Undone by the Star (12 page)

With barely fifteen minutes to spare, Alex zipped back to her flat, peeled off the business suit, and slipped into a sleeveless summer dress feeling blissfully carefree. She checked her makeup, hesitated over whether to spritz herself with a light cologne, and then with a slightly giddy laugh, picked up the tote and headed back to the main part of the hotel. Marc was already waiting for her in the Library Bar, and rose to greet her as she entered.

“How could anyone who works as hard as you do look so beautiful all the time?”

He kissed her on both cheeks.

“You’re very continental this evening,” Alex said setting her tote bag on the floor.

“Thanks to your friend Kate. She gave me the once over before she left to deliver my message. Do you know that girl can read upside down?”

“And sideways, I should think,” laughed Alex. “She has many talents.”

“Including fetching my dry cleaning from downstairs. Apparently, my jeans weren’t up to code in her opinion.” Marc waited for Alex to sit down in one of the two button-back leather chairs. “Hence the sports jacket and chinos.”

“Ever get the feeling we’re being micro-managed?” she asked as Marc sat down.

“If this is the result, then I’m all for it. Now let’s have that drink. Wine?” asked Marc signalling their waiter.

“Please. And a charcuterie board for later? Sausage, cheese and…humus.”

“Perfect.” While Marc gave their order, Alex snuggled into her chair with a sigh of relaxation. And one surprising thought. She felt totally comfortable being with Marc in public. It wouldn’t matter who saw them. She was the CEO now, and her private life was her business. Maybe she had over-reacted that night in the mews. It was as though everyone in the hotel was in their corner.

“Busy?” Marc reached over and laced his fingers lightly through hers.

“Crazy,” Alex confirmed. “Grannie’s cousin Hector is still playing hard to get.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Unlikely. He inherited his share in the business, so he automatically has a seat on the board. But I’m sure it’ll be fine. Now, what about your day?”

“Executive producers like to meddle right up until the first day of filming,” replied Marc. “And I have two, one of whom thinks he’s a writer.”

“And is he?”

Marc shook his head. “Not even close. But he does have a lot of money invested in the project. That gives him clout. And he’s using it.”

When the waiter arrived with their drinks, they raised their glasses, and then Alex couldn’t contain herself any longer. “I have something to show you,” she announced reaching for the bag by her feet. She pulled out the old ledger and placed it on the table. Its spine was cracked and its binding a bit loose, but the faded linen cover still bore its original label.

“Mrs. Rutledge?” Marc read with a question in his voice.

“She was the head housekeeper here for years,” Alex explained. “More like a chatelaine, according to Grannie, and she kept meticulous records.”

Alex opened the ledger to the page she wanted Marc to see. “These entries are from the late 1950s. She kept track of every guest who stayed here, their likes and dislikes, and how often they’d been with us, including….”

“My godfather!” Marc’s eyes shone with excitement. He shifted his chair closer, and with his arm around Alex, traced the column down the left-hand side of the ledger where all the names were entered. “There he is! Charles Elliot, Oxfordshire…this is fantastic! This is like catnip to a history buff like me!”

Alex leaned slightly into his shoulder, and watched with deep pleasure as Marc’s strong hand slid down the page, fingers almost caressing the name of his long-dead godfather. The swell of emotion washing over Marc roughened his voice as he read the entries next to his godfather’s name. “Allergic to goose feathers!” he exclaimed, “I didn’t know that!” And then further down he read that his godfather preferred Darjeeling in the morning before he went down to breakfast, and that he was “meticulous in his personal habits.” He laughed. “Now that I did know.”

His eyes took on a faraway look and then tightening the arm around her shoulders, he leaned over and impulsively kissed Alex on the cheek. The scent of his cologne, clean shirt, and maleness washed over her. Her breathing deepened as she felt herself slip into the rhythm of his movements, his heartbeat.

“This is incredible. Thank you. I can’t think of a better surprise.” Even in the quiet light of the library, Alex could see the glint of moisture in Marc’s eyes. “I was pretty sure my godfather had stayed at The Sadler because of his friendship with your grandfather, but to see it recorded here is really exciting.”

