Let's Misbehave (11 page)

As Portia got up and poured their mother a drink, Gigi said, “We were just discussing Vi and Titania.”

Their mother’s forehead furrowed. “Titania may refuse to see us, but at least she’s doing well.”

“She is?” Portia asked as she handed their mother a glass of her favorite cognac.

“Her photos are gaining renown.” Jacqueline inhaled the liquor and sipped a bit. “She’s quite marvelous. She has a unique perspective on people.”

“Titania?” Luca said, suddenly perking up. “The photographer Titania is your sister?”

“You know her?” Gigi asked.

“Of her. I own a picture she took.” He frowned. “She is amazing. An artist. She can tell a person’s story in one photo. It’s a gift.”

“All my daughters are brilliant at what they do.” Jacqueline patted Portia’s hand.

Portia smiled ruefully. “Once they figure out what they want.”

“You and Viola were late bloomers.” Their mother’s face clouded. “How is she doing?”

Gigi and her sister exchanged looks, not certain how much Vi wanted discussed, even to their mother. So Gigi just said, “As well as could be expected dealing with the ass.”

Jacqueline faced her. “And you, Imogen?”

“Me?” She blinked.

Her mother studied her. “You’ve been restless.”

She flashed her media smile and shrugged. “We all know I’m not good idle.”

“Is that all it is?”

No, it was everything. She was more than restless—she was frustrated. Betty hadn’t called her back regarding Sherman and wasn’t taking her calls. Delilah was seeding the media with lies about having Ophelia. And Holly hadn’t been able to find anyone who wanted to talk about Gigi instead of the video.

Her handler had also been relentless about Craig’s script. Apparently, Gigi’s
Hell no, I won’t read it
had been ambiguous.

Her phone buzzed with a text. Knowing better than to think Betty could be getting back to her but curious as to whom it might be, she murmured “Excuse me” and glanced at the screen.

Merrick Graham:
Come out and play
.

Her breath caught, and then her heart began to pound thinking of the night before in the park. They’d gotten lucky last night, but in the harsh morning light she’d lectured herself for her lack of control.

He’d made control impossible. Not good.

Not good at all.

She set her phone aside and contemplated her next move.

“Who is it?” Portia asked in her typically curious way.

“Do you see that look?” Luca pointed at Gigi’s face. “It must be the man in the tuxedo.”

“What man in a tuxedo?” Jacqueline asked.

“No one,” she said, giving Luca a death glare.

“It can’t be no one,” Portia said with a frown. “You have a look.”

Gigi arched her brow. “Is it the sort of look that says stay out of my business?”

Luca laughed.

Their mother smiled fondly. “Perhaps now would be a good time to ask Luca about his next race.”

Luca launched into a passionate recounting of his last race and how it was no longer worth racing since his best friend and greatest nemesis no longer competed. That nemesis was going to be their sister Rosalind’s husband as soon as they set a date, so they humored Luca but didn’t sympathize too overtly.

They chatted about this and that for what seemed to Gigi like hours, though it was probably only one. She knew she was a good enough actress to hide what she was feeling behind the lounging and light banter. But on the inside, she was chomping at the bit to text Merrick back.

Finally Jacqueline stood, and Luca decided he should leave, too. Gigi and Portia stayed behind to clean up.

To cover up her impatience, Gigi asked, “Is Jackson coming to pick you up?”

Her sister shook her head as she loaded the dishwasher with the glasses. “He had to fly to the states to look at a possible investment. I’m going to stay here tonight.”

Gigi waited for Portia to wipe her hands on a towel before turning off the kitchen light.

As they headed toward the staircase, Portia said, “What’s his name?”

“Who’s name?” she asked, knowing she could be very convincing at being innocent.

Portia shook her head. “You’re good, but I recognized the look you got when the text came in. You’ve met someone, and you’re interested in him.”

“There are lots of ways to be interested in someone,” she said philosophically as they ascended to the first floor.

“And you’re acting all those ways.” She took Gigi’s hand and made her stop. “Just be careful, all right?”

