Starstruck Page 3

  “You know, this sort of thing usually comes after dinner,” he murmured.

  “Not funny,” she said stiffly.

  “Sorry. Just going for a little humor to lighten the mood.” His tone didn’t sound sorry at all, but she didn’t dare turn to see what his expression looked like. His fingers tugged at the strings, and she struggled to stay still and upright as he worked at the knots that held her prisoner.

  After what felt like an eternity, a triumphant “aha!” escaped his lips and she immediately felt the corset expand as the strings loosened in the eyelets. She let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Oh thank goodness. I thought I’d be stuck in this thing forever.”

  “I don’t understand why you put yourself through it in the first place.”

  “It’s part of the effect.” Christine turned, her hands pressed to the front of the brocade material to keep it in place over her thin chiffon blouse. “The image.”

  “The image,” he repeated quietly, his eyes meeting hers. “You never cared about that before.”

  She found she couldn’t continue looking at him when he watched her with that soft, searching expression. Instead she turned and fled through the open bathroom door. “I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty,” she said, then shut the door in his face.

  Once more, Nick found himself waiting on Christine and pacing the floor. Except now he was waiting to convince himself of something, not her.

  He couldn’t reconcile the woman upstairs with the one he had dated for three years. True, they had been in a different place than they were now, both struggling to start new lives, barely out of the undergraduate programs at the university where they’d met. He had still been scrambling to get an acting job—any job—and she had been enrolled in an MFA program while simultaneously trying to complete her first novel. They had been focused on completely different things.

  Now it seemed like they were far more alike than they’d been when they split: both successful, both at the mercy of their fans and the images that came along with that success. Of course, she’d scoff at any suggestion that they had anything in common, just as she’d scoff at the thoughts that refused to leave his mind.

  He should have found her someone else to help with the corset. He had only been thinking about how it was a way to leverage her gratitude into a chance to make a case for himself. He’d stupidly thought he would be unaffected by the soft skin of her shoulder as he brushed her hair away, that he could ignore the fact that he was essentially undressing a woman he’d once loved. A woman he was supposed to marry. It didn’t matter how innocent the situation had been.

  So he paced.

  Finally, Christine appeared at the edge of the atrium, looking blessedly more relaxed and casual than she had in that eye-popping outfit twenty minutes earlier. Her long hair was twisted into a messy knot on top of her head, a loose silky blouse skimming her curves down to the tops of close-fitting trousers. A pair of leather ballet flats—he’d never admit he knew that’s what they were called—peeped out beneath the hems.

  “Better?” he asked, proud of how calm and casual his voice sounded.

  “You have no idea. Be glad you’re a man and you don’t cram yourself into these ridiculous contraptions.”

  He gestured for her to walk with him across the lobby to the restaurant, an elegant white-tablecloth affair with silk draperies and crystal chandeliers. Even at this hour, the dining room was partially filled. “Why do you then?”

  She didn’t meet his eye, didn’t respond. Had he said something wrong? The last thing he wanted to do was start the night off with her angry, not when this might be the only chance he had to convince her not to fire him from this part. He stayed quiet and led her inside to a free table near the corner where menus were already laid across the bread plates.

  He held the chair for her while she sat, and she immediately picked up the menu. “Seriously?” she murmured. “Foie gras terrine and black truffle fondant?”

  Nick chuckled. “What were you expecting exactly? Look at the place.”

  Christine sighed. “I knew it was too much to expect something like chicken nachos.”

  “I’m surprised you still eat them.”

  “Of course.” She flashed him a tiny, knowing smile. “One does not just get over a chicken nacho obsession.”

  “We were pretty obsessed. You remember that little cafe we used to eat at in college? Sold half-price chicken nachos after ten?”

  Christine grinned. “No wonder we all got a little soft around the middle that year. You can’t eat like that after midnight every night and keep your girlish figure.”

  “It was fun, though, wasn’t it? Our last hurrah before we were forced to act like grownups.”

  She smiled at him across the table, for once her expression free from suspicion. The fact she could reminisce fondly about their late-night snack spot gave him hope that not all her memories of him were bad. Maybe she would be able to see past how things had ended between them. Maybe she could forgive him for the mess he’d made of their relationship in public.

  A woman arrived at their table, all English in a navy blue skirt, pressed white blouse, and bobbed haircut, and asked them for their drink orders. Nick immediately ordered a cocktail, but Christine opted for a sparkling water. His first misstep—he should have let her go first and followed her lead. As soon as the woman stepped away, Nick asked, “So how did this all come about? Seems you were three books in before I heard about the series?”

  Christine shifted in her chair, as if the question made her uncomfortable. “You remember that I’d gotten an agent for the first book when we… Well, that sold almost immediately, and I’ve been writing a book a year since. So number four just came out, which was what I was signing last night. David’s wife is a fan, so that obviously helped along the option process. Once he was on board, things went rather more smoothly than most book-to-film deals go.”

