Starstruck Page 8

  A few minutes after five, she paid her check, packed up her things, and made her way slowly back to the exhibition center. Her heart picked up a rapid beat when she saw that Nick was already waiting for her out front, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes to disguise his face. Even from a distance, she saw his expression light up when she appeared.

  “You came.” The low timbre of his voice sent a little shiver down her spine. No, that couldn’t be what had caused it. It must be the sudden coolness of the breeze as the sun began to dip.

  “How was your panel?” she asked as they moved together down the street, she presumed toward the tube stop.

  “You tell me.”

  Her cheeks heated. “You saw me?”

  “You’re hard to miss.”

  Christine laughed harshly. “I don’t buy that for a second. Someone told you.”

  “Oh, no, I spotted you the moment you walked in. I was standing off stage watching the crowd. My question is, why did you leave so soon?”

  She shrugged. “I’d seen enough.”

  “Convincing yourself you made the right decision?”

  “Something like that. Even if I didn’t think you’d make a good Jackson, the fans’ response to you would have convinced me. You had them eating out of the palm of your hand.”

  “Part of the job,” he said. “Fans are the difference between a good show that goes nowhere and a smash hit.”

  “I have a feeling Dante is going to be very unhappy to hear he’s losing you.”

  Nick didn’t say anything and Christine threw him a curious look. “He already knows?”

  “I owed him as much. Better he hear it from me than tomorrow at the panel. I suspect the writers are figuring out how to kill me off at this very moment.”

  “Are you sorry to be leaving?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m grateful for the show, but I’m ready to move on. And more importantly, Megan is ready for me to move on.”

  “Funny, you two always look so cozy.”

  “That only proves that we’re good actors. Trust me, it’s hard to act like you’re in love with someone on screen when they hate your guts in real life. I imagine Megan will get a good, heart-wrenching scene over my death that will boost sympathy among the viewers… or maybe Victor will do something horrible and she’ll kill me.”

  “Does that mean you’ll come back to shoot some final episodes?”

  “I imagine I will. We haven’t really discussed it in any depth yet.” They’d come to the Underground station and descended the cement stairs side by side.

  “So, do you want to tell me where exactly we’re going or am I supposed to guess?” Christine asked.

  “And ruin the fun? Why would I do that?”

  “So it’s something fun?”

  “I guess that would all depend on your definition of fun.”

  “So not the London Eye.”

  He cast her a wry look. “Even I know that isn’t your definition of fun.”

  “Then you should know that surprises in general aren’t my definition of fun. Are we going to dinner?”

  “Maybe later if you play your cards right.”

  She squinted at him.

  “Listen, if I told you, you would be completely unimpressed and think I’ve lost my mind. It’s really something that’s better as a surprise. I promise you, it doesn’t involve bunny costumes or historical speeches.”

  Christine felt her cheeks heat again. “Yeah. I feel like maybe I owe you an apology for that.”

  He shrugged. “I walked into that one.”

  The train rumbled into the station, its doors sliding open to let off a trickle of passengers. They slid onto the train and nabbed two seats by the doors.

  “Besides,” Nick continued, as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted, “You obviously haven’t seen Twitter.”

  She threw him a curious look and he pulled up his app, then handed his phone to her. She scrolled down through all the mentions and sighed. “Seriously? A bunch of teenage girls sighing over your humility and sense of humor?”

  He took the phone back and pocketed it with a shrug, though a smile played on the corners of his lips. “What can I say? My fans love me.”

  “Unbelievable,” she muttered. Of course, now that they’d really cast him, it was good that her little stunt hadn’t caused him any problems; then it would be their problem and she’d have to answer for it.

  He nudged her. “Come on. Admit it. I do a pretty good Rabbit Abraham Lincoln.”

  She made a face but she couldn’t help but laugh. “I was actually impressed that you remembered the entire Gettysburg Address.”

  “Believe it or not, I know a good chunk of FDR’s first inaugural address too. Not the whole thing, of course. That thing is like three and a half minutes long.”

  The train went around a curve, jostling her against him, and he steadied her automatically. She carefully separated from him before asking, “Do you make it a point to memorize famous presidential speeches?”

  “I learned them for speech club in high school.”

  Christine stared at him. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh yeah, I was a gigantic nerd. Figured any attention was better than not existing, so I did debate team, speech, and theater. Never helped me get any girls, though.”

  “A fact that they are all lamenting this very second, I’ll bet.”

  His eyes twinkled. “If I’m not mistaken, that sounded like a compliment.”

  “No, not a compliment. Just an observation. You’re kind of famous.”

  “So are you.” He reached out and tugged the end of her braid. “So much so you have to go around in disguise.”

  When the train stopped at Earl’s Court a few minutes later, Nick straightened. “We get off here and change to Piccadilly.”

  Christine followed him as the door slid open and they stepped off the train onto the ground floor, atrium-roofed platform. “So you really do know London?”

  “A bit. I’ve been here half a dozen times, so at least I kind of get the Underground. You write books set in England but you’ve never actually come here?”

