Lost in Love (16 page)

“I made a deal,” Jackson said.

Yes, you did
. Portia sent mental support to him for standing up for her. She wasn’t worried—she knew he wouldn’t go back on his word.

His father obviously didn’t agree with her view. “I paid for that country house fair and square, and that included everything in it, along with that bauble. It’s worth too much to give her.”

Disagree, she urged him.

But there was silence.

That didn’t mean Jackson agreed. He knew his father—maybe silence was a better way to deal with him. Fighting him certainly didn’t seem productive.

His father was the one to break the silence. “What’s going on between you and Meredith?”

Portia froze.

“Nothing, and nothing ever will,” Jackson said firmly.

She was about to relax when his father said, “You were engaged.”

What?
When? And why hadn’t anyone mentioned it to her?

“I love Meredith, boy,” Jackson’s father said. “She’s a great gal.”

Portia wilted against the wall. As much as it pained her, she had to agree. Meredith was lovely and smart and talented. Perfect, really.

Why didn’t Jack tell her they’d been engaged? Did he still love her?

A sharp pain shot through her heart as she backed away from the door. Turning, she hurried back through the maze of cubicles. At the elevator, she punched the down button furiously, willing it to arrive before she ran into anyone she knew. Meaning Jackson and his father, who she didn’t know and wasn’t capable of meeting in this moment.

It seemed to take forever for the elevator to arrive. As the doors opened, she heaved a sigh. The people inside looked at her oddly. Maybe her sigh had been more of a sob.

Jackson and Meredith had been engaged.

For how long? They had to love each other in some large way to get engaged, didn’t they? Portia had never been engaged. Of her sisters, only Viola had, and now Rosalind.

Outside, a chill wind whipped at her. She huddled in her coat and trudged sullenly to the tube. As she walked home on the other end, she contemplated stopping at the Red Witch for a drink but decided against it. She’d have to explain herself to Niamh, and she didn’t think she could face that now. She headed straight home, her head bowed.

Which was why she didn’t notice the reporters surrounding the front entrance of the Summerhill house until she was upon them. She gaped at the crowd of media clambering on the front walkway, not sure whether she could get through to the front door.

Then one noticed her and pounced. “There she is!”

The hoard turned on her, surrounding her like she imagined piranha did a man thrown overboard. She instinctively put her hands up over her face to protect it from the flash of cameras.

“Imogen, what do you have to say about the video Dirk released?”

“Have you talked to Dirk, Imogen?”

“Imogen! Is this publicity for your next movie?”

“I’m not Imogen,” Portia protested, trying to keep them from tugging off her clothing. She put a protective hand on her pearls. If anything happened to them she wasn’t sure what she’d do.

“Look at her,” one man called out. “She’s not. Imogen would never go out in public that way.”

She frowned at him. “What way?”

He arched his brow. “You’re a bit dusty, aren’t you, love?”

The front door suddenly opened, distracting the media vultures. Franny stood in the threshold, a rolling pin in her hand, looking like an aged Valkyrie. She swung the wooden roller over her head as she walked down the steps.

The reporters jumped out of her way, giving her the space to grab Portia’s arm and pull her inside the house.

Once the door was closed, they both leaned against it, looking at each other in shock. “What was that?” Portia asked once she caught her breath. “Why are they after Gigi?”

“Gigi’s in a bit of a spot.” Franny worried her apron, which was so uncharacteristic that Portia became worried, too. “She’s in the orangery with Summer. Let her tell you. I’m going to make tea.”

“Where’s Mother?” she asked as she followed Franny.

“Heaven knows,” their housekeeper muttered. “But don’t you worry. The Countess of Amberlin can handle those vultures.”

Undoubtedly. She patted Franny’s arm and went in search of her younger sister.

It wasn’t hard—she just had to follow the loud cursing.

“Good thing Mother isn’t here,” Portia said as she entered the solarium. “She’d have Franny wash your mouth out with soap.”

“I think I’m justified for a little bloody coarse language.” Gigi paced in the middle of the room in long strides, back and forth. “Stay away from the curtains.”

Portia glanced at the windows, which were completely covered for the first time that she could remember. “Why?”