Alex swallowed hard. “Our families have a shared history,” she said carefully. “Makes life a little richer, don’t you think?”

Marc reached for his wine. “They might even have sat here and enjoyed a single malt together.”

Pleased at Marc’s reaction, Alex closed the ledger carefully and slid it back into the bag for safekeeping.

“Our food should be arriving soon,” Marc said, his glass now empty. “I think this calls for another drink, don’t you?”

“Please,” Alex said. Her instincts about the ledger had been on target. Marc’s love of history was broad, and hers was wrapped up in the hotel she loved. But the ledger, the people who had shaped the direction of their lives, had come together in Mrs. Rutledge’s neat records from half a century before. That kind of cross-connection of who they were mattered to Alex, and clearly, Marc felt the same way.

When the charcuterie board arrived, they fell silent, enjoying the savoury array of meats and old English cheddars. Alex was struck by the domesticity of sharing a simple supper, sipping their drinks and the quiet companionship of being together, away from the pressures in their lives.

After they had eaten their fill, Marc turned Alex’s hand over and drew slow circles in her palm with one finger. She looked up into his eyes and the intensity of her longing for him, in every possible way, nearly overcame her. Did every person falling in love feel like this, as if the air itself held bubbles of golden champagne?

“I want to draw a frame around this moment and save it forever,” Alex whispered.

She waited for Marc to say something, but he only gazed off in the distance, his fingers still caressing her hand. She felt a slight chill of uncertainty – didn’t he feel the way she did after all?

Finally, Marc sighed. “Early start tomorrow. I’m off to Yorkshire for a few days to look at locations.”

“You don’t sound very excited.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “I am…and I’m not. I like it here.”

Alex had an almost overwhelming desire to drop everything and go away with him, to test the strength of their feelings for each other away from their responsibilities to others. But when Marc got to his feet and drew her to him, she thrust the idea away even while she melted against him. He held her tightly, face against her hair and she relaxed, arms around his neck, wanting to draw in all the warmth he offered her.

In unspoken agreement they released each other, but she walked beside him, hands occasionally brushing, to the taxi stand outside the hotel. As the vehicle sped away, Alex hugged herself as if for warmth, wandering slowly through the lobby and back to her own flat.

It seemed pathetically small and terribly empty.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Stifling a yawn, Marc picked his way through the early morning crowds at King’s Cross. The express train to York was departing in twenty minutes leaving him just enough time to pick up a coffee. He should take the train more often, he decided. The metallic tang of the rails, and the echo of days past was exhilarating.

Reaching the platform, Marc took a last appreciative glance at the train shed’s vaulted ceiling before stepping on board.

The carriage was nearly full. Grabbing an empty window seat two-thirds of the way down, Marc stowed his gear and leaned back to enjoy the view. He felt totally relaxed. He’d had a wonderful evening with Alex, and the next time he saw her they would be together at the charity premiere for The Funding of the Arts. He’d left his tux with Jeremy the day before so that it could be sent to the cleaners. Alex’s grandmother and her crew were busy finding the perfect dress for Alex. And George was likely behind the mews polishing the Rolls.

His timing was impeccable, thought Marc. Three days up north scouting for locations was far safer than being in London. He was determined to keep busy and stay focused on his film, because thinking endlessly about Alex, about the taste of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, and the scent of her hair would drive him nearly mad with desire – and then to a declaration he wasn’t ready to make. With an almost physical wrench, he resolved to banish Alex from his mind. But as soon as his eyes slipped shut, her image rose unbidden.

Professional Alex reflected in the burnished brass of the elevator, harried Alex thrusting him into a car at Portobello Road, anxious Alex asking him to go to the premiere with him, and then last night, relaxed Alex sipping wine in the romantic half-light of The Sadler’s bar. She had surprised and delighted him, and every time he saw her he wanted to take her in his arms and then take her to his bed.