  She shook her head. “I do all my research on the Internet. Between Google and YouTube, you don’t really need to go anywhere.”

  “So you’ve never been to Piccadilly Circus or Trafalgar Square or the National Gallery—”

  “—or the Tower of London or Buckingham Palace. No to all of them.”

  “Had I known that, I wouldn’t have gone for something so obscure.” He squinted at her. “You’ve been here for three days and you honestly haven’t left the hotel?”

  “I did see Hyde Park…”

  “Yes, I suppose you did. You just acted like you knew where you were going, so I figured you’d at least gone exploring.”

  “Google.” It had been Cressida in charge then, anyway, carrying out Drew’s silly revenge fantasy.

  They took a short flight of stairs down to the Piccadilly Line tunnels and arrived on the platform just as another train arrived. Several more stops and Nick was leading the way out and down the street among block after block of impressive London row houses. Nick pulled up at the end of a long line forming along the homes’ fences, opposite a large park. “Here we are.”

  She peered around the line, trying to get a glimpse of where it began, at least fifty people deep. “I don’t understand. Where are we?”

  “It’s Sir John Soane’s house.”

  She continued to stare at him.

  “He was an architect from the Napoleonic Era. He designed the Bank of England and the Dulwich Picture Gallery, among other things. He bought three houses here in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and combined them to make a… I guess you could call it a home, but that doesn’t quite describe it.”

  Christine went back to peering at what looked like a rather ordinary block of houses. It was a weird destination for Nick; he didn’t strike her as the type to take an interest in historic architecture. “So we’re spendi
ng the evening at a museum.”

  “Oh ye of little faith. Just wait. I promise it’s going to be worth it.”

  And wait they did, which was a little awkward considering how little they had to discuss. They found themselves recapping bits and pieces of their lives that the other had missed in the past five years: how Nick had gone from a bit part to a starring role on Night Music; how Christine had settled on Cressida Lyons as a pen name. At last, the queue started to lurch forward in fits and starts, she assumed because they were only taking a handful of people in at a time. When they finally filed in through the wrought iron gate and up the steps, they were greeted by a cheery docent in a navy blue suit who introduced himself as Clive, his eyes sparkling with mischief. She flung a doubtful look at Nick as they began to move into a rather normal-looking nineteenth-century hallway. Did he think because she wrote alternate history that a tour of a period house would be inspiring?

  It took only two rooms to realize that this was no normal house, once inhabited by a normal man. Rather, it was the dwelling of either a madman or a genius, the British Museum in miniature, all packed into high-ceilinged rooms and narrow hallways. There were spaces devoted to models of classical architecture. Rooms filled with ancient corbels and frescoes, busts and sculpture. One room, the portrait room, featured painting after painting mounted on moveable walls that opened and closed, Transformer-like, to reveal layers of old masters. And in every room, candles and dim electric lights gave an eerie, moody atmosphere to the eccentric collection.

  Christine hung back at the end of the group, examining the elaborately patterned wallpaper, and Nick hovered at her elbow. “I don’t know what you intend for the character, but I’ve always kind of envisioned The Collector living someplace like this. It’s like an episode of Hoarders: Rich English Dudes.”

  Christine laughed. She’d been thinking the same thing, and his read on the eccentric inventor and explorer in her series was spot-on. “I can absolutely see Lord Parrish living here. Though this is slightly less macabre than his house would be.”

  “Oh, never fear. There’s a sarcophagus in the basement.”

  “Really?”

  He grinned. “Really.”

  By the time they made it out of the house, Christine was brimming with inspiration. She’d planned on making Parrish a greater part of the next book, and this trip had spun out ideas so fast she could barely wait to jot them down in her notebook. The sun was all the way down when they set foot on the sidewalk again, the queue still spilling down the street.

  “I’m told there’s a historic pub within walking distance. Are you game?”

  Christine hesitated for a long moment. A large part of her didn’t want the night to end, and that was exactly why it had to. “Sorry. I have to get back to the hotel.”

  “To the tube then.” They moved back toward the station, dodging the pedestrians moving the opposite direction on their way home. The glowing red and blue sign of the Underground station was in sight before Nick spoke again. “Are you glad you came, at least?”

  “Absolutely! That place was amazing. Weird, but amazing.”

  “I know.” He grinned as they came to the escalators that took them down to the intermediate concourse. “They didn’t mention it on the tour, but Soane actually sealed his bathtub with instructions not to open it for fifty-some years after his death.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Just a bunch of junk. Papers. The newspapers of the time thought it was his idea of a joke.”

  That, too, sparked an idea. “I can only imagine what Lord Parrish would seal up in his bathtub.”

  “The bones of his enemies?” Nick suggested.

  “That and his failed experiments.” She looked up at him, searching for the truth in his face. “You didn’t lie. You actually are a fan.”

  “Guilty as charged. Any news on who’s going to play Parrish? I know my opinion doesn’t count for much, but I’ve always envisioned him as Jeremy Irons.”

  “Yeah, he’d be good,” Christine said. “Do you think he’d do it if he was offered the role?”

