Bad Blood Collection

by Various Authors

  ‘No, thanks. You can drool for both of us.’

  Nathaniel walked centre stage and stared into the darkness. He didn’t see the audience. He wasn’t thinking about the critics.

  He was King Richard II, the doomed king.

  He opened his mouth to deliver his opening lines to John of Gaunt when a spotlight illuminated the front row of the audience.

  Holding the crown in his hand, Nathaniel looked down and his eyes locked onto a familiar face. Familiar and yet unfamiliar. Twenty years had wrought changes, but not so many changes that the features were unrecognisable.

  Shock froze time.

  The features blurred.

  And then the past rushed forward with terrifying speed and his concentration shattered like glass dropped onto concrete. The momentary lapse released a lethal cocktail of memories and they swirled around his head, delighted to be free after so many years incarcerated in the locked vault of his brain.

  Shouts and terror. Stop it, stop it! And blood. Blood everywhere. Do something …

  He felt helpless. Utterly helpless.

  His heart pounding, Nathaniel stared down at his hands clasping the crown. There was no blood. His hands were clean. But still he couldn’t move, his brain frozen by the ghosts of his own inadequacy. The knowledge that he hadn’t acted, hadn’t done something, gnawed at him….

  Guilt crawled over him like a poisonous insect and he wondered how it was possible to shiver and sweat at the same time.

  Dimly aware of the ripple of speculation that slowly spread through the audience, Nathaniel fought with ruthless determination to close down that side of himself.

  Richard, he thought desperately. King Richard.

  He gripped the crown and tried to slip back into his character’s skin. But it no longer fitted him. Control slid from him like a cloak.

  Each time he opened his eyes he saw the same face looking at him from the front row reminding him that he wasn’t King Richard II—he was Nathaniel Wolfe, an actor with a family background more dramatic than anything penned even by the Bard himself.

  If Shakespeare had been alive, Nathaniel thought bitterly, he would have written the Wolfe family history as a tragedy in three acts.

  No comedy. No happy endings. Just life at its darkest.

  Desperate now, he tried to claw his way through that darkness back to the surface but he could feel himself sinking, drowning in the thick mud of his past.

  Why choose this moment to come back? Why now, when they’d all rebuilt their lives?

  Anger ripped through him, hot and sharp.

  He had to warn Annabelle. That, at least, he could do. He had to contact her right now.

  The ripple of speculation grew to a restless buzz from the audience. People who had assumed he was pausing for maximum effect, suddenly realised that something was terribly wrong. Silence turned to mur mur and murmur to conversation.

  Bracing his shoulders like a fighter poised for impact, Nathaniel tried one more time to deliver his opening lines but he couldn’t even remember them. Sucked back in time, the layer he put between himself and the world simply melted away.

  Stripped of his camouflage, he was forced into the skin of the one character he’d avoided playing all his life.

  Nathaniel Wolfe.

  Last time, he’d let her down. This time, he wouldn’t.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman …’ His voice, cold and devoid of emotion, carried to the back of the auditorium. He made a point of not looking at the man in the front row. It took all his self-control not to stride into the audience, grab him by the throat and knock him out cold. ‘Tonight’s performance is cancelled. Please see the box office for a refund.’

  Having finished her preparation for the interview, Katie rolled her aching shoulders and left the wardrobe department. Backstage, the theatre was eerily quiet. Everyone was watching Nathaniel Wolfe.

  She stood for a moment, breathing in the smells and the atmosphere. History was embedded deep in the fabric of the building. How many famous actors and actresses had trodden the boards of this theatre?

  For a moment she was a child again, six years old and playing dress-up with her sister, Paula.

  You can’t be the princess, Katie, you’re too fat and your hair is curly. I’m the prettiest so I’ll be the princess. You can dress me.

