Starstruck Page 6

  But the fact she was still harboring this much anger toward him, this much feeling, made him think he’d woefully underestimated what was going on inside her.

  He sighed and kicked a rock into the water, then turned around and began walking out of the park back to Kensington Road, where he’d be able to grab a cab to the hotel. This little outing of theirs had taken up a big chunk of the afternoon and he would have just enough time to shower and dress for dinner with his fellow Night Music cast members.

  When Nick finally made it back to the hotel, he gave the bunny costume to the concierge with instructions to send it back to the costume shop, then rode the lift up to his floor. As the old-fashioned dial clicked upward, he changed his mind and pushed another button. Moments later, as he stood outside Christine’s room, he wondered how it was that she’d attempted to humiliate him, and yet he was the one who ended up feeling bad about it.

  Even so, he knocked sharply and listened for movement inside. Nothing. Either she wasn’t back yet or she’d left for the night.

  He shoved down the uncomfortable sensation of guilt while he showered, shaved, and changed, but it didn’t make him feel any better. His assessment of guilt didn’t matter—right now it was solely her opinion that counted.

  He kept his eyes open for any sign of her when he returned to the lobby, but the only people waiting for him were his fellow cast members, looking like they were ready for a red carpet.

  “Hey man.” His co-star, Ethan Gray, greeted him with a handshake and a slap on the back. On the show, Ethan was the golden boy to Nick’s brooding darkness, typecasting if ever there was an example. Ethan always reminded him of a retriever—overly-friendly and eager to please. Nick also thought at times he wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box, but he had an almost preternatural gift for remembering dialogue. What took Nick an hour to memorize, Ethan got from a single pass of the script. On set, it all evened out.

  The other two were the actresses who played their love interests on screen, and only on screen, no matter what the tabloids said. Tatiana Smith, Ethan’s character’s girlfriend, was as dark as he was light, sinuous and sexy in a sparkly two-piece dress that showed a large swath of smooth, bare midsection. Nick greeted her with a kiss on the cheek before he turned to his own on-screen girlfriend, Megan Childs, red-headed, pale, and resplendent in a white halter pantsuit with a plunging neckline. She gave him a chilly smile and offered her cheek for a kiss as well, even though he could swear that she purposely shuddered when she drew away.

  To say they didn’t get along was an understatement. And made the words “long night” sound like a hopelessly trite cliché.

  “Ready to go?” he said brightly. “Our reservations are at seven, and I’d venture to say the photographers will be upset if we’re late.”

  Megan rolled her eyes and linked arms with Tatiana, dragging her ahead with an all-too-familiar swagger. Ethan stayed behind with Nick and gave a low whistle. “She’s still mad at you, is she?”

  “Still mad, mad again, hard to tell.” Nick jerked his head in the girls’ direction, indicating they should follow them. “I still haven’t figured out what I did the first time.”

  “You exist,” Ethan said with a grin.

  Sadly, that was true. Nick had joined the cast late and quickly became a fan favorite. No one was thrilled by the way Megan’s character, Alexandra, treated Nick’s character, Victor—the writers’ choice, not theirs—and so she had been quickly vilified by viewers. Not Alexandra, but Megan herself, the fandom obviously having difficulty separating the character from the actress. It had gotten so chilly between them that Nick had begged Dante to intervene and do something different with Alexandra, but he’d refused. The drama made good ratings; the social media frenzy only helped to draw attention to the show.

  Were Nick to get this role, it would all be moot, because he would quit Night Music to star in Smoke and Glory.

  Megan should be thanking him.

  But she wouldn’t, even if she knew the truth, and that made for a very long dinner in a very trendy London restaurant, Ethan and Nick chatting across the girls while they held their own conversation beneath them. And the whole time, he was thinking of Christine.

  “What’s up with you?” Ethan asked finally. “You’ve been distracted.”

  “Sorry. Just thinking.”

  “About Smoke and Glory?”

  Nick blinked. “You know?”

  “Everybody knows. Which is what you wanted, right? Why else would you have posted that photo of you and Cressida Lyons?”

  “I didn’t post it.”

  Ethan made a face. “Right.”

  “No, really, I didn’t. Trust me, I know better than to tick off someone who has my role in her hands. And I know Chris—Cressida well enough to know that photo would infuriate her.”

  “So who did then?”

  “Someone trying to make trouble for me? No idea.”

  “I’d say they did you a favor, man. Your hashtag is trending.”

  He took the phone that Ethan offered and scrolled through the long list of #NickClearyIsJacksonLandry tweets. He shrugged casually, even though his mind was spinning over the implications. When Christine showed him the hashtag earlier, he’d assumed it would fizzle out and die. After all, it didn’t exactly roll off the tongue. But he’d underestimated both of their fandoms. Of course news like this would blow up the Internet. Maybe it would grow big enough that she’d have no choice but to acquiesce to the casting. But he’d rather not have to go that route.

  And that’s when he realized that not only did he want the role, he wanted her approval. Her forgiveness.

