Crush (3 page)

He’d formed Karmic Echo at eighteen and received six Grammy nominations for the band’s first album. They received no statues at the awards ceremony, but their live performance of
“
Beyond Dreams” stole the show and launched their American success.

Karmic Echo wasn’t an older band that had made a successful comeback. On the contrary, its popularity had never wavered. Twenty years of gold records had made the band mates very rich and popular men, and they had managed to escape the sorrows and scandals of addiction and substance abuse associated with the industry.

As far as successful rock bands went, Karmic Echo was rather boring. Save for Lucas and his best friend and lead guitarist Len Feast, all the band members were married. As lead singer, Lucas was the focal point of the band and had acquired legions of female fans. Len Feast was a close second in popularity. He and Lucas, usually in the company of supermodels and actresses, regularly graced the gossip pages of major magazines.

“What could he possibly see in me?” Miranda murmured.

She pulled the curtain to the shower, started the water, and sat on the edge of the bathtub. The water warmed the plastic curtain at her back and the cool of the porcelain tub penetrated her thin boxer shorts as she thought harder on her situation. Karmic Echo was known for its blockbuster love songs, and when Lucas wrapped his honeyed tenor around the lyrics of tunes like “Pulse” and “Paradise Found,” women lost control of their hearts and senses. Being a helpless woman’s savior fit right into Lucas’s image as a premier sex symbol.

Miranda stripped off her T-shirt and shorts and stepped into the stream of hot water. She came to the conclusion that Lucas Fletcher wanted to see her for the very same reason Rex wanted her to see him.

To sell more of his product.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re wearing that.” Bernie scrunched his nose at Miranda’s outfit.

“I can’t believe you wore
that.
” Miranda glanced disdainfully at the tuxedo Bernie had custom tailored specifically for his dream encounter with Lucas Fletcher.

“I look good, and shut your mouth.” Bernie brushed an imaginary speck of fluff from his lapel. “If you hadn’t been so finicky at the boutiques…”

“Cut it out, Bernie. I’m nervous enough as it is.”

Miranda hated to admit to weakness of any kind. She stood in front of the
Herald-Star
, waiting for her odyssey to begin. As staff photographers snapped her picture from all angles, she was happy to have Bernie standing there with her. If he hadn’t helped her find something to wear, she probably would have shown up in her favorite faded jeans and her North Carolina Tar Heels sweatshirt.

Miranda glanced over her shoulder at Meg, who stood beside Dee just inside the lobby doors of the
Herald-Star
. Meg was always so well put together, and tonight was no exception. Every frosty tress was flawlessly in place; her lusty, matronly figure was impeccably clothed in a black silk pantsuit with just the right touch of shimmer for a cool fall evening.

Dee, her brown hair a perfectly serviceable shag, her broomstick figure wrapped in an understated black cocktail dress, self-consciously patted her hair and smoothed her hands over the front of her dress. She stared at her reflection in the smudged plate glass, her lips moving as she seemed to be practicing different smiles.

At least I’m not
that
bad off
, Miranda thought.

Lucas Fletcher’s car was supposed to arrive at six
p.m.
, and by 5:50, the lobby was packed with the curious from the Newsroom, the Pressroom, Composing, Photography, Security, Maintenance, and every other department. The entire
Herald-Star
population gathered to witness Miranda’s grand meeting with the superhero rock god. Outside the
Herald-Star
, corralled behind sawhorses manned by Boston Police officers, Karmic Echo fans seduced by
Psst!
’s teasers noisily waited for Lucas to arrive.

Miranda fought the urge to wipe her damp palms on her slacks.

“That Donna Karan sarong looked fantastic on you,” Bernie said.

“I look fine,” Miranda insisted. “It’s a dinner, not a presidential inauguration.” Two fans jumped the sawhorses and bolted toward Miranda, snapping pictures even as they were caught and dragged away by policemen. She grabbed Bernie’s arm. “I want to go home.”

“No, you don’t.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You want to have dinner with Lucas Fletcher. So do they.” He tipped his head toward the fans. “You’re living the fantasy most of us can only dream of, even if you do have to share it with one of Satan’s baby sisters. So which gossip queen won the coin toss?”

Miranda found a reason to smile. “You.”