  “They seem to be doing well.” Nick thought they were at least. All four books were currently on the bestseller list, which he figured would indicate a pretty significant amount of sales, but he had no idea what that actually meant. Was it relative like movie openings, where rank depended on how bad the other options were?

  “They are doing very well. I honestly thought I’d be looking at a flop, it started so slow, but then somehow they started gathering momentum. Once the first book hit the bestseller list, the others did too. And then the fourth opened near the top.” She gave a little shrug, almost embarrassed. “It’s inexplicable. It’s a lot of luck, this business. But you know that.”

  “It helped that they’re good books,” Nick said.

  She gaped at him. “You’ve read them?”

  “Of course I’ve read them. Why do you think I wanted the role so badly? Jackson Landry is a perfect hero, and Smoke and Glory is the perfect vehicle to prove what I can do. Steampunk, London, and a quirky, flawed, heroic male role. It’s a great character in a great story, Christine.”

  A strange expression flickered over her face. Had she really thought he wouldn’t do his homework? Any actor who really wanted a role would research the source material. Of course, he didn’t tell her that he had read the books as they came out, one by one, eagerly awaiting the next volume. As skittish as she was around him, she would think he was stalking her, and then she’d never agree to work with him.

  He thought she was going to comment, even thank him, but the return of their server with their drinks meant he’d never find out. Christine hurriedly scanned the menu, and Nick repressed a smile at the thought she was looking for a chicken nacho substitute. Of the two of them, Nick had always been the foodie. She’d never even had Chinese takeout before she’d met him.

  A couple more seconds and she was beginning to look panicked, so he said smoothly, “We’ll share the Chateaubriand for two with the truffle mashed potatoes.”

  The server smiled at him, her gaze lingering. “Green peppercorn sauce or garlic butter?”

  “Garlic butter, t
hank you.” He returned the menus to the woman and she hardly looked at Christine as she turned away. Maybe she hadn’t noticed.

  But Christine intoned in a sing-song voice, “Some things never change.” She watched the server for a moment, then shifted her attention back to him. “You still like to order for me.”

  “Sorry, were you dying to try the squid ink spaghetti?”

  “Funny. You know I wasn’t. I’m sure what you picked will be good. It always is.” She took a sip of her mineral water and then said, “Tell me how the role on Night Music came about. The real story, not the ones you always tell in interviews.”

  “Think I’m lying?”

  “I think I’ve done enough interviews to know we all tell the truth, just little bits of it at different times as best suits the situation.”

  A little more cynical than he would have expected of the Christine he knew, but then again, he was beginning to think this wasn’t the Christine he knew. “Essentially, I begged Derek to talk to his dad on my behalf. I’m not all that proud of it, but I’m not that ashamed either. He’d been offering for years, and I had this crazy idea that I would be able to land some big role on my own. And maybe I would have, had I kept at it long enough.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder if it was the best move, because now the only thing I get offered is supernatural, brooding, and shirtless.”

  “Yes, it must be rough to only be admired for your looks and your body,” she said wryly, a hint of a smile playing around her lips.

  “I don’t know. How would you feel if people only came to see you in that impressive little corset and not because they loved your books?”

  She pressed her lips together. “Point taken. But you enjoy the show, right? It can’t be all bad.”

  “It’s great. It really is. The cast is wonderful, with the exception of some diva behavior from certain actresses. Dante is brilliant when he’s on set, and our showrunner is sharp. He knows what the audience wants and makes sure we stay on track each week. That’s the only reason we’re into our seventh season already.” He folded his hands and leaned forward so he could pitch his voice low. “I wouldn’t be up for this role if it hadn’t been for Night Music, but I’m ready to show what I’m actually capable of.”

  He met her eyes, watched as they roamed over his face, presumably trying to ascertain his truthfulness. And then before she could say anything, the server came back with their arugula and goat cheese salads. As soon as they were alone again, Christine stabbed one of the leggy leaves with her fork and nibbled it experimentally.

  Nick waited. “What do you think?”

  “It tastes like weeds. Spicy weeds.”

  Nick chuckled and shook his head. “Somehow I expected your taste might grow up with you.”

  Instead of being offended, she merely smiled. “I made mushroom risotto last week.”

  “Oh yeah?” His eyes widened. “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. It came out gummy. But at least I tried.”

  “I’m impressed by the attempt then.” He went back to the salad, noting that she was eating it despite her pronouncement. “What do you have planned this week leading up to the big reveal?”

  A flicker of uncertainty passed over her face, like she was unsure if this was a way to pressure her into a decision. Finally she said, “The convention opens tomorrow, so I have a signing in the afternoon. Then very little beyond the announcement and the panel discussion afterward. Why?”

  “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to do a little sightseeing with me. You’ve never been to London, have you?”

  She didn’t say anything immediately and he realized he was holding his breath while he waited for the answer. Needy and pathetic. He exhaled slowly and took another bite of salad as if her response didn’t matter to him.

  “I haven’t,” she said finally. “But I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  “Afraid you might discover you actually still like me?”