  What had started as duty fast became a passion. When Paula had decided it wasn’t cool to hang out with her dumpy little sister, Katie had continued to dress her friends. Every night after school they’d put on plays, and Katie had been the one who decided what they were going to wear. She’d loved experimenting with different combinations, loved the challenge of designing a costume that conveyed the essence of each character. A princess with a sword. A fairy in breeches and boots. She’d listened to her friends discussing roles and knew instinctively which costume they needed to fully express the part. She’d dressed her friends, she’d dressed dolls, she’d dressed her mother …

  The only person she never dressed again was Paula, whose modelling dreams had taken her far away from her humble roots.

  But Katie had continued to dream.

  A loud crash from the wings brought her back to the present.

  Katie turned her head and listened. What began as a purposeful masculine stride, suddenly increased to a run.

  Frowning, she stood her ground, ready to point out to whoever it was that the noise could probably be heard all the way across London’s West End.

  Who could possibly be running? An inexperienced stagehand, presumably. Or possibly one of the hangers-on who had been lingering backstage in the hope of catching a glimpse of Nathaniel Wolfe’s virile, muscular frame and flawless features.

  Realising that the footsteps were coming straight towards her, Katie hurriedly stepped out of the way but she was too late. A powerful male body slammed into her and sent her flying. There was no time to gasp or cry out. Falling backwards, she braced herself to hit the ground but strong hands suddenly grabbed her and hauled her upright, holding on until she was steady.

  Trapped against hard, packed muscle, something melted inside her. It was an elemental reaction that transcended common sense and the sheer power of it shocked her.

  Sharp bones, black hair and eyes that could make a woman forget her own name.

  ‘Er, Mr Wolfe, I didn’t expect to see you here. I mean, obviously you’re performing here so I did expect to see you, but not exactly right here at this precise moment and especially not running backstage.’ Oh, shut up, Katie. ‘Is something wrong? Well, I can see something is wrong,’ she blurted out, ‘otherwise you wouldn’t be thundering backstage like a herd of elephants, but—’

  ‘He’s here….’ His hands gripped her shoulders so tightly that Katie winced.

  ‘Er, who?’ She stared up at him stupidly, her heart hammering against her chest and her mouth dry as dust. Up close it was impossible not to stare. He was shockingly sexy, every line of his perfect features accentuating his masculinity. She tried desperately to form a lucid sentence but her brain felt as if it had been anaesthetised. ‘Mr Wolfe?’

  ‘Why now?’ Those blue eyes were two glittering slits of fierce anger. ‘Why?’ He released her and punched his fist hard into a piece of abandoned scenery, splintering the wood. Breathing heavily, he pressed his fingers to his forehead, barely coherent. ‘I can’t—I don’t—I have to warn Annabelle ….’

  Who was Annabelle?

  ‘Right, well, I can see you’re upset ….’ Katie took a wary step backwards, watching him as he drew his phone out of his pocket and keyed in a number. His knuckles were grazed and raw, but he didn’t appear to have noticed. In that single moment, she understood why Nathaniel Wolfe excelled at playing deeply troubled heroes—underneath that perfect physique and breathtakingly handsome face he was a man every bit as troubled as the characters he portrayed. And that was part of the attraction, of course. There was a side of him that was untamed and dangerous. Registering the hard set of his jaw and the grim line of
his mouth, she thought about the Special Forces soldier he’d played in his recent action thriller, Alpha Man.

  He was the hunter.

  And right now he wasn’t acting. She knew he wasn’t acting. And there was no point in her trying to persuade him back onstage. He was a man who followed no one’s orders but his own.

  Out of her depth, Katie glanced around, desperately hoping someone else would arrive and take over. Where were the stage managers?

  He held the phone to his ear, his movements restless and edgy. Apart from onstage, acting, she’d only ever seen him supercool. He was occasionally sarcastic, frequently bored, but never out of control.

  Right now, he looked out of control. The force field of cynicism that surrounded him had been replaced by something close to desperation.

  ‘Is there an exit that the press don’t know about?’

  ‘Exit?’ Katie tried to breathe but there was something about the intensity of his gaze that made it impossible to do anything except stare. This was closer than she’d ever been to him before and he was spectacular.