Joy flooded his face. “Oh, sweetie, I take back everything I’ve said and thought about your dowdy church lady ensemble!”

Miranda didn’t want to slug him in front of the entire
Herald-Star
and hundreds of Karmic Echo fans, but just as she drew back her fist, the fans started screaming. A black stretch limousine slunk down the street and came to an easy stop before the
Herald-Star
. “This is really happening,” she anxiously whispered.

Bernie took her hand. “Stay calm, sweetie.”

Meg and Dee swung open the doors and stepped forward, a tide of
Herald-Star
employees following in their wake. A stocky chauffeur in a dove-gray uniform rounded the vehicle. With a neat tip of his hat, he opened the rear door and the screams of the fans increased in volume. Miranda moved closer to Bernie. The screaming was so like the night of the concert, her chest tightened in remembrance.

“Miss Penney and guest?” the chauffeur said, a smile in his eyes.

Dee took a step forward. Meg loudly cleared her throat and pushed ahead of her. The two women moved forward as though they were playing a game of Mother May I. When they each dived for the interior of the limo, the chauffeur blocked their way.

“Miss Penney and guest,” he repeated slowly, his smile a few degrees cooler.

“Well?” Meg demanded of Miranda, her fists on her hips.

Dee, half-hidden by Meg’s width, waved at Miranda and pointed at herself.

“Miss Penney?” The chauffeur spurred Miranda into motion.

She forced her feet to move. Flashbulbs illuminated the dusky sky and the screaming grew louder as she neared the car, holding tightly to Bernie.

Meg grabbed Miranda’s shoulder and spun her around. As if on cue, the fans quieted a bit. “What the hell is going on here, Miranda? Rex assigned
me
to this story.”

Miranda shook free of Meg’s grasp, earning a cheer from the crowds inside and outside the
Herald-Star
. “Rex and I agreed that I would pick my own reporter. I’ve chosen Bernard.”

“The celebrity beat is
my
territory, Miranda.” Meg delivered her declaration with an icy smile that did little to cloak her anger.

“Lucas Fletcher is a musician,” Miranda countered. “Music is Bernie’s beat.”

The chauffeur waved Bernie forward. He leaped into the limo and began playing with every knob, dial and button within his reach. Windows opened and closed, lights flickered, the television and sound system blared and the minibar doors popped open.

“Rex is going to hear about this!” Meg promised through a grimace of fury.

As the chauffeur ushered her into the limo, Miranda looked up at the third floor of the
Herald-Star
, where Rex stood rigidly silhouetted in the big windows of the corner office. “He’s already on to me, Meg.”

Miranda couldn’t take a breath until the limo had pointed itself into traffic and pulled away from the
Herald-Star
. Her anxiety lessened the farther she got from the noise and the newspaper.

Bernie tore himself from the extensive array of cordials and mixers to notice Miranda’s pale face. “You’re not fretting over Miss Thing back there, are you?”

“No,” she said, which was half true. “I’m worried about where we’re going and how long it’ll take for Meg’s contacts to phone in our location.”
And how many people would already be there, swarming the joint, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lucas Fletcher and his manufactured fairy tale.

She crawled down the length of the limo’s long backseat. Still on her hands and knees, she tapped on the glass separating the driver’s compartment from the passenger cabin. “Yes, Miss Penney,” the driver said once he had lowered the glass.

“I’ve been kept in the dark regarding the fine details of this dinner thing,” she said.

“Mr. Fletcher fiercely guards his privacy,” the chauffeur explained.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me where you’re taking us?” Miranda asked testily. But realizing that she might need the chauffeur as a friend rather than adversary, she changed her tone and added, “I’m a big fan of privacy, too. I love the stuff, really, but this is practically kidnapping.”

“Mr. Fletcher’s instructions were quite precise, Miss Penney. I am to deliver you and Mr. Reilly to your respective homes to retrieve your passports and a change of clothing. Then I will deliver you to Logan Airport. Your flight departs in two hours.”

* * *

Bernie asked one more time, and as promised, Miranda pinched him so hard he whimpered. “You’re not dreaming, Bernie. We’re in Wales.” Even as their second limo in nine hours carried them from a small airstrip to a paved, two-lane highway traversing endless rolling hills, Miranda had trouble believing it herself. They really were in Lucas’s homeland, transported there on the wind and across an ocean by Karmic Echo’s private jet.

