A Novel Seduction (21 page)

Axel held open the door. The smells of hops, fire smoke and garlic hung over the well-worn wood of the bar.

Ellery gave him an uncertain look. “A pub?” He’d told her this was a hotel, but Ellery knew a pub when she saw one.

“I told you I had friends in London.” He pulled off his scarf and led her to a stool.

“I knew you had friends in pubs in London. What you told me was you had friends with connections to book clubs.”

“Tell her, Simon.”

The publican, a bald, scarred-cheek brute who looked like an escapee from a Guy Ritchie movie, moved the bar rag from one arm to the other. “‘E’s not lyin’, luv. The Rosemary Readers meet here every Thursday night at seven.” He pointed to a table in an alcove in front of one of the establishment’s diamond-paned windows. “Right there in the snug.”

Ellery’s plan was to have these women serve as the
panel of readers she’d interview for her article. She’d talk to them as a group, asking stuff like “What makes romance different than other genres?” and “Why do readers read romance?” and hoping the insights of the group would provide a good hook for the story. She’d begin to draft the article tomorrow on the train to Edinburgh even though she still felt no certainty she was willing to have this published with her name on it.

“Axel, will you be wanting a pint? We have a good oyster stout.”

Ellery grimaced. “Oh, God, do those words even go together?”

“Oatmeal, I think,” he said to Simon. “Maybe a nice Scottish Borders?”

Ellery considered the incident in the garden outside St. Paul’s. After some nose blowing and cheek wiping she’d recovered her composure, but she’d dared not tell Axel why she’d been crying. She wasn’t even sure she understood it herself. She’d just passed it off as a combination of jetlag and bad airplane lasagna.

“As you like,” Simon said. “And for the lady?”

“Coffee,” she said firmly, hoping Simon hadn’t been expecting Axel to answer for her.

Simon nodded and disappeared into the back.

Axel and Ellery took seats at the bar.

“This is where those in the know stay,” he explained. “very popular with the
GQ
crowd. It’s cheap, convenient and friendly.”

“Ah.” Ellery grabbed a bag of potato chips off a display and tore it open. “I hope they have something good to eat here,” she said, popping a chip in her mouth. “I’m starving.”

Truth was, she hoped getting something in her stomach would settle her down a bit. Ever since this assignment had begun, she’d felt like she’d been on a bender. Okay, technically, she
had
been on a bender. Well, maybe “bender” wasn’t the right word. “Adventure,” perhaps. But an adventure that led to a public striptease that led to a shortsighted session of carnal origami with Axel and an unexpected bout of tears? That was a lot for someone who considered herself pretty level-headed. She looked at Axel, thinking about their unorthodox scene in the hotel room, and held out her forearms, remembering the coolness of the wall beneath them.

“Trouble?” Axel asked with what she would have sworn was a twinkle in his eye.

“No,” she said, placing her arms squarely on the bar.

Simon placed two sloshing glass mugs in front of them. Axel lifted the lighter-colored of the two and sniffed it inquisitively. Then he tilted it toward her.

“To a great story.”

She lifted hers reluctantly. “It’s not hot,” she said, looking at the contents.

He frowned. “It’s not supposed to be.”

She sipped and nearly gagged. “It’s not coffee!”

He looked horrified. “Did you want actual coffee?”

“I ordered coffee.”

“Well, we were talking about stout. I’m pretty sure Simon thought you meant coffee stout.”

“Coffee in
beer
?”

“You betcha.”

“Jeez, is there anything you people won’t put into it?”

He scratched his cheek, considering. “Peppermint.
Tried it once in a holiday stout. It’s not as merry as you might think.”

Ellery, whose need for caffeine was stronger than her desire for a more traditional delivery method, took another swallow. She could feel Axel looking at her.

“You sure you’re okay?” he said.

She nodded, unwilling to meet his eyes. She looked instead at his lean wrist and the dusting of russet hairs along his taut, tan arm and the way his first two fingers lifted and lowered slowly over the counter. He was on the precipice of asking more, and she threw out an invisible wall of unapproachability to keep him from doing it.

His fingers stilled and, with a sigh from their owner, tightened around the handle of his mug and disappeared from her sight.

“I have to hit the men’s room.”

“Of course you do.”

“Meaning?”

“Nothing.” There was no point in arguing about it.

