Manolos in Manhattan (6 page)

And he lived up to his promise. The day passed in a whirl of shopping, walking, and laughter. Everywhere they went they were photographed – whether riding a carriage through Central Park, ducking into Prada and FAO Schwarz on Fifth Avenue, or sharing a late-afternoon slice and a pretzel from a street vendor. Ciaran good-naturedly signed his autograph on bits of paper, menus, street maps, and even inked his name on one insistent woman’s bra strap.

“The perils of being an actor,” he sighed as they returned, their feet aching, to the waiting Town Car and climbed in.

“You poor man.” Holly regarded him in bemusement. “Is it always like this? So crazy, I mean, with women throwing themselves at you and offering up their bra straps for autographs?”

“They’ve offered up more than their bra straps, believe me,” he replied. “And yes, it’s always like this. I usually wear sunglasses and a cap to avoid notice. But I threw myself onto the altar of rabid fandom for you. And your father,” he added.

“Very self-sacrificing of you, I’m sure.”

Ten minutes later, with dusk beginning to fall, the Town Car drew to a stop in front of 30 Rockefeller Center.

“Rock Center?” Holly said, surprised. “Why are we here? Isn’t this where they film a lot of television shows?”

“It is,” he confirmed. “And my new talk show will soon be one of them.”

“Your own talk show? That’s great, congratulations!” She kissed him in excitement. As she drew back, she noticed a lipstick smear on the corner of his mouth. She reached out to wipe it away with her finger. “Oops. Sorry about that.”

Ciaran caught her finger in his and raised it to his lips. “No apologies. I’ve had a wonderful time tonight, Holly,” he said, all teasing gone. “I’ll be back soon to start taping the show. I hope you’ll help me find a suitable apartment when I return.”

Holly looked at him, all too aware of his lips against her fingers and the green-brown enticement of his eyes. She was torn between the negative things Mr Darcy had said – he wasn’t to be trusted, he was no good – and her own overwhelming attraction to him. She knew he was a player, in every sense of the word; he was an
actor
, after all, one who pretended to feel things on-screen that he really didn’t...and he was paid very handsomely to do so.

And she was
engaged
.

“Of course I’ll help you find a place,” she found herself saying. “I’d love to.”

“Excellent. Now let’s go see my new dressing room. Then – as much as I hate the idea – I’ll return you to your fiancé.”

“Thank you, Ciaran,” she said. “For all of this. Today’s been...magical. Fantastic.”

He smiled. “Good. I hope the publicity helps the store.”

“How could it not? You’re world famous, after all,” Holly pointed out. “I’m just a nobody, along for the ride.” She glanced at the interior of the Town Car. “Literally.”

“Oh, bollocks. You’re smart, and funny, and beautiful, whereas I’m merely famous. Now,” he added as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, “let’s go inside, so I can show you off just a bit more.”

It was dark when Ciaran returned Holly to the Midtown Hotel. He walked with her across the lobby to the lift and pressed the button.

“I don’t want this day to end,” he admitted as she stepped inside the car.

“Me, either. It was really fun. Thanks.” Holly smiled. “I had an amazing time. “Goodnight, Ciaran,” she called out as the doors began to close.

“Goodnight, Miss James. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

With a smile and a wink, he turned away, and left.

Chapter Nine

On Monday morning, Christa Shaw took the key her manager had given her in London the day before and opened the front door. The townhouse, located in Gramercy Park, would be her new home for the next couple of weeks. A pair of topiary trees as round and green as lollipops flanked the entry.

Despite her jet lag, she was beyond curious to see the interior.

“Wow,” she breathed as she came inside and dropped her bags by the door.

A staircase rose to the left of the entrance hall, and a Victorian chandelier hung overhead like an elaborate, old-fashioned jewel. Dark-red flocked wallpaper adorned the walls.

She might’ve stepped back in time to the turn of the century – the
nineteenth
century. It looked like something out of an Edith Wharton novel. She half expected to see Lily Bart come sweeping down the stairs to greet her.

“Come in and have a look at this, Dev,” she called over her shoulder. “You won’t believe it.”

