Starstruck Page 2

  He stared after her as she picked up her handbag from the entryway table and exited the suite. Chan looked amused at Nick’s frozen, shocked state. “I’d go after her, if I were you. Do what you have to do to convince her. This is your big shot.”

  Nick gave him a nod, rose, and followed her. But for all the director’s confidence in him, he was pretty certain Christine’s mind was already made up.

  Christine knew Nick would come after her, but she’d planned on being far enough ahead that he’d have to race to catch up with her. Unfortunately, the plush carpeting of the hotel’s hallway conspired against her, the stiletto heels of her booties sinking into the pile and hampering her stride. Consequently, she was barely halfway to the lift before she heard his voice ring out behind her: “Chrissy!”

  And despite herself, immediately came the little answering tug in her chest. Not good. Not good at all. It was even worse than her initial realization that he was still as good-looking as her memory and the television told her.

  Still, she put on a supercilious expression, one eyebrow raised, and turned. “Yes?”

  He seemed to be taken aback. Not that perceptive, was he? She’d figured even Nick would pick up that she had only been placating David.

  “You said you’d give me a fair shot to change your mind. How can I do that when you run away from me?”

  Christine crossed her arms, ignoring the way the dimple threatened at the edges of his wry half-smile. “Okay then. Convince me.”

  “In the hallway?”

  “Why not?”

  Now he crossed his arms, mirroring her stance. The fabric of his dress shirt strained at his biceps and shoulders. Reluctantly, she had to admit he had the build to play Jackson, and then even more reluctantly, admitted she’d lingered too long on the thought. “We have five years’ worth of unfinished business to cover.”

  “No we don’t. We have less than five minutes. The length of time it took for you to make me the object of pity and scorn on national TV.”

  “You’re right. I should never have said that my last serious relationship ended because you weren’t as ambitious or career-focused as I was. Not only was it unkind, it was untrue.”

  Christine blinked at him, taken aback. She had expected him to make an excuse, not own up to what he’d done.

  “But can I at least explain a little?”

  And there it was. The slight softening she had felt toward him disappeared. “Does it make up for the fact that I have to talk about ‘the TV incident’ every time I go home to see my parents?”

  He grimaced. “Probably not. But it at least explains why I acted like an idiot.”

  She considered and then relented with a bare nod.

  “They cut more than half of the interview. After she badgered me about rumors about my sexual orientation—there aren’t any, by the way—she then detailed every woman I’ve ever dated, claiming that either I was compensating for being gay or I was more interested in running through the under-thirty Hollywood set than I was in my career. I was so angry and flustered by that point, I brought up our relationship. It was thoughtless, Chrissy, but it wasn’t meant to be cruel.”

  Christine studied him, noted his body language. Unless he’d become a much better liar in the last five years, he was being sincere. “Okay. I accept your apology. I’m still irritated, but I believe you when you say you were just being a moron.”

  Something halfway between a grimace and a smile flickered across his lips, flashing the barest hint of that dimple and sending the most disconcerting twinge of…something…into her chest.

  “So, does that mean you’re okay with me in the role?”

  “No. I meant what I told David. You might look like Jackson, but I’m not so sure you’ve got the ability to play the part.”

  He looked crushed. Was that another bit of acting? “What can I do to change your mind?”

  “I don’t know. And right now, I don’t have time to think about it. I have a book signing at Waterstones in two hours and it’s going to take me forever to get across the city.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said. “I can help. I’ll be your assistant.”

  “And you don’t think your presence would be a distraction?” she asked wryly. “Sorry, Nick, but this time it isn’t all about you.”

  She turned on her heel and walked away; this time he didn’t follow her. Somehow the gesture wasn’t nearly as satisfying as she’d envisioned it being.

  * * *

  The book signing went well. Better than well, actually. Waterstones Piccadilly was a London institution—the largest bookshop in Europe, in fact, to the tune of eight floors—and Christine had to pinch herself as she sat at a table behind fat stacks of books, signing for what seemed like a never-ending line of readers. Once she hadn’t even dreamed of having this many fans, let alone ones who would show up for a signing in a single city. Still, looking at the almost entirely female demographic, she was glad she’d talked Nick out of his offer of help. Neither the shop nor the representative of her UK publisher hovering on the outskirts would have thanked her when the throng was more interested in getting selfies with the heartthrob-of-the-month than in buying her books.

  That had always been the problem, she thought as she posed for her final picture and waved goodbye. Nick, especially as an aspiring actor, had been all about networking, being seen in the right places, meeting the right people. She could understand that, of course, but her brand of hustle on behalf of her career was quite the opposite—long hours in front of the computer screen. It was a bit like the fish/bird conundrum: they could fall in love, but one of them would always be out of their element.

  Ironic, then, that Christine had crafted her public image to fit the daring, sexy feel of her books, complete with the sultry pen name, Cressida Lyons. Christine might be a bookish, nervous introvert, but Cressida basked in the adoration of her fans.