  “No, I’m afraid it would make it harder to kick you to the curb.”

  “That’s kind of the idea. Come on, it will be fun. Casual. I promise I won’t bring up the role unless you do.”

  After a long moment, she finally nodded. “I’m free after my two o’clock signing.”

  “Then I will be hanging around the hotel in case you need more corset assistance.” He gave her a mischievous grin. He was saved from saying anything more by the return of the server, who set a platter of sliced medium-rare beef and crisped whole potatoes along with two dinner plates in front of them. A few minutes later, she brought him another cocktail and set it on a white napkin. He quickly moved the glass to cover the phone number scrawled in black ink on the corner.

  But Christine was too quick. Her eyes followed the movement and a resigned smile crossed her face. “Like I said, some things never change.”

  “People do,” he shot back, but it was too late. He could see that her mind was made up about him. And for the first time, he was absolutely sure her problem with him had nothing to do with his acting ability.

  They finished their dinner in the restaurant, keeping to neutral topics and pretending like they were merely old friends catching up on the past five years. When Nick asked her if she was seeing anyone, Christine made a non-committal answer about it being nothing serious. In truth, there was nothing to talk about, serious or not. She’d dated here and there, but somehow, despite the romance she wrote into her novels, a relationship wasn’t at the top of her list.

  Nick volunteered to walk her back to her room, and since she couldn’t think of any polite way to say no, she nodded. He kept his distance in the lift and slipped his hands into his pockets as he trailed her down the hall.

  “Thank you for joining me,” he said, when they stopped outside her room.

  “Thank you for…you know.”

  “No,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, just as instructed.”

  A tiny smile spread over her lips. “Thank you for that too.”

  “My pleasure.” He looked down at her, his expression warm, and for a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. But he only took her hand and lifted it to his lips, the kiss warm and gentle across her fingers. It was such a Jackson move that she knew it had to be calculated; the butterflies that erupted in her stomach didn’t seem to care. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow after the signing.”

  “Okay.” She squashed the butterflies with the brutality of a neighborhood bully, but that didn’t keep her from following his departure. When he started to turn back, she panicked. He could not catch her watching him walk away. She waved her key card frantically in front of the door’s reader. “Open open open,” she hissed at the mechanism, refusing to look back even though she could feel Nick’s eyes on her. When the light finally turned green, she shoved through the door and pushed it closed behind her.

  “You’re an idiot, Christine.” She tossed her card on the desk, grabbed her pajamas from the dresser drawer, and strode into the impressive hotel bathroom. At least one thing was clear from that little show. He was an excellent actor. At least she hoped he was. Because the last thing she wanted to believe was that he was actually sincere.

  She washed the last traces of makeup from her face, wound her hair into a bun on top of her head, which would help with the hairstyling in the morning, and then slipped on the oversized T-shirt and shorts that served as her nightwear. No doubt everyone imagined that the famous Cressida Lyons wore silky peignoirs around the house, lacy little nothings suited to a best-selling author with a sexy image. How disappointed everyone would be if they knew the truth.

  When she finally made it back to the bed, the flashing light on her cell phone alerted her to a missed call. No message. She didn’t even need to look at the number to know who had called. She hit return.

  The phone on the other end rang twice and then an impatient voice came through the line: “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you!
”

  Christine laughed and pulled her legs up beneath her on the bed. Drew Price was one of her oldest and dearest friends, and even the fact she lived three hours north of San Diego in the San Fernando Valley hadn’t dampened their friendship. “You called me once and texted me twice in the space of five minutes. A girl does have to use the restroom once in a while.”

  “Please, I know you take your phone in with you so you can check your Amazon rankings.”

  Christine laughed with a tinge of embarrassment, knowing how close to the truth that actually was. “What are you doing? It’s after midnight here, so that makes it what… four p.m.? I didn’t even know you Hollywood types got out of bed that early.”

  “Very funny. I’m looking at thirty yards of the ugliest green polyester I’ve ever seen. Remind me again why I’m doing this?”

  “Because you are a good person and you want to give back to the community?” Christine ventured.

  “Right. That must be why I’m spending the time I’d planned for my beach vacation sewing a billion tiny costumes. Because I’m telling you, I had no idea exactly how many Merry Men were in this production when I volunteered for it.”

  Christine smiled. Drew might be a tough-talking, in-demand Hollywood costume designer, but she was also a campfire-toasted marshmallow—a big softie wrapped in an intimidating all-black wardrobe. Which was the only way to explain how she was sewing costumes for a children’s community theater on what would probably be her only two weeks off this year.

  “Did you ever think we’d be here?” Christine asked. “Living the dream?”

  “My dream did not involve draping Maid Marion in neon pink taffeta, but apparently we’re working with donations from the community.” Drew’s tone was so flat it was all Christine could do not to laugh.

  “Well, make sure you leave some time to fix my corset when I get back. My busk is bent and I almost got stuck in it today.”

  “Did you have to cut yourself out of it? I packed extra laces in that little pocket in the garment bag.”