Summer perched on the edge of a lounge chair, worry creasing her brow. “The reporters are everywhere. Imogen says they have telephoto lenses.”

“Or they might hop the fence,” Gigi added.

“Shall I tell them to leave?” Portia asked helplessly.

Gigi’s laugh sounded humorless. “They won’t leave. They scent blood in the water.”

Portia looked at Summer.

Summer shrugged. “Her ex-boyfriend leaked a sex tape of her to capitalize on her popularity.”

“The bloody bastard,” Gigi said, gesturing wildly.

“You made a sex tape?” Portia exclaimed, impressed.

Her sister frowned. “It’s not a crowning accomplishment.”

It was daring though. Portia tried to imagine making a video with Jackson. He’d wear his cowboy boots, and she’d ride him like a stallion.

After a brief commotion in the hall outside, Beatrice, Viola, and Rosalind stormed in. The only one missing was Titania. Not surprising—Titania was never around.

“Whatever were you thinking, Imogen?” Bea asked as she took off her gloves and overcoat.

Gigi glared at their older sister. “That’s not helpful.”

“But fairly accurate.” Taking Gigi’s hand, Bea led her to a settee and tugged her down to sit. “What’s your PR firm doing about this?”

“They’re ecstatic,” she said bitterly. “My next movie is coming out in weeks, and this is just the push they need to ensure top dollar at the box office. I wonder if they didn’t sell me out for more coverage.”

Bea nodded. “You can’t pay for media like this.”

“I don’t understand,” Vi said, taking Gigi’s other hand as she sat next to them.

Gigi wilted dramatically. “The video didn’t hit first. There were only naked pictures.”

“Oh, Imogen.” Vi looked sorry for her.

“I know,” Gigi replied just as wretchedly. “I should have known better. There was a little fervor, but I thought it’d die down without too much fuss.”

“So you stayed here.” Rosalind nodded. “I wondered why you didn’t return to Hollywood after Christmas.”

“I was putting myself out of the media’s attention. There was bound to be another juicier scandal by then. Only someone added fuel to the fire by releasing the video,” Gigi added.

Bea squeezed Gigi’s hand. “I can have the wanker castrated.”

Gigi’s lips pursed. “That may make me feel better, actually.”

“So what’s your plan?” Summer asked.

“Hiding seems like a good solution.” Gigi shrugged. “If all else fails, there’s plastic surgery and a new face.”

“Or you can wear Great-Grandmother Elizabeth’s old wigs,” Portia offered. “They’re in the attic. Remember the blue beehive she wore on special occasions?”

“Blue looks lovely on you, Gigi,” Summer added helpfully.

They all looked at their new sister and then burst out laughing.

Summer shook her head. “What? I was trying to help.”

Gigi reached out to squeeze Summer’s hand. “And you’re fabulous for it, darling. Thank you.”

Chapter Twenty-one

“Really, Jackson.” His mother frowned up at him. “Since when did you dress this way?”

Since he came to London. He lowered the brim of the cowboy hat. “You mean dapper?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps
ranch-hand chic
is a more appropriate label.”

He slung his arm around his little mother’s shoulder. “Next time I’ll wear a tux.”

Hiram snorted. “I don’t know why you’re giving the boy a hard time. He doesn’t look any more ridiculous than this guy.”

Jack looked at the portrait his dad pointed at. “It’s true. At least I’m not wearing leggings.”

“It’s a painting,” Laura said, sighing as though she was put-upon.

“He still looks like a sissy,” was Hiram’s judgment before he moved on to the next salon.

His mom sighed again. “I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing the two of you here.”

“You were thinking you wanted to visit the Tate Modern.” His mom loved art. His dad loved his mom, which was why he willingly came along. Jack came because his dad volunteered him, too. His dad thought he shouldn’t be the only one tortured.

Actually, he liked art. He had a number of pieces from local artists at his condo in Dallas. He should have really enjoyed the Tate Modern—it was right up his alley. But something had happened to him since he’d been in London.

Portia had happened to him.

All the stuff displayed here looked too stark and aggressive. He wanted some history and soft, faded things thrown in. The old stuff Portia loved so much. He’d never realized things could have as much a story as people. It was fascinating.