Her sister’s concern touched her right in the center of her chest, right where she felt most vulnerable. She hated feeling weak, so she fell back on the flippant attitude everyone expected from her. “Of course, darling.”

Portia didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and headed to her room. She’d only gone five steps when she turned around. “When you sneak out tonight, avoid the third step from the bottom. It squeaks, and Franny always knows.”

“I won’t ask how you know that.”

Portia grinned. “Probably best. A girl needs a hint of mystery.”

***

Gigi managed to wait until almost eleven before she replied to his text.
It’s late.

Merrick’s reply was instantaneous.
You don’t seem like the sort of woman who’d wither at midnight.

She arched her brow, stretching out on her bed. She was still dressed, because she wasn’t deluding herself—she was going to meet him.

Even still, she wasn’t his to command, and she’d go on her own time, especially since he’d made her wait this long. So she replied:
What sort of woman do I seem to be?

The sort who craves adventure.

She tapped her phone to her lips, pondering how to reply, when his next text came in.

Merrick Graham:
You could be teasing me in person. Better yet, I could be teasing you in my bed right now.

Good point. She replied:
Tell me where to meet you.

He sent her directions as she put on her disguise: a severe black suit, prim heels, and pearls. She twisted her hair into a bun and looked in the mirror. Perfect—if anyone saw her leaving the house, they’d mistake her for Portia.

She walked out the front door, but not before she checked to see if there was activity anywhere around. She caught a taxi but had him drop her off a couple blocks from the address Merrick had sent her.

She sauntered toward her destination, anticipation building through her body. She tried not to think of what they were going to do. She tried not to think of his hidden tattoos, or how she’d been thinking of uncovering them. She tried not to think how he kissed like it was his last moment left on earth, or how he’d touched her like she was a gift.

She arrived at the address. It didn’t look like the sort of place he’d live. In fact, it looked like the servant’s entrance to a larger manor. She double-checked it and then rang the bell. He better not have sent her on a wild goose chase.

He answered quickly, drawing her inside into a dingy space before closing the door firmly behind them.

She unbuttoned her coat and looked around. “Where—”

He pressed her against the stone wall and kissed the breath out of her.

She hummed, forgetting about her question, her hands pressed against the wall to brace herself. His hand framed her face, and the other gripped her hip, not even giving her the option to escape.

As if. Foolish, foolish man.

He lifted his mouth from hers. “You took your damn time getting here.”

“You didn’t want me to lead the press corps to your doorstep, did you?”

“I’m surprised they don’t recognize you under these clothes.” He tugged on her coat.

“It’s a good disguise. I look just like my sister.”

“You look like a librarian.”

“Just like my sister.” She leaned in and whispered. “But she has excellent underwear.”

“Come on then.” He took her hand and led her down a dark hall.

“Where are we?”

“The back entrance to my house.”

“Should I ask why your house has a back entrance like this?”

She didn’t think he was going to answer her, but then he glanced over his shoulder and said, “In my previous life, my manager had this added to my house to minimize the repercussions of my peccadilloes. The combination of music, money, and women can go to a boy’s head.”

“A previous life?” She frowned. “You were a musician?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t.” She stopped in her steps. “When?”

“It was a lifetime ago, Imogen.” He tugged at her arm, but when she didn’t move he sighed and faced her. “I was in a band.”

Narrowing her gaze, she studied him but she didn’t recognize him. “A famous band?”

He sighed. “Total Goes Wild.”

“You were in Total Goes Wild?” She gasped. “My sister Titania and I
loved
that group. I could still sing all the songs by heart.”

He winced. “Please don’t.”

“You guys weren’t just hot for a boy band, you actually had talent. ‘Love Leaves Dreaming’ was one of the best songs of the decade. It had such feeling.” She studied him. “I don’t remember you in the band though.”

“There were five members. I’m sure we were interchangeable.” He tugged at her hand. “It’s drafty down here. Wouldn’t you rather be in my warm bed?”

“I knew all the band members, especially Ricky Hazard, the lead singer.” She gasped, staring at him. “Say it’s not so.”

Merrick rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It was a lifetime ago, Imogen.”