“Wales…Wales…” Bernie muttered as he noisily searched a tablecloth-sized map he had purchased at the tiny airstrip. “There’s no Wales on this map.”

Miranda spread the map between them on the seat. With her finger, she stabbed a small island in the North Sea. “This is the United Kingdom, and this part here is Wales,” she said impatiently. “You were lost in western Europe.”

“This little thing is the U.K.? There’s hardly room here for even one queen.”

Miranda didn’t respond to Bernie’s jest. Her nerves were getting the best of her.

“Mr. Fletcher values his privacy and wishes to have you join him for dinner at his residence in Wales,” a flight attendant had told Miranda once she’d been seated on the plane. Before she could register an approval or protest, the attendant had gone on to recite the planned itinerary: a seven-hour flight through calm skies to the United Kingdom, then a limo ride to Lucas’s estate. They would arrive at approximately eight
a.m.
local time, and had been given the options of settling in at the Fletcher residence for a rest or visiting a few tourist attractions. The same car taking them to Lucas’s home would remain at their disposal.

Miranda sat in the limo as she’d sat in the plane, pensively staring past her reflection in the window.

“What’s on your mind, dear?” Bernie asked as he mixed himself a mimosa. Two vodka martinis had put Bernie to sleep for the duration of the flight, and now he was as bright and chipper as a squirrel. “You’ve been too quiet, and too cranky, for far too long.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said simply.

Bernie set his drink in a leather-lined cup holder before moving to sit beside Miranda. He took her hand and held it tight. They rode in silence for a mile or so before he said, “You know, you don’t have to be so strong and sensible all the time. You should try to be more like me.”

“Weak and foolish?”

“Exactly, and only when it comes to opening yourself up to possibilities. You keep yourself so guarded, yet at the same time you let people take advantage of you.”

“People like who?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Everyone in that dreadful department of yours, save Jed Hodgekins.”

“Krakow, Sully and Paulie are good to me,” she countered.

“Jordan.”

Miranda felt herself contract in some elemental way at the mention of that name. “This isn’t the time or the place to discuss him.”

“I agree. This is a time to think about kismet and love and—”

“Dinner,” Miranda spoke over him, sighing nervously. “Even though we had to leave North America for it, this is still just a dinner date.”

“So you’ve come to accept that this is a date,” Bernie grinned.

“Two people make up a date, not three. This is a publicity and marketing stunt for the
Herald-Star
and Karmic Echo.”

“Oh, yes, I’m quite certain that Lucas dived into a frenzied crowd, had his hair, clothes and skin torn, resuscitated you, shielded you from the photographers and held you until help arrived all because he wanted to have you over—to Wales, mind you—for stuffed peppers and a photo op.”

“None of this makes any sense,” she said, frustration and anxiety giving her voice a whiny quality that grated on her own ears. “And you’re not helping by trying to turn it into something it isn’t.
Cu de bêbado não tem dono!
” she fired.

“Oh Lord, she’s bringing out
Avó
Marie Estrella’s Portuguese commandments,” Bernie exhaled, rolling his eyes at the roof of the limo. “Go on, tell me what that one means.”

“A drunk’s ass has no owner,” Miranda responded defiantly.

“Your grandma was schizophrenic, wasn’t she, because that’s just crazy talk.”

“It means you shouldn’t put yourself in a situation where you’re totally vulnerable,” Miranda clarified.

Bernie leaned forward and peered into her eyes. “You’re scared.”

“Scared?” She choked out a fake laugh. “Of what?”

“Lucas Fletcher.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Bernie.” Miranda got angry all over again at the whole situation. “We’re being driven to Lucas Fletcher’s publicist’s office or condo or whatever you call it in Wales, and we’ll drink fancy bottled water until almighty Lucas himself bothers to show up. His handlers will pose and shoot us making chitchat, and those photos will be on all the wire services within minutes. Lucas Fletcher will be properly acknowledged as my hero, Rex will get his feel-good story and I’ll get to go cover the World Series. The only thing I’m afraid of is that some photographer will take my picture while I’m blinking and that’s the one that will end up on the cover of the
Herald-Star
.