Starstruck Page 7

It had worked.

  Around the next corner, she tossed away her bow; farther down the street, she abandoned her cloak. By the time Livia met the nondescript black carriage at the end of the lane, she looked like nothing more than a wealthy woman in a violet day dress, out for a stroll.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Barrett,” her footman, Malcolm, greeted her. “I trust you found everything you were looking for? Your packages have already been delivered.”

  “Thank you, Malcolm,” she replied, accepting his help into the carriage. “Let us away with all haste.”

  She gave him a vague smile and he closed the door behind her as she settled into her seat. Directly across from the bloodied, bruised, battered man she loved. The man she’d almost destroyed.

  “You rescued me,” Jackson rasped. He rubbed his throat as if surprised by the damage dangling from a rope could do to a man’s voice.

  “It was only fair,” Livia said, “since I was the guilty one.”

  A faint smile stretched his cracked lips. “I know. I’ve always known.”

  Christine leaned back against the headboard of her bed, having surprised even herself. She’d planned on leaving Jackson to twist—both metaphorically and literally—for a bit longer before she rescued him, but it seemed that her subconscious had other ideas. After five books—five years’ worth of rancor and power struggles and buried attraction—it was time to put them on the same side. It was time for Livia to let go of her anger against the man who had killed her husband.

  She picked up her cell phone and dialed, not waiting for David to answer before she spoke. “Okay.”

  He didn’t sound annoyed or asleep, which was a bit of a miracle considering the time, but he did sound confused. “Okay what?”

  “Cast Nick Cleary.”

  A long pause. “Are you sure? You said—”

  “I know what I said. And as much as I hate to admit it, he’s better for the part than Connor Bell. He understands Jackson. And his fans will help make this a success, right?”

  “Right.” David heaved a sigh. “I’m so relieved that you came around, Christine. This is the right call.”

  “I know it is. And it was time for me to let go. Move on.”

  “Do you want to tell him or should I?”

  “You can tell him. If I tell him, he’s going to think he’s being punked.”

  “This is great. I’ll let him know right now.”

  “What about Connor Bell?”

  “I was thinking he might be good for Captain Brown, actually. And he doesn’t appear until the end of the season, so it gives him plenty of time to recover.”

  Christine nodded thoughtfully. Brown was an important, if supporting role, and a character utterly without a sense of humor. Connor would be great. “I’m good with that.”

  “This is going to be huge, Christine. So many of Nick’s fans are at this con, it’s going to make a massive impact.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.” Christine forced a smile so it came through her voice and then clicked off the line. She’d meant what she said. Nick was the best person for the role, and deep down, she’d always known that. But just because she was willing to relent for the good of the show didn’t mean she was actually prepared to have him back in her life, to work with him.

  To be fair, she was only going to be on set on occasion; her life was back in California, and they would begin filming in Cambridge in a little more than a month. She basically had to make it through FanFest and they could go back to the arrangement that had worked so well for them for the past several years.

  Once in love. Now strangers. As it should be.

  * * *

  Christine jerked her head up, her heart pounding. It took her several minutes to realize she’d fallen asleep against the headboard, her laptop on her knees. And then she realized the pounding wasn’t just her heart, but the door.

  She put her computer aside and stumbled to the door, too groggy to puzzle through who would be knocking after midnight. A quick glance through the peephole revealed it was Nick, still dressed in his clothes from earlier this evening. Somehow looking fresh and handsome despite the fact it was nearly one a.m.

  She opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

  He blew inside, picked her up, and spun her around. “Thank you, Chrissy.”

  His warm body pressed against hers, his arms around her waist, pushed away the last vestiges of sleep. “I take it you heard.”

  “I did. And you have no idea how grateful I am. I promise you, you won’t be sorry.”

  Christine swallowed and extricated herself. “I know I won’t. You’re the right one for the role. You proved to me that you really know the character.”

  Nick beamed at her and shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked around, seeming to realize that he was interrupting something, that it wasn’t normal to show up at her room this late. His eyes traveled over the rumpled but still-made bed, the laptop set on the side table. “Were you working?”

  Christine rubbed her forehead. “Yeah. I was getting started on book six. I’m a lot behind, as you can probably guess.”

  Nick’s eyes lit up. “Can I see?”

  She laughed. “Of course you can’t. That much hasn’t changed.”

  “Then at least tell me… do I survive Newgate?”

  Christine hesitated and relented. “You spend all of book five in prison, untangling the mystery of your employer’s identity, but you do eventually make it out.”

  Nick grinned. “Thanks for that then. I wasn’t entirely sure what was going to happen to me. Would I be off the show in a couple of seasons?”

  “Oh, it was close, trust me. Why do you think Jackson takes such a beating in the first four books? I was always debating whether to kill you off. I mean, kill him off.”

  He cocked his head. “So you really did write the character after me?”

  She cocked her head the same way, mocking him. “You know I did. I started the series when we were still together. And when you left, it was very therapeutic to put you through the wringer.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I realized I’m over you. Over it. So it doesn’t matter.” She smiled. “Don’t get too cocky though. I still plan on making life difficult for him.”