  ‘If Carrie finds out, this whole thing is going to blow up—Answer the phone, damn it ….’ Clearly no one did and he left a short, cryptic message before pocketing the phone again. Then he grabbed Katie by the arm, his tone raw and desperate. ‘You have to get me out of here. Fast.’

  Still absorbing the fact that he obviously had two women on the go at the same time, Katie looked at him sternly and then froze because she saw desperation in his eyes. And knew she’d made a fundamental mistake in her assessment of him.

  He wasn’t the hunter.

  He was the hunted.

  Someone—or something—was chasing him.

  ‘There’s a fire escape in the wardrobe department. It leads into one of the side streets.’ Without pausing to question her actions, she grabbed his hand and dragged him back into the wardrobe department, locking the door behind them.

  ‘That will hold them for a few minutes. The fire escape is over there. Good luck.’

  ‘I can’t do this without help!’ He yanked her up close. ‘Where do you live? Is it far?’

  The strength left her knees. ‘You have to be kidding. I mean, you have a suite at The Dorchester and—’

  ‘—and that is the first place they’ll look. The press have been camped outside since my plane landed.’

  Katie tried to imagine Nathaniel Wolfe in her cramped bedsit and her face burned. ‘My place is really tiny. Honestly, I don’t think—’

  ‘Please.’ He cupped her face in his hands so that she had no choice but to look at him again. Eye to eye, she was dazzled. Tumbling into that intense blue gaze, she forgot where she was. She forgot who she was. Dimly she remembered him asking her something but her eyes were locked with his and—

  ‘Katie?’

  In the grip of a sexual excitement she’d never experienced before, she swayed towards him. ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Katie!’ He snapped his fingers in front of her face and broke the spell.

  Shaking her head to clear the buzzing in her brain, Katie felt as though she was coming out of a trance.

  ‘Y-you know my name.’

  ‘I make a point of knowing the name of every woman who has ever taken my inside leg measurement.’ Beneath the sardonic lift of his brows his eyes glinted. ‘Get us out of here, angel. I don’t want to be tonight’s meal for the paparazzi.’

  Always a sucker for anyone in trouble and totally bowled over by the fact he actually knew her name, Katie ignored the inner voice that was telling her it was a big mistake. ‘All right, but my place is going to be a shock after The Dorchester. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She grabbed her jacket and two helmets and thrust one of them towards him. ‘Take this.’

  He stared at it blankly. ‘What for?’

  ‘If we’re escaping, then we need an escape vehicle. I have one outside. It’s nippy and great for getting through London traffic. Put the helmet on—it will cover your face. Not that your face isn’t incredible to look at but—’ Flustered, she pushed the helmet into his hands. ‘This will be a lot easier.’

  The voices were outside now and someone rattled the door.

  Katie took matters into her own hands. She reached up and jammed the helmet onto his head. ‘The fire escape will be icy. Watch your footing. I feel really stupid saying that to you—the guy who does most of his own stunts. I’m sure an icy fire escape isn’t going to present you with a challenge.’

  He had his phone in his hand again. ‘I just need to make one more call ….’

  ‘You can make it when you get to my place.’ Katie didn’t point out that if he stuck to one woman at a time, then he wouldn’t be in this desperate situation. Telling herself that his complicated love life was none of her business, she tugged at his arm. ‘If you don’t want to get up close and personal with a hundred camera lenses, then we need to get out of here now!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE sound of their feet echoed on the metal steps of the fire escape and Katie jumped the last few and landed in the alleyway next to her Vespa.

  As the cold February air nipped through their clothing, Nathaniel stared at the scooter, one eyebrow raised in naked disbelief. ‘That’s your idea of an escape vehicle?’

  ‘It may not be a Ferrari, but—’

  ‘It definitely isn’t a Ferrari.’

  ‘It’s faster than it looks. And it has the added advantage that you wouldn’t be seen dead on one, which means that no one will be expecting to see you on it.’ As she swung her leg over the bike and fired up the engine, a pack of paparazzi came screaming round the corner like crazed animals.

  Flashes exploded and Katie shrank. ‘I don’t want them to take my picture—I hate having my picture taken.’

