“It’s such a beautiful place,” Taylor commented.
“Bath is often said to be the most beautiful town in Britain,” Craig said. “Most people come to visit for the day, but you can easily spend a couple of days here exploring the city and getting into its more peaceful atmosphere. I like to come out here when I want to get away from the fast pace of London.”
They spent the next three hours sightseeing. The elegant combination of Georgian and Roman architecture reminded Taylor more of a museum than a resort. It was a complete English city, with impressive Roman bath remains and an old abbey. Even the buildings were distinctive, most with beautiful Georgian crescents, squares, and terraces that dominated the town.
“Oh my, what’s all this?” Taylor gasped, as they came to a section of the city called the Royal Crescent, a sweeping curved-shaped row of Georgian-style terraced houses arranged around a huge lawn where several hundred people had gathered, dressed in the fashion of 1770s England. Women, their hair in elaborate up-do’s, meandered about in historical-looking gowns as they twirled elegant umbrellas. The men mingled among them in cerise and cream-patterned casual suits with coats that buttoned in front and curved to thigh length behind. Their ruffled collars accented their top hats. White knee-high socks covered their legs beneath bloomer-type pants, and simple flat shoes completed the ensemble. Photographers walked among the crowd, taking pictures.
“The Jane Austen Festival is this weekend,” Craig replied, referring to the renowned novelist whose classic works revolved around her social commentary of 18th century England. “Bath was her home, you know. Every year a festival honors her novels with readings, concerts, plays and such. These visitors come and dress in period clothing and walk along some of the more well-known areas of Bath, including the gravel walk featured in Austen’s novel, Persuasion.”
“Fascinating,” was all Taylor could say as she watched a group of ladies stroll by. It was as if she and Craig had stepped back over 200 years and stood in the neighborhood of the classic novelist herself.
“Pretty diehard fans, aren’t they?” Craig replied as they passed. “The city has a lot of festivals and activities throughout the year.” He paused and looked at her. “I’d like to show you more.”
“I’d like that.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring more of the Roman baths and cultural venues. They walked back to the car, and Craig drove to the White Gallery Restaurant.
“Is this the place you told me about?” Taylor asked as he helped her out of the car.
“It is,” Craig replied. “I think you’ll like it.”
His hand fell to her waist as he guided her through the front door. Inside, Taylor found a dark beamed, low-ceilinged main room, with smaller, more private dining rooms adjoining it. The restaurant was a warm, intimate place, decorated in quaint British tradition. It gave the restaurant an elegant setting.
They were seated in plush, velvet chairs in a quiet corner of a glass-roofed garden room. Their mahogany table was beautifully set with large white linen napkins held together by elegant porcelain rings, shining silverware, and tall crystal wine goblets. A Wedgewood vase containing a single red rose accented the setting.
As soon as they were settled, a waiter came to their table, holding a bottle of wine swathed in a heavy white cloth.
“Bonjour Monsieur, Madame,” he began as he filled their glasses with the rich, red burgundy. “What would you like to have today? Perhaps an aperitif—eh, Craig! Shit, how you doin’, pal? I didn’t see you at first.”
“All right, Eric. What’s with the frog accent?”
“Oh, you know, tourists. Scouse accent doesn’t go down well with the snobs we get here.”
Eric’s eyes wandered to Taylor. “I see you brought company with you this time.”
“This is Taylor Fairchild, from America,” Craig said.
The waiter’s eyes raised. “America? I’d say she came a long way today! Just kidding. Nice to meet you, miss. How do you like merry old England, then?”
“It’s very beautiful,” Taylor replied.
“You know, this wine you’re having was Churchill’s favorite,” offered Eric, winking at Craig.
“Really?” Taylor asked.
“Full of trivial knowledge about British history, aren’t you, mate?” Craig said with a laugh.
“Craig always comes in to see us when he’s in the area,” Eric said affectionately. “I feel privileged that he brought you to visit us. You must be special, because he never has anyone with him.”
She accepted the menu from him with a smile and polite thank you. After filling their glasses, he said, “I hope you enjoy your visit to the country, Ms. Fairchild.” Then he was gone.
“You must come here often,” Taylor remarked, reaching for her glass as she looked over the menu.
“Yeah, this place is sort of a getaway for me.”
“Tell me about the other band members,” Taylor said.
“Well,” Craig said, as he absently scanned his own menu, “Shaun is too much of a tearaway to have any time for the simple pleasures, and Andrew spends all his spare time with his own family.”
“Andrew is married?”
“Yeah, him and Becky, they have a baby girl named Rhian.”
“Rhian,” Taylor repeated thoughtfully. “What an unusual name.”
