told him what was, in essence, the truth: “I don’t want to be hurtful, Will—” and she really didn’t, no matter how badly he’d knocked her own pride “—but there’s nothing fake about my feelings for Richard—” there wasn’t, not any longer “—and we are sleeping together.” Not that it was any of his business.
Will’s jaw worked. “What could you possibly see in him? He’s a self-serving, bad-tempered bastard who wouldn’t lift a finger to help you. Unless it was to push you onto his mattress.”
She damped down on the growing anger. “What I feel for Richard, and why I feel it, is my own business.”
And Richard’s business. The fact that they hadn’t had that particular conversation yet made this one even more inappropriate.
“You’re delusional.”
Some of the fury escaped. “Will, you gave up the right to even come here. How I choose to move on is nothing to do with you. Would you just go?”
He caught at her words like a mousetrap snapping down on an agitated, waving tail. “So it is because of what happened between us? Lainie, I’ve told you that I’m sorry—”
“You haven’t, actually, but it’s irrelevant. I’m sorry, but you’re not even a factor. You’re part of my past. A memory that reminds me how much better I have it now.” Brutal, but true, and she was too cross to continue shielding his ego.
“So you’d rather lower yourself to his level. A complete dickhead, who’s incapable of caring about anyone but himself.”
“Says the man who broke up with me by way of a gossip column and another woman’s bed. His level is so far above yours in so many ways, this whole argument is obsolete. Leave.”
“Is that right? You want to take a poll? See who agrees with you? There are reasons everybody hates him. How many people have gone home from the theatre feeling like shit because of Troy?”
She bit her lip, unable to refute that fact, and he pressed his advantage.
“He’s a user. A poor little rich boy,” Will said bitterly, unconsciously borrowing Lynette’s words, “who stood on old family money to get where he is, and who wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning if it wasn’t to his advantage. He’s using you, and you’re buying it.”
“Charming. While you, of course, were always the height of sincerity.”
“My feelings for you were genuine. I admit I made a mistake—”
“Yes, you did. And you made another one in coming here today and talking a load of bollocks.” She opened the front door again and pointedly held it ajar.
A flush crept into Will’s cheeks. “I’m worried about you. Whether you choose to believe that or not. He’s not right for you. He’s not right for anyone.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
“He’s a prick, Lainie. A spoilt, entitled brat.”
Oddly, that made her smile. “I know,” she agreed readily, almost fondly.
Her amusement seemed
to further enrage him. “And look at his family. A mother who whored around Europe. Father a demented old bigot. Whose death, by the way, was supposedly brought on by Troy Junior.”
“Richard did not cause his father’s suicide!”
It was probably the stupidest, most careless thing she had ever done. The words just flew out of her mouth, propelled by sheer outrage and the instinct to defend. To protect.
And didn’t she make a right arse-up of that?
Will frowned. “Suicide? Didn’t he have a heart attack?”
Her heart was a thumping beat in her throat. Lainie drew on every ounce of acting experience she’d ever earned and kept her face blank.
Will jerked his head dismissively to one side. “Whatever. Just...think twice. That’s all I’m saying. As your friend.”
Feeling shaky, and not entirely convinced the danger could have passed that easily, Lainie nodded impatiently. She just wanted to be rid of him. “Fine. Whatever. Goodbye, Will.”
“Think about it.” Will reached out and gripped her arm.
“Think about what?” The voice came from the top of the stairwell. Lainie almost jumped out of her demure two-inch heels.
How much had he heard?
Richard was leaning against the wall, one hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored trousers, his leather jacket hanging open over a cashmere jumper. The query had been cool and uninterested, but he was anything but relaxed. His eyes were fixed on the spot where Will’s fingers bit into her arm.
She could almost see the tip of the panther’s tail twitching, ready to spring.
Will responded by turning pink and inflating his chest, and Lainie groaned audibly.
Testosterone. It was massively overrated.
And please, God, let him have just arrived.
“Nothing.” Lainie yanked away from Will’s restraining hold. “Will was just leaving.”
“You seem undecided, Farmer,” Richard said softly. He pushed away from the wall and advanced toward them. “Do you need a helping hand down the stairs?”
Will’s face was uncharacteristically ugly. “Try it.”