“Crikey,” he echoed as he brought in two more suitcases and set them slowly down. “This place looks like the inside of a candy box...or a bordello.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” She picked up a white card from the elaborately carved half-moon table in the hall. “‘Gavin Williams and Associates, Interior Design.’” She put the card aside and added, “Well, we know who to blame for this Victorian nightmare, then.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Devon mused. “I kind of like it. I wonder how many bedrooms in this place?”

“Five. Or was it six? Max told me, but I don’t remember.” Max Morecombe was the manager Christa shared with Dominic Heath, British rock singer and one of her closest friends.

She smiled coyly. “Why do you ask, Mr Matthews? Did you want to christen the bedrooms?”

He slid his arms around her waist. “Not just the bedrooms, love.
Every
room.”

Christa draped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “That can be arranged,” she said huskily, and kissed him again.

Devon dragged his mouth from hers a few minutes later and turned to pick up the suitcases. “I might as well take this stuff upstairs. I don’t know about you, but after that flight from London, I’m knackered. I could do with a few hours of sleep.”

“Thanks for coming along. I’m glad the CID let you have a couple of weeks off.”

“I think they were all glad to be rid of me for a bit, to be honest. And I know you’re more than a little nervous about this concert.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve performed in plenty of other places, but...Madison Square Garden is the biggest venue I’ve ever played.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said firmly. “You’ve played Glastonbury and the Royal Albert Hall, for crying out loud.”

“But this is
huge
,” Christa said. “And it’s my first U.S. concert. What if no one shows up?”

“The show’s sold out. It sold out within two hours.”

“What if I forget the song lyrics? Or bollocks up one of the dance routines? There’s a
lot
of choreography.”

“That’s what rehearsals are for,” Devon reminded her. “And you’ve got one first thing in the morning, don’t forget. Now, stop worrying. You’ve got this, babe.” He reached out and took her hand, then lifted it to his lips. “What you need is rest. You’re tired. Come on, let’s go upstairs and go to bed.”

“And get some sleep?”

“Yeah. That, too.”

“Listen to this,” Devon said the next morning as Christa joined him at the kitchen table for coffee and toast. He began to read out loud from the
New York Daily News
in his hand.

“’Manhattan’s elusive cat burglar struck again last night, robbing an undisclosed Park Place apartment and stealing an estimated $2 million in jewels.’” He lowered the paper. “The thief made off with a small fortune in stolen jewels, and not for the first time, apparently – yet no one saw a thing. ‘There are no suspects and no leads.’” He snorted. “Pathetic.”

Christa sipped her coffee. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not on duty, then, Detective Sergeant Matthews,” she pointed out tartly as she stood up. “So why not take your D.S. hat off and just enjoy your holiday?”

“It’s habit,” Devon said, and shrugged. “A good D.S. is never really off duty.”

“This one is.” She bent down to brush her lips against his. “Christa’s orders.”

He grabbed her around the waist and deepened the kiss. “Umm, I like it when you get bossy,” he murmured when he dragged his mouth from hers. “Fancy a quick shag?”

“Love to, but I can’t.” She laughed and slapped his hands away. “Stop it, Dev. I’ve got to get ready for rehearsals.”

“Ten minutes, that’s all I need. Five.”

Christa sighed and pushed him reluctantly away. “I wish, but I really don’t have time. Today promises to be a long day.”

“And one, and two, and three, and STOP!” the choreographer roared. His voice echoed in the cavernous rehearsal studio on West Fifty-Seventh Street.

As the dancers around Christa held themselves immobile in their positions, she let out a quiet breath of frustration. She just couldn’t seem to get this particular move down. She steeled herself for the bollocking that was sure to follow.

“Christa,” Wilhelm barked, “what is the problem,
hein
? You keep going left when everyone else is going right.”

“Sorry. I can’t seem to concentrate.”

“Well, my dear, you must try harder. We have a concert to choreograph and we have less than two weeks to do it! Let’s try it again, from the top, shall we?
Jetzt
!”

This time, through sheer force of will, Christa executed the move perfectly. As the pianist pounded out an accompaniment on the old upright and Wilhelm clapped his hands in time, she and the dancers finished the opening set choreography without a hitch. The rest of the rehearsal passed without incident.

But the seed of self-doubt, already planted in Christa, grew a little stronger.