Marc rubbed his chin. He hadn’t bothered to shave, and he was wearing the same well-worn jeans and hoodie he’d had on the first time he’d met Alex. She might have mistaken him for a plumber, but there was no mistaking Alexis Kirkwood for who she was – the most exciting, demanding and contrarian woman he had ever met – beautiful, soft, and with a spine of steel.

And he was dangerously close to falling in love.

The night before, when he was holding her hand in the Library Bar, their fingers entwined, he had come so close to admitting the depth of his feelings, it shocked him.

The word commitment had reared its ugly head. With a film to make and a new career to launch, why raise expectations that he was not in a position to satisfy?

Marc shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Alex had been completely clear about her own commitment. The Sadler came first. It wasn’t as though he expected a woman to abandon her life for him. It was better for both of them if his growing emotional desires remained unspoken.

So their conversation had continued unchecked, their pleasure in each other’s company undiminished. Even if the flame of physical attraction crackled between them, the reality was they were at pivotal points in their own careers.

The unwelcome thought that Alex might turn him down was enough to quell Marc’s needs…for now.

A thump on the adjoining seat yanked Marc from his reverie. A red rucksack suddenly appeared beside him, and then just as abruptly, it was whisked away. Seconds later, a young woman plonked herself down in its place, and in one fluid movement had her laptop out and open.

“Morning,” said Marc warily.

“Morning,” she replied, staring fixedly at her screen.

She was, thought Marc as he settled back again, the ideal companion. Silent, disinterested, letting a man keep himself to himself. He finished his coffee as the train slowly began to move. By the time it left the station, the sun had appeared. And so had Marc’s dark glasses.

Closing his eyes, he let the gentle rhythm lull him into a sleep in which Alex played a starring role. But his imaginary dalliance was cut short by the insistent buzzing of his phone.

It was his contact in York.

“Just wanted to make sure you made the train,” Douglas shouted down the line. “I have another property we need to see. Manor house in West Yorkshire. Where are you now?”

Marc glanced out the window. They were barely out of the city. “We are approaching….”

“Finsbury Park,” muttered his companion.

“Finsbury Park,” Marc repeated.

“Great,” barked Douglas. “I’m going to pull over and send you the details.”

The call ended and less than two minutes later, Marc was eying photos of an old manor house. “On the cusp of disrepair” was what he had instructed his location scout to look for, and if these photos were anything to go by, he’d found it. Even the windows looked sad – as though a shell-shocked young soldier had barricaded himself inside after returning from France to discover he was a widower.

Every time Marc thought about the film’s storyline, the sense of loss was so tangible his breath caught in empathy for the young soldier’s agony. Could he be following the same path? Too little, too late. For a moment, he wanted to give himself a shake and follow his heart…now, not some time in the future when everything was just right.

He checked his watch. It was still too early to call Alex; she would be with her staff for the morning briefing. But he could forward the pictures and share his excitement with her.

Quickly composing a note to her personal email, he hesitated briefly over how to sign off, then wrote, “Missing you more than you know.”

He attached the photos and pushed send.

It didn’t go.

He tried again.

Still no go.

“Dead zone,” explained his seat mate. “Wait about fifteen minutes, then try again.”

“Thanks,” said Marc eying her laptop surreptitiously. It looked as though she was working on a paper. Hard to tell from the angle.

“English Literature,” she said.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to be nosy.”

“Me, either.” She eyed him over her horned-rimmed glasses. “Nice disguise, by the way. No one would ever peg you as an action hero.”

Marc could have laughed out loud. He’d been dismissed. By the very demographic who’d grown up on his films. And the beauty of it was, he didn’t care. He was free to do whatever he wanted with the rest of his life. No more typecasting, no more worrying about fans hounding him wherever he went.

All he had to do was be himself. And that would have to be enough.

Alex hurriedly entered the lobby. It was just three o’clock. She didn’t like to be late, but her afternoon meeting with the auditor had taken longer than she’d expected.

Spotting Cyril behind the front desk, Alex changed direction. She had intended to go to the dining room to see if she could catch Kate at the end of her shift, but Cyril would be faster.