  Nathaniel vaulted onto the bike behind her, hooked his arm round her waist and pulled himself close. ‘Move. That’s if this thing is capable of moving.’

  His hard body pressed against hers and awareness speared her from throat to pelvis. The raw burn of it shocked her. More powerful, more intense than anything she’d experienced before. Mortified to realise that he had his hand planted firmly on her stomach, Katie sucked it in and vowed that from now on she was going to do at least a hundred sit-ups a day.

  Impatient, Nathaniel closed his hands over hers. ‘Go!’ Taking control, he twisted the throttle and the Vespa sprang forward with a force that threw Katie back against his chest. Caged by his strong arms and crushed against hard male muscle, some of the fear left her. Her helmet bumped against his shoulder and in that instant she thought about all the women in the world who would have given their life savings to swap places with her.

  Surreal, she thought. Nathaniel Wolfe on the back of her Vespa.

  And then suddenly she had a whole new reason to be afraid because he wasn’t slowing down. Instead he was squeezing every last atom of speed from the bike. The wind blew in her face, the ends of her hair lifted.

  ‘Slow down!’ She hadn’t known her tame, trusty little Vespa was capable of such speeds. Too late she remembered that Nathaniel Wolfe raced motorbikes as a hobby and that several directors refused to work with him because he was wild and a risk taker.

  The bad, bad boy of Hollywood.

  Fearless and bold he pushed her bike to its limits and Katie gave a whimper of panic. She didn’t particularly like journalists, but she had no wish to kill anyone.

  ‘Something wrong?’ His laughing voice was close to her ear and she choked out one word.

  ‘Speeding—’

  ‘I’m doing my best, sweetheart, but next time do us both a favour and buy the fuel-injected version. This one sucks.’

  They shot towards the crowd of journalists and Katie tried to scream but no sound emerged. Terrified, she tried to slacken back on the throttle but hard, strong fingers tightened on hers, controlling what she did, forcing her to maintain maximum speed.

  ‘Relax.’ His voice was molten seduction in her ear. ‘They’ll move.’

 
‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘Then there’ll be a few less journalists following me. Haven’t you ever played chicken?’

  ‘I’m vegetarian!’ Katie squeezed her eyes tightly shut, coming to terms with the fact she was going to be the first person to get a speeding ticket on a Vespa. All she could hope was that she wouldn’t earn herself a manslaughter charge to go with it.

  Braced for impact, she thought to herself that the rumours about his physical strength hadn’t been exaggerated. His hands were locked on hers in a death grip and the muscles of his shoulders were a solid wall behind her.

  ‘Hang on,’ he growled in her ear, and Katie opened her eyes to discover that they were now close enough to the photographers to see the whites of their eyes. At the last minute the crowd scattered and the bike shot through the sudden gap and emerged onto the main road. There was a shriek of tyres as people swerved to avoid them, a cacophony of taxi horns and several warning shouts, and Katie was glad his hands were over hers because her palms were slippery with sweat and she knew that if he weren’t controlling the bike, then she would probably have just slid in a heap to the pavement.

  She heard him laugh and decided right there and then that Nathaniel Wolfe had a sick sense of humour.

  Outside the theatre there was a crowd of people, mostly women, many holding banners saying I Love Nathaniel Wolfe. They’d queued for hours in the hope of catching a glimpse of the Hollywood megastar as he left the theatre. They didn’t seem to care that he was notorious for not signing autographs. All they wanted was to catch a glimpse of those famous eyes.

  If they recognised him …

  ‘Which way?’ The voice next to her ear was firm and decisive and now it was her turn to take the lead because she knew these streets well. Soon she was weaving through the London traffic, putting as much distance as possible between her and the journalists. She turned off the main road and took an elaborate detour, choosing back roads and side streets.

  As her heart gradually slowed and her panic eased, the enormity of what she’d done suddenly hit her.

  It took twenty minutes to be sure that no one had followed her and another ten to double back across the river towards south London and her flat. And all the time she was aware of the heat of Nathaniel’s body pressed against hers and his arm clamped around her waist.