When he disappeared, she asked Simon for a menu. He cocked his head toward the chalkboard on the wall next to the framed picture of the Tottenham Hotspur Football Club. “Game Pie, Ploughman’s Lunch, Fish and Chips,” the board read, as well as something referred to mysteriously as “Whelks.”

“How are the whelks today?” she asked.

“Garlicky.”

“Darn. I’ll have the fish and chips.” At least that was readily identifiable. “Side salad?”

He shook his head.

Of course not.
Perhaps if she asked for a lettuce stout.

Her phone rang. It was a work number. She took another draft of her beer abomination and answered.

“Ellery Sharpe.”

“I heard you were naked in Pittsburgh.” It was Kate.

“
Half
naked. Please tell me you’re not in a pitch meeting.”

“Manicure. Which half?”

“My left half. Jesus, can the manicurist understand English?”

“I think so. It’s Jill. We met in the park for lunch.”

“Hiya, sis!” Jill called in the background. “Nice boob action!”

“Yeah,” Kate said. “Great for the résumé.”

“Nobody knew who I was,” Ellery said. “And the only pictures were Axel’s and he took those after I had the T-shirt on.”

“Yeah, after he picked his jaw off the floor. Pardon?” Kate added, obviously talking to Jill. Then to Ellery: “Oh, no. Jill assures me there are plenty of pictures of you online looking, well, positively empowered.”

“Pictures!” She sat up so hard, she nearly fell off the stool.

“Pictures?” said Axel, who had just returned.

Kate said, “Oh, yeah. Apparently you need only go to Twitter and search for ‘Ynez army’ and you’ll find links to tons of ’em. Oh, hang on.…” Kate was listening to Jill again. “I’m told ‘boob empowerment’ works too.”

“Oh,
great
.”

“Is that Kate?” Axel said, hearing her tinny voice coming out of Ellery’s earpiece. “Is there an issue with the pictures? Tell her I have a bunch if she wants to look them over early.”

“Soooooo,” Kate said. “The million dollar question is: How empowered did you get with Axel?”

“The photos are looking
great
.” Ellery hugged the phone tighter to her ear. “Axel can send you what he has if you want to look them over now.”

Kate laughed. “Ask him if he’s been on Twitter lately.”

“No, no, it’s no problem. He says he’d be happy to share them.”

“I’ll bet he would. Maybe you two should get yourselves into a dark room and see what develops, you lover, you.”

“Did she say ‘cover’?” Axel edged closer, any vestige of manners gone. “God, I’d love a cover. Who would we shoot? Bettina Moore? Or maybe that woman who wrote
Vamp
?”

Ellery said, “I know who I’d choose to shoot,” and Kate giggled.

“Yes, I promise he’ll send what he has. Gotta run. Bye.” Ellery hit the
END
button.

“A cover would be great,” Axel said.

Oh, Jesus. The only thing worse than writing the damn article would be seeing it make the cover of
Vanity Place
. She’d be laughed out of New York.

“Kate sounded eager for details,” he said.

“‘Eager’ doesn’t begin to describe it. Better send her what you have tonight.”

Simon put the fish in front of Ellery. Axel motioned for a similar order for himself and grabbed one of her chips. “God, I love this stuff.”

“They’re yours. I’m only going to have a couple.”

He found the malt vinegar bottle and made himself a
puddle at one end of the plate and followed that with an artery-tightening snowstorm of salt.

“How are you feeling about whelks?”

The chip stopped before it reached his mouth and his eyebrows rose in happy arches. “They have whelks?”

“God, what is it with you British Empire people?”

“Technically, Canada is not part of the British Empire—not anymore, at least.”

“You still have the queen’s picture on your money.”

“Think of it as plaid pants. If you don’t wear plaid pants at a country club, no one will know you belong.”

“Is that how it is?” She knew for a fact Axel wouldn’t be caught dead in plaid pants
or
at a country club.

“Yes. And Americans are like the slightly vulgar out-of-town guests you bring who shout to the caddy from the patio of the tea shop.”

“Slightly vulgar
independent
guests, you mean. We fought for it, you know. Didn’t wait for it to be handed to us along with the lyrics to ‘O Canada’ and a box of Tim Hortons doughnuts.”

“Mmmm,” he said happily through the chip he was eating. “Doughnuts.”

The sky had turned a dark gray on their walk from Covent Garden, and Ellery was not surprised to hear the clap of lightning followed by the immediate rumble of rain.

“Great.” She gazed at the empty snug. The pub itself was nearly empty. “First the London College woman cancels and now I just know the book ladies are not going to show.”