  Now, though, she was at her limit of playacting. All she wanted to do was get out of this corset and the blasted leather pants, wrap herself in the fuzzy hotel robe, and watch Netflix on her laptop.

  “Ms. Lyons?” One of the store managers, a middle-aged woman who had been assigned to her, approached hesitantly, a stack of paperbacks in her arms. Unlike the pristine hardcovers Christine had just signed, these were rumpled and dog-eared, the spines creased. “Do you think you might sign a few more? These are mine.”

  “Of course, Molly.” Christine took the books and sat back down in her chair, pen in hand.

  “I can’t wait for the program,” Molly said, her low-pitched British clip carrying a girlish hint of excitement. “I don’t suppose you could…do you know who’s going to play Jackson Landry?”

  Christine paused with her pen above the page. “That’s such a huge secret, even I don’t know.”

  “Right. Of course. It’s just…I think he’s my favorite hero. Ever.”

  “I can tell you one thing.” Christine lowered her voice. “Jackson will be every bit as dreamy on the screen as he is on the page.”

  It might have been evasion, but Molly beamed as if she had been let in on a huge secret. Christine finished the inscriptions, making sure each was unique, then handed back the books, feeling oddly somber. The letdown from the day’s excitement, she told herself.

  Only when she was in the back of the cab, sliding through the dark London streets, did she manage to put a name to it. Guilt.

  Maybe she wasn’t being fair to Nick. She claimed her bias against him was based on his acting ability, but that wasn’t true. Nick was an excellent actor. He had always been. It wasn’t his fault that his roles so far required more looks than talent. Look at Brad Pitt. He’d gone from hunky eye-candy to Oscar winner in a handful of years.

  The fact was, Nick was perfect for Jackson. She had written it with him in mind, first when she had been so in love with him that her enthusiasm spilled out onto the page, unbidden; later as she tried to redeem the character through hard lessons. She could admit that she had t
aken a twisted kind of delight in the torture she’d devised for Jackson in the later books.

  So yeah, maybe she was letting her personal feelings interfere with her judgment.

  And yet the idea of having to work with Nick, see him on a regular basis, made her feel a little ill. Or maybe that quiver in her stomach was an entirely different kind of sensation. She didn’t want to examine that too closely.

  But she didn’t have to make the decision this second. David had given her another two days, and she suspected he had an alternate on speed dial, waiting in case she decided she just couldn’t approve him for the role of Jackson. That, too, gave her a little twinge of guilt. She’d allowed Nick to believe her power came from the fact that her fans wouldn’t support—and could in fact hurt—the series, when in reality it had a much more personal reason. When the first book in the Smoke and Glory series hadn’t exactly flown off the shelves, she’d realized she needed a more consistent form of income and had taken a nanny job for a set of five-year-old twins. At the time, hired by the mother, Marilyn, she hadn’t realized the twins’ father was David Chan… nor had Marilyn realized that Christine was the author of the books she had just fallen in love with.

  Fast forward three years and Christine was as much a part of the Chan family as if she were blood, even if the nanny position had been short-lived. She honestly didn’t know if the books would have come to the attention of such a well-known director had there not been that personal connection.

  But that’s the way things are done in Hollywood, and in publishing for that matter. It’s all about who you know. It’s not any different than Nick using Derek to get a role on his father's show. Somehow that didn’t comfort her. She’d always somehow thought she was above that.

  Just like she’d never seen herself as the vindictive type.

  When the cab let her off in front of the St. Anselm Hotel, she was thoroughly torn. She hoisted her tote bag onto her shoulder and made her way through the plush lobby to the lift. David had simply asked her to give Nick a chance to prove he deserved the role. So she’d give him a chance. And if she decided that he still had the emotional capacity of a four-year-old, rendering him incapable of playing the character, then she could tell David that with no ill will.

  She rode up to her room, her heart lighter now that she’d managed to reconcile her feelings with her principles and let herself into the room with her key card. By now, the leather pants were making her feel like a sausage squeezed into a too-tight casing, and she was pretty sure that the spring steel boning in her corset was giving her a bruised rib. She threw the privacy latch across the door, pulled the pins out of her updo, and immediately began to work on the corset. Until it was gone, she wouldn’t be able to bend over enough to peel herself out of the pants.

  But when she put her fingers to the metal busk that closed the front of the garment, it didn’t budge. She pushed both edges toward the middle, trying to free the posts from the hooks on the opposite side with no luck. Unfortunately, thanks to the corset, she couldn’t see past her own chest to figure out what was hanging it up.

  Groaning from the exertion and sweating like she was in a sauna, she moved to the full-length mirror on the back of the wardrobe. Dang it. The posts were bent, and there wasn’t enough play in the stiffly structured garment to maneuver them free. She’d have to unlace herself from the back. She felt for the ties that crisscrossed the opening from the bottom up and the top down—she couldn’t go with anything as non-traditional and déclassé as a zipper!—and tugged the knots free.

  Nothing happened.

  “No no no,” she moaned, fumbling for the center of the thick laces. She twisted around, peering over her shoulder in the mirror. Even from here, she could tell that the knots she’d carefully tied were now tighter than a hipster’s jeans. She slumped against the mirror, willing herself not to cry. What was she going to do now?