  “I hope so. I’d kind of like to say I was on a TV show with him.” Nick grinned at her, and in that moment, she saw a glimpse of the young man he’d been years ago, dreaming of how he’d someday like to make a living as an actor. Boggling at the thought of being on set with someone famous and hoping he didn’t make a fool of himself. And today he’d been the object of hundreds of screaming fans.

  They finally arrived at the Piccadilly line platform and stood waiting, a little awkward in the sudden silence. Christine cleared her throat. “You ready for the announcement tomorrow?”

  “Sure. The fan ones are fun. The press panel on the other hand…”

  “You’re great with reporters,” Christine said. “What are you worried about?”

  “Leaving one successful show for an untried one? They’ll be trying to dig up dirt on the situation on Night Music, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they figure out you and I had a prior relationship and try to make that into something.”

  He was right. The legitimate industry reporters probably wouldn’t latch onto it, but the sites who did their trade in celebrity gossip would have a field day. “So we make an end run around it. Turn it to our advantage.”

  “How do you propose we do that?”

  “I’m working on that.” She had some ideas, but she wasn’t about to disclose them to him now. There was no way around the gossip mags’ interest in any sordid details attached to a production this buzzy, but at least they could try to turn the interest to their advantage. Better that she keep it to herself in case Remy attempted to nix it.

  The train’s approach killed any further conversation, along those lines anyway. They were able to grab two seats together again, where the jostling of the train caused their knees and shoulders to rub with each sideways sway of the carriage. She stole a surreptitious glance at his profile. Once upon a time, this was all she would have wanted—a quiet life, happy with Nick, maybe some occasional travel to a city like London where they would see the sights and ride the tube back to their hotel, hands entwined. And now, years later, she could see that she hadn’t dreamed big enough. He had been all about the big picture, and she’d been too content with her simple, tiny vision. Not that contentment was a bad thing, but when it held you back from pursuing your dreams…

  “Do you have any idea how lucky we are?” she asked suddenly. “I mean really. When we used to talk about this stuff, it was only dreams. No substance. Did you really think we would be here?”

  “Here in London together? No.” He caught the face she made and grinned. “But I never had any doubt we would make it. Both of us.”

  “You had more confidence in me than I did, then.” She cast him a sideways look. “If it wasn’t for my lack of ambition, why did you leave me?”

  Nick chewed his lip for a moment, like he was considering. Too late, she realized she might not really want to know. Finally he said, “Because I wasn’t sure if I would ever be as important to you as the people in your head, and my ego couldn’t handle the idea of finding out the truth someday.”

  Her mouth dropped open slightly. “Are you serious?”

  “One hundred percent. You already had everything you needed. You were so happy, so self-contained, with your laptop and your novels. And I still felt this… emptiness. Or maybe emptiness is the wrong word. Restlessness, like there was something wrong with me because I hadn’t found the thing that I was really meant to do. You were my bright spot. It made me feel like I needed you too much, and you didn’t need me at all.”

  Her breath left her in a soft whoosh. “Wow.” All this time she’d thought he’d vanished on her because she was lacking, and in truth, it was because he thought she didn’t need him.

  “So there’s my big secret. All that confidence was just bravado.” He looked her straight in the eye, bare to her gaze in what she realized might be the first time in their lives, and she had to
look away.

  “I was always jealous of your actor friends,” she murmured. “They were beautiful and confident and flirtatious and I figured it was only a matter of time before you started to wonder what you were doing with me instead of one of them. So I hid inside my book. It was easier to write us into the story so I could control the outcome. Jackson would always be faithful to Livia because I could pull the strings.”

  “Chrissy, I’m sorry. I feel like that’s my fault. If I ever made you feel—”

  “You can’t apologize for my insecurities, Nick.”

  He shot her a wry look. “Maybe communication wasn’t our strong suit back then.”

  “I’d say definitely not.”

  The speaker overhead announced their station, and Christine used the pole to pull herself upright as the train ground to a stop. Nick followed her, holding onto the same pole, his other hand coming to rest on the small of her back as they waited for the doors to slide open. And then somehow, as they moved off onto the platform, dodging the boarding passengers, their hands brushed. And held, their fingers twining together.

  It felt illicit. Forbidden. Stupid maybe. And the last thing she wanted to do was let go.

  They walked hand in hand to the stairs, and disappointment flooded her when he released her so they could hold onto the railing as they ascended to street level. There in the throng that surrounded the Baron’s Court station, he found her hand again and squeezed it hard, pulling her into his side.

  “Sure I can’t convince you to have dinner with me?” he said.

  She wanted so badly to say yes, but her rapid heartbeat and breathless anticipation told her that was the absolutely wrong course of action. “Remy is going to be waiting for me. I need to get back.”

  Nick nodded and said nothing. As soon as they got within sight of their grand hotel, he let her go. They walked the rest of the way with a respectable amount of distance between them. He hung back as she entered the arched brick atrium so it wouldn’t be apparent they’d arrived together, but he caught up to her at the lift. “Can I at least see you to your room?”