“It’s Welsh,” Craig informed her. “Y’aich y da y pob sais . . . That’s a toast in Welsh. It means good health to the English. Wales is not too far from here, you know.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. Taylor’s breath caught as he lifted it and rubbed his thumb over the back of her palm. Her hand trembled with a contact that felt like fire as he slowly intertwined his fingers between hers. Then he looked into her eyes. “Twll tyn y pob crymraeg,” he said softly in that ravishing British accent. “That means, ‘all Welsh are arse—’ . . . well, button holes . . . or, uh, something like that—.”
He stopped speaking as their eyes locked across the table. At that moment, Taylor felt a bolt of energy like an electrical charge fly from her hand through to him. Her pulse pounded wildly in her ears, seeming to silence the whole room to any other sound, as if they were the only two people in the universe. She knew he felt it, too.
She took her hand away and lowered her eyes to study the menu, attempting to calm the magic flashing between them.
“How did the band come together?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“Steve and I came up with the idea of forming a band in our old snooker hall hangout a few years ago,” Craig said. “We knew of Andrew, and together with Shaun, Fury was born.”
“So you’ve all been working together for a while.”
“We spent a lot of time perfecting our style and learning from each other until we found the right blend for our music. We’ve been making the rounds of the pubs since. It can be grueling work to cover our expenses and pay the rent.”
“Do you take any time off?” Taylor asked. “Surely the band and playing classical music here and there don’t take up all your time.”
Craig’s expression tightened. “I’m into different things,” he said quickly, concentrating on the rose petals in front of him.
“Such as?”
His gaze met hers. “Taylor, we’re having such a lovely time that I insist we not talk about my boring old spare time.”
She took another sip of wine. He was evading her question, but for some reason, she didn’t care. She would find out more about him later. What was important now was this place and his company.
Craig gave the waiter their order, then brought his attention back to Taylor.
“Besides,” he continued, “I thought we were going to talk about the band.”
“Yes, and the demo.”
“We don’t have to if you’d rather not,” Craig said. “I already said you looked far too nice to discuss business propositions.”
“Maybe,” Taylor smiled, “but since we’re here together, we can go over the preliminaries now. Do you know of a recording studio in the city? If we’re lucky, we can get the band into one this week to record something. I’ll send it back to Los Angeles as soon as it’s finished, and we can go from there—”
She stopped talking when she noticed Craig’s gaze lingering over her.
“Craig, you’re not listening to me,” she said. “Isn’t this demo important to you? It could decide the band’s future.”
“Of course it is, but this moment is even more important. Did I tell you that you have a gorgeous smile?”
“Stop it,” she said, trying to stay on the subject, but he just smiled at her. Obviously, her command didn’t hold any punch. He’s impossible, she thought. Despite her efforts to concentrate on the conversation, she couldn’t rid herself of the dizzying sensation she was feeling. Whether it was from the wine or the company, she didn’t know. And didn’t care.
Presently their waiter placed their food before them.
“This looks wonderful.” Taylor marveled at the traditional English fare. The roast beef was served from a gleaming silver trolley, accompanied by roast potatoes, cabbage, gravy, Yorkshire pudding, and horseradish sauce.
“So,” Craig began as they ate, “tell me why a pretty American girl like you isn’t married, living in a nice suburban home with three kiddies, a dog, and a husband who works in an office somewhere.”
Taylor laughed. “Is that your impression of American women?”
“Other than the aggressive, bimbo-on-every-corner sorts, and you don’t strike me as one of those.”
“I hope not!” Taylor said. “I have a townhouse in L.A. and otherwise spend most of my time working.”
“You must have a busy life, then.”
Taylor smiled. “Well, yes. My typical day usually consists of phone calls with the media and the record company, sending paperwork, and going over contract details. A management company like ours wears a lot of hats. We negotiate deals with record companies and merchandisers, set up tours and appearances, and generally stay involved with the label in an artist’s campaign to get their work out to the public.”
She stopped to take another sip of wine before continuing. “I also serve as a go-between in a crisis, fielding calls from the press or even as a referee during squabbles among band members that come up occasionally. Most of my work is done by phone or by e-mail, so I find myself in my office most of the time, not even knowing what the day is like outside. Between shows at night, artists traveling at all hours, and the time zones, it’s a 24/7 occupation.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Yes, but I do enjoy my work, especially tours. Organizing a tour is like a jigsaw puzzle, putting all the pieces in place to work at the right time over months in the future. And a successful tour relies on so many factors—venue availability, promotions, and the logistics of moving a show from city to city. But when I can finally confirm a tour I’ve put together, it’s quite satisfying.”
“It’s nice to see something when it’s all finished,” Craig said.
Taylor continued. “It has a lot of ups and downs. One time we had to postpone a tour because our band’s drummer was injured when he crashed his car into a brick wall. The promoter wasn’t too happy.”
She paused to take a sip of wine while Craig listened, amazed.
“We have fires to put out when our clients tour,” Taylor continued. “We get calls from tour managers complaining about their band refusing to do their press interviews, and I have to be the cooler head that prevails to solve the problem.”