  “—isn’t it, Nick?” Tatiana grinned at him, a mischievous sparkle in her eye.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said, I’ll bet you twenty bucks that our audience tomorrow is seventy-five percent teenage girls cosplaying Alexandra in the hopes of getting a photo with the real live Victor.”

  Nick gave a half-hearted chuckle, knowing that the joke could very well turn out to be true. “I’m not willing to take that bet.”

  “On that note, I think we should get going.” Ethan pulled out his wallet and shoved his credit card in the folder, then set it on its end on the table for their server. As soon as the waiter ran his card and handed it back, Nick collected Megan’s coat check ticket and went to retrieve their jackets, then met her at the entrance to help her into it. Whatever the truth might be, most of their fans wanted to believe they were all just one big happy family off screen.

  “How do I look?” Megan murmured just before they broke free of the doors.

  “Gorgeous as usual,” Nick said and put on a bright smile before the flash of cameras followed them all the way to the taxi rank and into their hired cab.

  “Well, that was fun,” Tatiana said drolly, looking between the two of them. “Our panel is tomorrow. Think the two of you could look a little more friendly by then? You are supposed to be in love, don’t forget.”

  “I think our love/hate dynamic is far more appropriate, considering Alexandra tried to kill Victor twice and he pulled her into the underworld last season.” Nick flashed a smile. “Don’t you think, darling?”

  “I definitely understand my character’s motivations,” she shot back sweetly. “But I still think I was robbed. I deserved an Emmy for pretending to be in love with you.”

  Tatiana pursed her lips and sucked in a dramatic breath at the burn, but Ethan looked uncomfortable as he always did when their interactions turned too sharp. Nick felt a flash of guilt over his uncharitable thoughts toward his co-star; Ethan was a better, kinder person than all of them combined.

  “You guys need to kiss and make up, because look what I got us.” Tatiana pulled four tickets from her purse and looked disappointed when they stared at her blankly. “The Ministry of Sound? You know, the dance club? It’s practically a London institution.”

  Ethan shrugged. “I’m game.”

  Megan looked pointedly at him, and N
ick knew what she wanted. “I think I’m going to hit the sack early. I’m still jet-lagged.”

  Tatiana pouted for a second—nice to know someone cared—then looked at Megan.

  “If he’s not going, I’m in.”

  “Okay then.” Tatiana clapped her hands. “We can meet in the lobby at eleven. If you change your mind, Nick—”

  “He won’t.”

  No, he wouldn’t. In fact, he took his leave of them as soon as he hit the lobby, eager to get up to the safety of his room. But as he turned the corner and passed the hotel restaurant, his eyes were immediately drawn to a lone figure at a corner table, almost as if he’d been unconsciously seeking her out. Maybe he had been.

  He should stick to his plan and go straight to his room, but instead he found himself winding his way through the tables and pulling up the chair across from her.

  Christine glanced his direction briefly, but otherwise didn’t move a muscle, her fingertips resting on the rim of her glass.

  When the server came over to him—a different one tonight—Nick said, “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

  “It’s just sparkling water,” Christine said. “You shouldn’t drink when you’re jet lagged. It messes with your melatonin production.”

  “I did not know that,” he said.

  “No reason you should. It’s a completely random fact.”

  The server came back and placed the glass on a napkin in front of him. He took a sip. Its bitterness was welcome after the heavy meal he’d just eaten.

  “So where did you go, all dressed up?”

  “Dinner. I’d actually intended to see if you wanted to come. I stopped by your room before I left.”

  “Ah. Sorry.”

  “What did you do?”

  She shook her head, obviously not inclined to reveal her evening plans to him. But she wasn’t telling him to leave, so he sat there silently and sipped his water.

  Finally, she spoke. “Earlier today, when I asked about the photos, why did you say I wouldn’t want to know?”

  Nick took a deep breath and let it out slowly, considering. “Because I know you, and you would feel guilty and then you’d be mad at me for making you feel guilty.”

  A faint smile crossed her lips. “Fair enough. But I still want to know.”

  “It’s punishment.”

  Her head jerked up.

  “Or maybe punishment is the wrong word. Penance might be better. I look at the photo, and remember how happy we were, and how I ruined it all. And then I think about the selfish jerk I was and how I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Would you believe that I regret breaking up with you and I miss you?”

  Now a harsh laugh slipped out. “No. I believe that even less.”

  “Okay, then. You pick which one you like better.”

  She toyed with her glass. “You read my books.”

  “Yes.”

  “You think you can play Jackson Landry.”

  “I know I can.”

  “Then tell me your favorite part of the series so far.”

  He fell silent, considering. There was the honest answer and the smart answer, the one that would swing her decision in his direction. Finally, he said, “I like the part where he gets taken away by Scotland Yard and Livia just watches him go.”

  She flicked a glance his way, her brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Because that’s the moment he knows that he deserves what’s coming to him. Not because he’s guilty of the crime he’s been accused of—because even without reading the next book, I know he isn’t—but because of all the things he is guilty of.” He met her gaze unwaveringly. “He looks at her and he finally understands what he’s taken from her.”