  He held her gaze. “I really am sorry, Chrissy. It wasn’t a ploy to get you to cast me. I’ve been trying to find a way to apologize to you for years.”

  “You should be sorry. You devastated me. Made me question everything about myself. But you know what? If it hadn’t happened, this series wouldn’t have happened. You gave me the motivation to prove myself. Your leaving made me realize what I’d been missing in myself. Some drive. Fire, maybe.”

  “Passion?” he suggested softly.

  She licked her lips. “Sure. Passion. As mad as I was about what you did, I realized you had this… desire to succeed that I was lacking. You were willing to do anything to make it. And you have. That’s why I was so mad about the TV interview. Not because you drew attention to me, but because you were right.”

  Nick stepped closer. “No. I wasn’t.”

  “You were. I was always dedicated to my writing, but that’s different from really putting myself out there and taking a risk.”

  He lifted a lock of hair that had fallen across the shoulder of her T-shirt and rubbed the strand between his fingers. “Is that why you came up with Cressida? To reinvent yourself?”

  She caught her breath. As they’d been talking, he’d edged ever closer to her, and now he was mere inches away. Close enough that if he lowered his head a little and she turned her face up to him…

  She stepped back and looked at the patterned carpet before she was tempted to act on the thoughts cascading through her head. “You’ve got a panel in the morning, and I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Right.” He cleared his throat. “Can we… Would you be interested… There’s something I’d like to show you. Maybe after I’m finished tomorrow?”

  “Sho
w me where?” She couldn’t help the skepticism that came through in her voice.

  “In the city.” He nudged her arm. “What did you think I was talking about?”

  “With you? I couldn’t possibly guess.” She moved to the door and opened it for him. “Maybe. Text me in the morning.”

  “I don’t have your number.”

  “I have a feeling you can get it. Good night, Nick.” She waited until he stepped outside the door and shut it firmly behind him.

  And then exhaled.

  She’d been right about one thing. She was done being mad at him.

  But she wasn’t even close to being over him.

  Nick wanted to take her somewhere.

  It was the first thought that popped into Christine’s head when she woke, before she remembered where she was or managed to look at the clock. Of course, the glowing red numbers quickly swept that thought away, because it was almost one o’clock. She never slept the day away. She did her best work in the morning, which meant she was always up by six and sitting at her desk by 6:45. But she wasn’t in San Diego, she was in London. By California time, that meant she was up early. And she’d only slept in because she’d been up well past dawn, pounding out the first seven chapters of the next novel.

  She threw aside the covers and swung her legs to the padded carpet, forcing herself to think past her jet-lagged grogginess. The blinking light of her cell phone pierced the fog. One missed text from Nick.

  Panel discussion at 2pm, then photo call until 4. Meet me outside the convention center at 5:30?

  Christine hesitated. He didn’t even question the idea that she was going to join him; then again, she’d gone along with the idea when he proposed it last night. Finally, she typed in return: Where are we going? What am I wearing?

  She dropped the phone on her nightstand and went to the bathroom to put on some makeup and brush her teeth. When she came back, there was already a reply.

  Bring Christine, not Cressida. No photo ops today.

  A faint smile came to her lips. Maybe she should be mad that he’d so easily figured out the truth about her split personality, but she shouldn’t be surprised. Other than her parents and Drew, Nick was the person in the world who had known her best. Still knew her best. Okay, she typed back, Meet you at 5:30.

  She should take advantage of her one day off before the cast announcement tomorrow to make more headway on the book, but instead she found herself dressing for the convention floor. Not as Cressida, but in a way that would make her look like she belonged without drawing any attention to herself. Dark jeans, a gray T-shirt with bold white letters that said You had me at the proper use of you’re, and a fitted black blazer. She cuffed the jeans and slid her feet into a comfortable pair of ankle boots, then grabbed her purse and convention badge.

  “What are you doing, Christine?” she mumbled to herself on the way to the exhibit hall in a cab. She knew this was a bad idea but she couldn’t help herself. Then again, he didn’t need to know she was there. She could slip in and right back out without him ever suspecting a thing.

  She put her badge on backward so the casual observer couldn’t see her name until she flipped it around, as she had to do to gain entrance to the hall. Once inside, no one gave her a second look. She wasn’t Cressida, decked out in steampunk splendor, larger than life. She was just some girl in jeans and a blazer, her hair in a braid and wearing next to no makeup, looking like someone’s publicist, agent, or exhibit manager.

  The place was huge, though, and she had to ask directions more than once to make her way to the exhibition center theater where they were holding the panel discussions. At the door, a long line of ticket holders stretched down the hallway behind a red rope, all waiting for their chance to file in and get their seats. Christine hovered in the periphery until the line started moving and there was nothing but a scattering of people left behind. Then she went to the man standing at the door and flipped over her badge.

  She saw him read the name and start connecting the dots. Of course, an exhibitor/faculty badge could get you in pretty much anywhere; it didn’t hurt to have the name of her show and the network beneath. He gave a little nod and gestured for her to go in.