  Remy. Maybe it was unorthodox to call a publicist to help her out of a corset, but the woman had become something of a friend while working on the preliminary publicity for the show. Plus, she was the only female Christine knew here in the hotel. She dug her cell phone from her discarded tote bag, found the number in the contacts list, and pressed call. It rang several times with the strange trill that indicated they were on an English network, before going to the woman’s voice mail.

  What now? She was tempted to cut the strings to get herself out, but her costume maker, Drew, would kill her if she somehow damaged the fabric in the process. Not to mention she needed this for a book signing in two days. What other choice did she have? If she had to, she would ask David to put her in touch with one of the costume designers he used here in London. No doubt they would be able to find a set of corset laces in the space of a day.

  Just as she was about to call down to the front desk for a pair of scissors, a knock sounded at the door. With a sigh, she moved to the peephole and peered through, then jerked back.

  Nick. What was he doing here?

  Reluctantly, she opened the door just a crack. “Hi.”

  He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and sent her a charming smile, the one that had almost always gotten him out of trouble while they were together. “Hi yourself.” Then he looked at her strangely, and she realized she was still breathing hard from her exertion with the corset. “Am I…interrupting something?”

  Christine flushed when she finally followed his thinking and realized how it must look with her peeking her head out the crack of the door. She opened it wide to show she was indeed alone. “No, not really. I just got back from the book signing.”

  But he was now looking her up and down, his expression appreciative. “Wow. That is some getup, Chrissy.”

  Her spine stiffened, but his appraisal intensified the heat in her cheeks. “It’s called cosplay. Haven’t you ever heard of it?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of it. But I never thought you were the type.” The widening of his grin seemed to imply that he was very glad she was.

  “My readers are the type, and that’s what’s important.” She crossed her arms over her chest, which was probably a bad idea considering the way it emphasized the overspill from the corset. “Did you need something? And how did you find me anyway?”

  “It wasn’t hard. The hotel only has thirty-five rooms and you checked in under Chrissy Marie. You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?”

  And just when she thought she couldn’t be embarrassed further, she felt the crimson spread over her chest and neck. “You promised you’d never tell anyone about that.”

  “Considering you’re wearing leather pants and a corset, I didn’t think you’d be ashamed of having written fan fiction.” He held up his hands. “But no, I haven’t told anyone about that. It just made you easy to track down in the hotel. I was actually coming to see if you’d eaten dinner.”

  In response, her stomach grumbled. Traitor.

  “I’ll take that as a no?”

  She desperately fumbled for control of the situation, which had somehow slipped from her grasp. “I was just going to order up room service.” Except she had been about to order up a pair of scissors in order to cut herself out of her corset.

  She eyed him critically. No. That was probably a really bad idea. It would definitely send the wrong message.

  The corset boning shifted as she moved and sent a twinge of pain through her ribs. “Okay. You really want to prove yourself?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then get me out of this corset and never speak of it again.”

  Mischief glinted in his dark eyes, and a wolfish smile spread across his face. She smacked him in the arm, hard. Unfortunately, it only served to hurt her hand. He really did spend all his time in the gym. “Stop that. I’ve been in this thing for six hours, the busk posts are bent, and the strings are knotted. I’m stuck.”

  He grinned at her and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He leaned against the door, as if he were blocking her exit. “I have a condition
.”

  “I don’t think you’re really in the position to have conditions.”

  He shrugged. “Fine. You’re the one who’s going to have to sleep in a corset.” He pushed himself up and turned, his hand on the latch.

  “Wait.” She sighed. “What is it?”

  “Nothing taxing. Let me buy you dinner downstairs at the restaurant.”

  She regarded him suspiciously. “Just dinner.”

  “Well, dinner and civil conversation. Like we don’t hate each other. Because no matter what you might believe, Christine, I still like you. I always have. I admire what you’ve accomplished. Surely we can spend an hour or two together, getting to know each other again?”

  She considered. His words and his tone seemed completely sincere, but then again, she had just finished convincing herself that he was a truly good actor. And she did have to eat…without the stupid corset compressing her organs into mush. She nodded.

  “Okay, turn around. I’m assuming we’re going through this because we just can’t cut them?”

  “Yes. The dress I’m wearing for the convention signing is fitted to this corset and I won’t be able to get into it otherwise. I’m not sure I have time to track down more laces.”

  “All right, let me see what we’re dealing with here.” He gathered her hair with one hand and pushed it over her shoulder. It might have been intended as a businesslike motion, but the brush of his fingertips still raised goosebumps over her skin. That wasn’t good.

  “Mind if I sit?” He gestured to the chair in front of the nearby desk and then pulled it over behind her. As if that didn’t make her feel more exposed. He was practically staring at her butt in leather pants. Then again, it was probably hard to bend himself close enough to see the knots. She kept her breathing as even as she could manage, though considering the situation—all elements of the situation—it was getting hard to manage.