She pressed herself against him. “You know, I used to have a huge crush on you. I’d lie in my room and imagine waiting for you backstage in your dressing room.”

He stilled. “Did you?”

Nodding, she ran a finger down the open collar of his shirt, edging toward where she knew his tattoo to be. “Want me show you what I imagined doing to you?”

“Yes.” He picked her up in his arms. “In my room.”

She chuckled, excited, amused. She actually had had a crush on him, but she’d been a late bloomer when it came to sex. She’d been too distracted by school and drama to be interested in sex.

Merrick carried her out of the dark corridor into an expensively decorated house. It was all wood and somber colors, no frills, no warmth—what you’d imagine a wealthy bachelor living in. It didn’t quite fit the image she was forming of him—the Merrick she knew, who had been a rocker with tattoos, should have had a few more outrageous touches.

He passed by a set of stairs, continuing down the hall.

“What’s up there?” she asked, craning her neck to see.

“Nothing. I don’t use the first floor any longer.” He kicked open a door and carried her into a bedroom.

It was as bland as the rest of what she’d seen. There weren’t any personal touches—no photos, no strewn clothing. “Aren’t we going to your bedroom?”

“This is my bedroom.” He set her on the enormous bed.

She kicked her shoes off and let them fall over the edge. “Want me to tell you the fantasies I had about Ricky?”

He unbuttoned his shirt as he went to the dresser and poured two glasses of something dark. “I’m not Ricky.”

“Aren’t you?” She wasn’t sure she believed him. “What about your tattoos?”

“A remnant of misspent youth.”

“Your music?”

“I no longer play.”

She accepted the glass and leaned back on an elbow, her bare foot trailing up the inside of her leg. “But you loved the music. You can’t fake something like that.”

“Love is lost.” He looked at his glass and then set it down.

“Is it worse that you’re lying to me, or that you’re lying to yourself?” She sipped her drink, watching him over the rim. “Sing for me.”

“No.”

“Please?” She smiled prettily, batting her lashes for affect. “‘Love Leaves Dreaming.’“

“No.”

“I’ll get you to sing for me one day.” She nodded at his glass. “Aren’t you going to drink your whiskey?”

He shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

“Do you have a problem with addiction?”

He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Not at all.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would you pour it for us then?”

“I thought you’d enjoy it.”

She suspected he’d enjoy it, too, if he only let himself. But she decided not to tackle that now. She’d learn—in good time. She held her glass out. “I don’t want it either.”

“Are you sure?” he asked as he took it from her.

She nodded. “The only thing I want is you naked next to me.”

“Done.” He eased down over her, sliding over her so she felt the length of him up her body.

“We have too many clothes on,” she murmured as he settled above her.

He framed her face with his hands. “I have you now, and I’m not moving from this spot, even if it means delaying the feel of your naked skin against mine.”

She flashed her saucy grin at him as she ran her foot up his leg. “What about the fancy knickers I have on?”

“I’ll get to them.” He nipped at her neck, soothing the bite with a kiss before moving down to her cleavage.

She was tempted to unbutton the blouse she’d put on, but before she could suggest it, he sat up, took her blouse in both fists, and tore it aside.

Her heart kicked. She listened to the
ping
of buttons hitting the hardwood floor, her arms flayed at her sides, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible even though she knew he’d be able to tell how excited she was by her heartbeat. “That expedited matters,” she drawled.

He ran a hand down from her neck to her chest, over the fancy lace she put on because she thought he’d enjoy it. She knew what he was seeing. The lace, a dark teal bordering on black, was so thin it hid nothing. By the way they felt, she knew her nipples were plump and visible through the lace, dusky with need.

She pushed him away and sat up. “My turn,” she said, taking his shirt in hand and ripping it off him.

He knelt on her legs without putting much weight on her. His hands fisted at his sides, where his shirt was still caught.

She raised her hand to touch the tattoo at his neck. Taking his hand, she studied the one covering his forearm—an intricate Celtic design that left a patch of skin bare in a treble clef. “Clever,” she said, running a fingertip over the symbol.