How, she wondered as she showered and dressed in her street clothes, could she possibly
do
this? How could she remember all of those dance steps and memorize the lyrics to twenty songs in under two weeks, without screwing up in front of 18,000 people?

Christa didn’t know. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t rocketed to fame quite so quickly.

She wasn’t remotely ready for it. Any of it.

But it was too late now. The venue was booked, the rehearsal hall rented, the set list in place.

She was performing a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden...whether she was ready or not.

Chapter Ten

“Oh, Rhys – take me with you, please?”

Natalie stood behind her husband the next morning and slid her arms around his waist, peering over his shoulder as he stood before the mirror and tightened his tie into a Windsor knot.

“Not today, Natalie. I’ve got a million things to do and the store launch to deal with. Have you seen my silver cufflinks?” he asked as he turned away and began to look for them. “I’ve a meeting with Alastair and the staff in twenty minutes. You’re not bored already, are you?”

“Look in the enamel box on your dresser. And no, of
course
I’m not bored.”

Which wasn’t strictly true, exactly. But after lobbying Rhys to let her come along with him to Manhattan, she didn’t dare admit that after a month spent shopping, lunching, walking, and museum-going, she was...well, she
was
a tiny bit bored.

It wasn’t much fun to do things –
anything
– on your own. And Rhys worked such long hours each day, by the time he got home he was tired, so they hadn’t gone to see so much as a film together, much less a Broadway show, and their meals thus far had consisted of takeout sushi and pizza.

“They’re not here,” he called out irritably from the bedroom.

“That’s odd. The movers assured me they unpacked your suits and things and put them all away on Saturday.”

“Someone put them away, all right – in their pocket. These’ll have to do,” he said, and he put on the onyx cufflinks she’d bought him for his birthday.

“Darling,” Natalie added tentatively as she followed him down the hallway, “Why don’t I work at D & J for a couple of days a week, just for a bit? I could fetch your lunch, come up with a few marketing ideas. What do you think?”

“It’s not necessary. I told you, there’s an entire team in place and everything’s well in hand. And I have Chaz to fetch my lunch and keep track of my diary. He’s amazing – don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Don’t forget,
I
was the one who planned the relaunch for the London store. It’s how we met, after all.”

“Yes, and you nearly bollocksed it up when you forgot to ask Poppy to model in the catwalk show until the last minute.”

“How was I to know she’d be in Sri Lanka on a photo shoot?” she retorted.

“Natalie, her time is scheduled weeks, months in advance. You knew that, yet you left it too late.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” she said crossly. “It was a tiny mistake that anyone could’ve made.”

“A tiny mistake that nearly ruined the entire relaunch.”

“You’d best go,” Natalie retorted, “or you’ll be late for your meeting.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. “Don’t sulk, darling, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Why don’t you two have breakfast‒” he reached down and patted her just-starting-to-show belly “‒and then do a bit of shopping? Buy some more baby things. Or start doing up the guest bedroom as that nursery you’re always on about.”

Although Natalie wasn’t due until mid-September, they’d decided to turn one of the guest bedrooms into a nursery, even though she planned to have the baby in London. But, as she pointed out, they’d need a place for the baby to stay the next time they came to New York to visit, wouldn’t they?

Rhys had agreed. The only things in there at the moment were a pram, boxes of nappies and baby clothes, and a pile of the most
darling
stuffed animals that somehow kept growing taller by the day.

“I can’t,” she said. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Then hire someone to come in and decorate,” Rhys said. “Now – I’ve really got to run. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye,” Nat said, her expression forlorn as Rhys grabbed his briefcase, kissed her cheek, and slammed out of the apartment like a well-dressed whirlwind. “I love you.”

But he didn’t answer. He was already gone.

She made her way down the hall to the kitchen and brewed a cup of decaf, carefully avoiding the intimidating espresso machine that resided beside the coffee maker. With its dials and levers and steam arm, the machine terrified her.

Well, what to do today
? she wondered as she sat down at the kitchen table, coffee cup in hand. She could sort through the new baby clothes...but she’d already sorted through them twice. She could clean the apartment – but it was spotless, thanks to the maid who came in twice a week to scrub and polish and tidy things up. Her gaze settled on the New York
Daily News
Rhys had left abandoned on the table.