“Sounds like you play quite the mother role at times.”
Taylor smiled. “I have one singer who calls me at least once a week, crying over the questions she gets asked on her media appearances. Every single week! And the press calls often, checking about rumors that are never true, like about who is going out with who, which keeps the tabloid tongues wagging.”
“Do you have good days?” Craig asked.
Taylor laughed. “Oh, sure! There are days I can line up an appearance in a city without a hitch or get press materials back from production that exceed our expectations. I get a great feeling when an act goes from hard times to glory, knowing I had a hand in their journey.”
“Never a dull moment, I suppose.”
His gaze on her was intense, studying every feature of her face, causing her insides to quiver like the wings of an exotic butterfly. She knew she was talking too fast and for too long, but his mere presence was overwhelming her senses. She felt herself fighting a raging heat without shape or form that seemed to consume every cell in her body.
With an effort, she continued. “One time, there was this Houston disc jockey whose morning rush hour show was broadcast to half the country. ‘Jeeter Dean, the Cowboy of the Airwaves.’ Quite a character. Anyway, he was totally bent on getting a phone interview with Matt McClure for his show.”
“From ‘Metal Legend’,” Craig responded.
“Right,” Taylor said. “Anyway, the band was simply not giving interviews and I told him so, but this guy would not take no for an answer. He kept asking and asking until I finally stopped taking his calls. He became more determined than ever after that.”
“What happened?”
“He gave his listeners—from over half the country, mind you—our contact information—e-mail, twitter, fax, everything—and told them to send interview requests on his behalf to me personally. Over a thousand requests arrived in three hours, our server crashed, and our I.T. Department couldn’t get it back up until the next morning. Our twitter account was bombarded, and our Facebook page was hit with so many comments and posts all day long that we ended up on the trending list. Not to mention the calls that tied up our receptionist. My dad went ballistic. I contacted Matt and persuaded him, for all our sakes, to talk to the guy.
Craig laughed. “Can’t ignore the media, I suppose.”
Taylor smiled. “I saw Jeeter a few months later at an awards show, and he actually apologized to me for upending our company for a day!”
She paused. “It can be a circus sometimes. I’m content in that kind of environment, at least most of the time. There are days, however, that I’ll go home, disconnect the phone, and crawl into bed with my Kindle all weekend just to recover. Drives Susan crazy.”
“The one you came here with.”
Taylor nodded. “We both work for my father, so we’ve developed a close friendship over the years.”
Craig nodded in agreement. “Steve is my best mate. He’s a good bloke. He doesn’t have much in the way of family either, so we’ve stuck together for a long time. I can’t think of anyone who would sacrifice so much time to a project like he’s done with the band. We started the band purely to play. He’d come over, and we’d start throwing some things down. He’d sing a few lines, and I’d come up with the guitar riffs or the chord progression. It kept us off the street and out of trouble. That’s how we’d spend our time, working, but it’s always been a big part of our lives. But it shouldn’t be that way with you. You’re a pretty lady. Is your work that time consuming that you don’t have time for the American night life?”
Taylor paused. “I prefer it that way.”
“I hear a hint of bitterness in your voice,” Craig probed. “Why?”
“Your ear is too finely tuned,” Taylor said with defeat. “Actually, I did have someone in my life, but that’s over.”
“I thought so,” Craig said. “What happened, or is it none of my business?”
“No, it’s all right,” she said slowly as the painful memories began to resurface. “I was married once. To Diesel
Barnes.”
“You?” Craig’s eyes widened. “And Diesel Barnes?” He burst out laughing.
“Craig Phillips, are you laughing at me?”
“No, no,” he said, composing himself. “It’s just that I can’t picture you and Diesel Barnes as a pair. He toured England recently, and from what I’ve heard, he’s more of a hooligan than any of us could ever be.”
“We represented him a few years back. We drifted apart soon after we were married,” Taylor admitted. “He was totally at home in the glittery L.A. lifestyle, where I avoided it. Our different lifestyles probably doomed us from the start. At the time, though, I was so much in love with him that I couldn’t see it. Or didn’t want to.”
“Go on.”
And she did, telling him about her relationship with Diesel and the pain she felt over the divorce. Craig’s interest held her every word, taking in every detail, instead of cutting her off to launch into a bigger and better tale about himself, a response Taylor was used to with Diesel.
“It was great, at least at first,” Taylor said. “But in time, Diesel—well, Derek—felt our relationship was too rigid for him. I tried to keep up with his lifestyle, but I found it impossible to do that and still be happy. I guess I was too boring for him.”
“Well, you’re not a bit boring to me,” Craig said. “I find your company fascinating, actually.”
They spent the next two hours eating the meal. To Taylor’s delight, Craig was a marvelous dinner companion. He possessed a lively gift of conversation as well as a broad knowledge of his country’s sights and history. His confidence and keen intelligence charmed her.
A Perilous Pursuit Page 5