Portia was fascinating. She was like the old things she loved: unusual, elegant, and a little warped.

He
missed
her.

She’d canceled on him the other night, and he hadn’t been able to catch up with her since. He’d been looking forward to spending the night with her, but she’d had to cancel because of a family emergency. He’d understood that she had to be with her sisters.

He hadn’t liked it, but he understood.

“You’re lost in thought,” his mother said, studying the abstract landscape on the wall. “You’re thinking of your new lady friend, aren’t you?”

Apparently the parental bond thing that his dad had talked about before was real.

“Maybe you can call her to join us for tea,” his mother suggested innocently. Then she patted his arm. “If you’d like.”

He watched her amble away to look at the row of paintings lining the wall.
If he’d like?
Like he had a choice?

Hiram edged up next to him and whispered, “If we can open Suncrest Park and the French property by mid-March, we should be gold. I checked the numbers.”

Frowning, Jack shifted gears back to the business. “You aren’t supposed to check numbers anymore, Dad.”

“Someone’s got to be on top of things.” He gave him a knowing look. “And I don’t mean pretty girls.”

“Don’t talk about Portia that way, and she’s more than pretty.” She was beautiful, but she was also smart, witty, and caring. Sexy as hell, too. He pictured her in her fancy underwear and began to salivate.

“Quinn’s doing a fair job,” his dad said in a low voice.

He rolled his eyes. “Quinn’s doing an incredible job. He’s worth his weight in gold.”

“He’s fine as a soldier, but the company is better in your hands.”

No, it really wasn’t. Everything good happening was because of Quinn. “Dad—”

“It’s good that you’re young and going to be there a while.” Hiram patted his back. “You’ll take the hotel group to new levels. Once the first resort properties are live, there are a couple other locations we should look at.”

Jack felt the jaws of duty sink deeper into his flesh, dragging him under. “About that, Dad—”

Hiram held a hand out. “I know it’s early for that, but it never hurts to plan ahead.”

“Are you two discussing business?” his mother said as she studied a strange-looking painting that seemed to have a goggly-eyed creature riding a green chicken.

“Would we do that?” Jack asked sarcastically.

She gave her husband a quelling look. “You aren’t supposed to be working. We’re here to admire the art.”

“How can I admire this when I have no idea what it is?” Hiram pointed at painting on the wall. “It looks like someone puked up last night’s booze.”

“Hiram,” she chided, but she had a hint of a smile on her lips. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed her husband. “No business for you, love. Jackson is handling it all.”

Jack cleared his throat. “About that—”

“We are not discussing business today,” his mother declared. “You two are humoring me in my love for art.”

Hiram whispered to Jack, “You did better stuff than this when you were five. If I still had your drawings, I bet I could make a fortune.”

Laura sighed loudly. “Didn’t we pass a pub on the way here? You two are driving me to drink.”

“Excellent idea,” Hiram boomed, quickly guiding his wife out of the gallery.

“I’ve got to go.” A flash of brilliance made him say, “I’ve got some personnel issues to take care of.”

Which was true. Portia worked for the company and, therefore, she was personnel. Kind of.

His dad clapped him on the back. “That’s what I like to hear. Keep everyone happy, and they’ll do anything for you. Loyalty is why we are where we are today.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.” He planned on keeping Portia very happy—as many times as she’d let him.

His mother studied him, her gaze knowing. But she just lifted her cheek for a goodbye kiss and said, “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

He walked out with his parents and left them to their stroll to the pub. He flagged a cab and gave the driver Portia’s address. His mama would whack him upside the head if she knew he was going there unannounced, but he’d tried calling Portia, and she wasn’t answering. But he could be helpful. He was good in a crisis. At the very least, he could hold her hand. Even holding her hand would be better than no contact.

When he arrived, he had to double-check the address because there were quite a number of people standing out front. They looked like media, which didn’t make sense.

But it was the right address, so he tipped his hat to them as they stirred and marched up to the front door. He’d expected them to descend on him, but they stayed where they were.

An older woman opened the door before he rang the bell. She had greenish eyes instead of blue, but otherwise she was the spitting image of Portia: blonde, regal, and classically beautiful. She even had the same expression: a cool disdain as she tried to figure him out.