“They’ll show,” Simon said, returning with Axel’s dinner. At this point Axel had moved Ellery’s plate in front of
him and was digging into her fish. The pub man paused for a moment, then slid the new plate in front of Ellery. “The Rosemary Readers never miss.”

“Hm.”

Simon ducked under the bar to attend to the fire in the room’s small hearth when a crashing jolt of thunder heralded an even harder downpour.

“This day’s going to be a total waste,” Ellery grumbled, and immediately regretted it when she saw the look that came over Axel’s face. “I meant as far as the article is concerned.”

“Ah.” He sucked a stray bit of fried batter off his finger. “You need to think more positively.”

“That was positive. Otherwise, I’d have said our careers are finished and we’re doomed to walk the cheerless halls of the unemployment office, begging for jobs taking school pictures and writing obituaries.”

“There’s the Ellery I know. You’re not going to eat my fish, are you?”

She paused, fork in the air, and gave him a look. Then with a flourish she bit into the firm, white plank and let the steamy, oily, salty morsel melt on her tongue.

“Pretty good, eh?” he said.

“Fantastic.”

“So at least the night’s not going to be a total wash?”

His eyes glittered when he said it, and she hid her flush in a quick slug of coffee-beer. “Except for the fact that the women aren’t going to make it. Nobody comes out on a night like this if they don’t have to.”

“They’ll come.”

A man opened the door, shook off his rain slicker and
said, “Anybody own the Ford Estate Wagon parked on the corner? The storm drains have overflowed. Looks like it might be carried off with the rain.”

“Wanna bet?” she said to Axel.

“That depends.” He gazed at her from a bent elbow, liquid eyes alight with mischief. “How interesting do you want to make it?”

When she found her breath, she said, “Ten bucks.”

He shook his head. “Not even close to interesting.”

She could feel the warmth rising on her cheeks. “Twenty?”

“Simon,” he called, not breaking her gaze. “How much are the rooms upstairs?”

“Sixty quid.”

“How does sixty quid sound?”

She shifted. “Pricey.”

“What does it matter? You’re going to win, right? If they don’t show, you win. But if they do…”

She wasn’t quite sure what she was agreeing to, but she had a sudden keen interest in the weather. She finished the fish, leaving the chips for Axel, and munched on the single leaf of lettuce that had come on her plate. “So, ah, how close to seven o’clock are we?”

Axel checked his cell phone. “Forty minutes. I’m going to get set up.”

“And I’m going to sit by the fire and put together an outline for the piece.”

“Speaking of that,” he said, his posture changing subtly, “where do you stand?”

“Stand?”

“On the piece.”

She rolled her eyes. “I think you know where I stand.”

“I meant in regards to writing it.”

“It’s in process.”

She hiked her backpack onto her shoulder and was about to step away, when he added, “Can I see it, do you think?”

“What? The draft?”

“Yeah. You know I always enjoy reading your stuff.”

She shrugged.
Not much of a risk,
she considered,
since I haven’t written a single word.
“Sure.”

The truth was, she still wasn’t sure what she was going to write. Harold, Ynez and Peter, not to mention that conniving bitch Britta, had certainly engaged her—far more than they should have, she thought uncomfortably. But it had been a false engagement. A borrowed interest related to sex and love and honor, topics generally not tackled in real books, or if they were, they were done in a drier, most distant way, when the stuff at risk wasn’t so bloody heart-stopping and you weren’t sitting on the edge of your seat wondering what, if anything, Peter was going to do once he found out his heroine intended to write a tell-all biography of him and—

She unzipped the backpack and reached inside for the book. Dammit, it was
Kiltlander
. She must have left the one with Peter Lely in it in the hotel room.

She was about to return
Kiltlander
to her backpack when a phrase on the back caught her eye: “Can their fragile love survive the blow?”

Hm
.

She didn’t think they meant a hurricane or the act one so often associated with romances, though the barechested
Highlander did look particularly rubber-legged. Settling into the chair, she read the book’s description. It seemed Jemmie, he of the wobbly knees, had had his eighteenth-century world upended with the unexpected arrival of a smart, determined and apparently shocked woman named Cara who’d accidentally traveled to his time from the twentieth century. Time travel? Well, there’s a plot you don’t find too often in nominee lists of the National Book Awards. She put it right up there with superheroes, talking dead people and giant crabs that attack New York. Nonetheless, nothing in the description explained what sort of blow their fragile love had taken.