  The auditorium lights were low, the only illumination the spotlights on the stage, highlighting a long, draped table with a handful of chairs. Christine took advantage of the darkness to slip into a space along the back wall, amidst a cluster of similarly-dressed people tapping away at their cell phones. The audience, on the other hand, was buzzing with excitement, more than half of them cosplaying characters from the show. She caught a glimpse of one guy in full Victor regalia, in shapeshifter form, of course, and wondered suddenly if she’d made the right call about Nick.

  No, just because she secretly thought his show was silly didn’t mean he wasn’t the right actor for the job. And if the fans of the show showed half the devotion to Smoke and Glory as they did to Night Music, they would be in good shape for seasons to come.

  The house lights went down completely and spots came up on the stage, bathing the whole auditorium in a silvery blue light. Then the theme song of the show came on and the audience went wild. Slowly, one by one, the cast members emerged from a side door and climbed onto the stage.

  Christine had to admit it was a show filled with beautiful people, not the least being Ethan Gray who lit up the place like a beam of sunshine when he walked out. But the minute Nick made his appearance, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. If she wasn’t mistaken, the female screaming got a bit louder at the same time as well. She evidently wasn’t the only one who felt a little breathless at fifty meters.

  The executive producer, Dante Moretti, emerged last, taking a microphone from one of the con’s staff, and beamed out onto the assembled crowd. Trim and handsome with only the gray hair giving a nod to his age, he had clearly been a heart-stopper in his younger days. When he held up his hand to quiet the room and then began to speak, traces of his Italian accent showed through.

  “Thank you so much for joining us here at the Olympia!” He spread his hands wide. “Look at all you beautiful people!”

  A cheer went up, and Christine smiled to herself. She’d done cons all over the world, but London tended to be far more reserved than San Diego, which had almost a festival atmosphere. He was warming them up, amping up the enthusiasm before he turned over the stage to his actors.

  “Now, I know you’re all anxious to hear from our stars—” some hoots and whistles— “but before we do that, I don’t suppose anyone wants a sneak preview of the season seven trailer, would they?”

  Now the response was deafening. Christine laughed out loud as the screen came down behind the tables and the lights lowered again. Images flickered onto the screen with ominous music, teasing the setting, then moved on to flashes of the Big Bad story arc that the characters would face in season seven. Some interpersonal drama, lots of hand-to-hand combat with mystical weapons, and then the money shot: Victor taking Alexandra by the shoulders and declaring, “I would give up eternity to spend one life here with you.”

  She was pretty sure the entire auditorium exhaled in one simultaneous sigh.

  And then it was over and the lights came up to applause and more female screams. Yep. Nick was the fan favorite, and Ethan, sitting down the table from him, didn’t seem to mind.

  She wasn’t all that interested in the panel discussion, which mostly involved a recap of season six and what the actors thought about their characters’ arcs from the previous season. They were consummate professionals, friendly yet polished, accessible yet still somehow untouchable in their glamor. It was Nick who really shone when it was his turn at the mike, however: he was personable and funny and just flirtatious enough that every woman in the room wished they could be the object of that dark gaze for just a few seconds. He had that “it factor” that no one could define, but everyone recognized the moment they saw it.

  He’d always had it, and she knew just how easy it was to become starstru
ck in his presence, because she’d experienced it firsthand.

  She murmured her apologies and slipped out of the theater.

  * * *

  After Christine left the exhibition center, she found herself wandering West Kensington without any real destination in mind, ogling the Victorian and Edwardian buildings and trying not to inhale the pervasive diesel haze. Nick was right. It was silly that she’d set an entire series in England and yet never experienced it herself. If she were smart, she’d hop on the tube and use her free hours to wander the National Gallery or explore Piccadilly Circus. Instead, she walked residential streets and gazed up at the attached brick row homes, wondering about the lives the owners led. This wasn’t the most upscale part of West London, but it was certainly beyond what any average citizen could dream of, just as it had been in Livia’s day.

  When she got tired of her meandering route, she ducked into a small cafe where she ate a panini by the plate glass window and scrawled notes for the next few chapters in her pocket notebook.

  Waiting on Nick as you always did, huh?

  She silenced the mocking voice in her head. That wasn’t what she was doing. She could have done anything with her day, texted Nick to meet her somewhere else. But the heat wave had lifted, leaving them with pleasant, overcast warmth even in the un-air-conditioned cafe, and she was getting some work done on the next book.

  She didn’t like to admit that until she’d finally agreed to let Nick go forward as Jackson Landry, she’d been hopelessly blocked.

  Now the ideas were flowing, and she filled page after page with plot points. She only liked composing on her computer, but she had the feeling she was going to spend the entire eleven-hour flight home on her laptop now that she knew what was going to happen next.

  Maybe it was finally the time for Livia and Jackson to succumb to their attraction.

  The idea gave her a thrill that wasn’t entirely esoteric; there was way too much of herself and Nick wrapped up in these characters. It was what had made them come alive, why the passion and the hatred and the angst seemed so real and palpable to readers. She’d meant what she said: she owed much of her success to what had happened in their relationship.