  Christine swallowed. “What’s that?”

  “Her hope. Her belief in true love.”

  Christine remained stock-still, not even breathing, her lips parted in surprise. Nick broke the connection and leaned back in the seat. “Of course, then he gets taken to prison and tortured, which is always fun. I think that’s an acting challenge I’d like to take on.”

  Christine laughed lightly, the spell—or whatever it had been—broken. She rose gracefully from her chair, then took a banknote from her purse and tossed it on the table. “Your drink’s on me. I know you really didn’t want sparkling water in the first place.”

  “Thanks.” He waited until she was about to walk away before speaking. “Chrissy?”

  She turned. “Yes?”

  “Whatever you decide about the role, I’ll accept it. If you’re that dead set against me as Jackson Landry, then I’m not going to force it. But you should know… I did not leak that photo.”

  Christine licked her lips and nodded slowly, then walked away. Nick watched her. He’d done all he could do. Now he could only wait to see what she’d decide…about the role, and about him.

  Christine fled the restaurant, feeling off balance and unsettled. She shouldn’t have asked. She knew she shouldn’t have asked, but curiosity had gotten the better of her, as Nick had to have known it would. All she’d been able to think about since Speaker’s Corner that day was his cryptic statement that she wouldn’t like the reasoning behind the fact he still carried old photos of them. It had dogged her through dinner with Remy and David and kept her out in the lobby hoping for a glimpse of him.

  And now she knew.

  She slumped against the lift’s wall and watched the doors slide closed, praying no one got on with her. Cressida was done for the night, left up in her room with a mound of clothing; Christine was drained from the effort of being on all day. And by Nick’s answer.

  He couldn’t have known it, but that scene was her favorite part too: she’d cried her way through the chapter as she wrote it, and again as she edited it before publication. The part where Jackson was taken away by the authorities while Livia stayed quiet with the information that could have saved him was the tipping point in the relationship. Unbeknownst to anyone but Christine, Livia had committed the crime for which Jackson was arrested and later tortured, but she couldn’t bring herself to give herself up for him, not after all he’d done to her. Not after he’d repeatedly broken her heart.

  And somehow, Nick understood the subtext, that Jackson’s bad deeds had caught up to him and he was going to have to pay the price for them, even if it meant taking the blame for something he hadn’t done. Christine still hadn’t decided how she was going to get him out of the situation in the next book, taking a twisted pleasure in letting him rot in an alternate-history English prison while she formulated the next story. It was only fair, since Livia had reaped the consequences of Jackson’s bad behavior. Since Christine had reaped the consequences for Nick’s behavior.

  Because it seemed silly to pretend that this wasn’t their relationship played out on a fictional stage.

  Christine heaved a sigh and pushed herself up from the wall when the lift dinged at her floor, then dragged herself down the hall to her room. She’d been trying to figure out how she would start the next book. Now was as good a time to decide as any.

  She kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the bed with her laptop, opening a fresh file. She stared at the blinking cursor for a long moment and started typing.

  The fine rain falling outside of Newgate Prison didn’t seem to dampen the spirits of the spectators jostling to get a better view of the portable gallows set up outside Debtor’s Door. There was a mean sort of reprieve from the misery of their own lives in watching the misfortune of others, a reminder that things could always be worse. No one questioned the slight figure who skirted the throng, the hood of her cloak pulled up to shield her face; she could be a flower-seller, peddling nosegays to take the edge from the stench that emanated from the prison, or a family member hoping to get one last look at a loved one before they passed into the Great Beyond. No one suspected that today, she was not a person, but Death. Death and Salvation in one.

  Christine pau
sed. Okay, maybe it was a bit overwrought, but she did like to bring some drama in her openings. Livia, after all, was a dramatic character, a well-educated society lady who over the course of the series turned into an outlaw, so she had a tendency to think of herself in theatrical terms.

  A buzz rippled through the crowd as the guards brought out the day’s condemned, four men, all filthy and bloodied from their treatment in London’s worst prison. Livia’s stomach churned as she recognized Jackson. Not from his face, which was swollen and bruised beyond recognition, but from his walk, that cocky swagger that had so irritated her the first time they’d met. Even after his treatment at the hands of the guards, he was going to the gallows on his own terms.

  The executioner was droning on about their crimes, but Livia blocked out the words as she moved into position. The executioner moved to the side of the gallows, his hand on the lever that would drop them to their deaths. She drew a breath, counting the moments as they passed in slow motion.

  One: the trapdoor opened and the condemned men jolted downward to the end of their ropes. The drop was too short to break their necks—the condemned strangled to death at Newgate.

  Two: an explosion somewhere behind them rocked the prison, covering the scene in black smoke.

  Three: she whipped out her bow and nocked an arrow in one smooth movement, tracking Jackson’s rope, which swayed to and fro as he struggled against the grip of the noose. She loosed, staying only long enough to see that her arrow had hit its target, then swirled away into the crowd before anyone could see what had happened. They were all too busy screaming in terror from the black powder bomb that her men had set off. A distraction.