One Stolen Kiss (13 page)

But someone who ensured that they were completely invisible? What sort of man did that to the woman he supposedly loved?

And what sort of woman had no relationship history to speak of prior to the last forty-eight hours?

Adrik closed the browser and sat back in his chair, turning his coffee-cup thoughtfully between his fingers.

He analysed everything he had noted so far. Her reluctance to hug, in New York yesterday morning. Her behaviour in his company, when others were present, could be described as furtive, afraid of being noticed. Alone with him, however – the way she looked at him, or avoided looking at him, suggested something unfulfilled. Regretful. Wishful. Lost.

Perhaps that was why she hadn’t yet run away.

She had nowhere else to go.

He got to his feet and went back upstairs, fully aware that he’d given her enough time to prove that theory completely wrong. He’d even left the French windows of the balcony unlocked.

Something of his father’s approach to testing whether or not you could trust people had motivated him.

When he opened the door to the master suite, and saw the bed untouched and unoccupied, his heart sank – but he wasn’t entirely surprised. Heaving a sigh, he scanned the shadows for any tricks that might await him. Although his suspicions were that most likely she’d have put some considerable distance between them already.

And he’d shown her where to find the cufflinks. So that was the first thing to check.

Opening the door to the dressing-room in turn, his heart jumped back up again.

Christie was seated at the marble counter, head resting on her pyjama-clad arms. The discarded dress was folded on top of the storage ottoman.

She simply hadn’t made it as far as the bedroom before jet-lag caught up with her.

His heart was now at the mercy of his own adrenalin, in face of the conflicting assumptions which had just been abruptly overturned. He approached quietly, and brushed her hair back from her cheek.

Asleep.

“Not here,” he said, and reached around to lift her from the cushioned seat. “Bed.”

“
Did you want to search me?” she mumbled, as she was scooped up into his arms. “I wasn’t sure.”

“
Only if you can stay awake,” he assured her. “But I don’t think you can.”

CHAPTER EIGHT.

She’d attended fashion events before. With girlfriends, with gay friends, or alone. Once with her mother in Paris at an exclusive haute couture preview, by invitation of a grateful finishing school graduate’s parents. The experience had been mind-boggling.

This London event, today, was a ‘Fair Trade in Fashion’ awareness campaign by a handful of leading contemporary designers, featuring celebrities from the fashion and entertainment world, both past and present. What was significant to them, Christie learned, was that it had an exclusive coverage deal with the same high-end magazine Eileen had contacted to cover their engagement party.

Roger, her man on speed-dial, was near the main entrance, screening visitors for the most photogenic opportunities. A dark-haired man, with a retro sense of style almost from the 1950s, he greeted Adrik and Christie with the sort of enthusiasm reserved for meeting Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.

“
So glad you made it,” he beamed. “We must arrange a home interview for the follow-up article, as soon as you can fit it in. We’ve got security holding down the paps here today, but you two most certainly don’t need to worry – both of you looking fabulous.”

“
Next week, before the engagement party would be best,” Adrik informed him. “Afterwards – I’m afraid we’ll be very busy. Wedding plans and everything to take care of.”

There it was again – talk of wedding plans. What on Earth was Adrik thinking?

“Wedding plans – that we must have insight on. We need to build you up a nice portfolio with us…”

She hadn’t attended anything like this as one half of a couple before… if she was honest, last night was the first time she’d attended anything officially as one half of a couple. That debutante ball eleven years ago didn’t count… she’d arrived appropriately with the other graduates in her class, and Adrik was a well-known gatecrasher…

“You’ve been moved up to front row middle,” Roger told them. “I think one or two people wanted to meet you. That means, they want to be in photographs with you.”

So they found themselves led to seats between a rock star’s wife and her soon-to-be-a-model daughter, and a movie producer and his male partner, who had recently been in the magazine after adopting their second child from Colombia, or somewhere similar.

They exchanged pleasantries. Mrs Rock Star asked Christie where she got the Vera Wang dress, which she had accessorised this time with the other glittery scarf, as it was exactly the kind of thing her daughter wanted for her school prom.

“
It’s a vintage find,” Christie told her. “You can have it if you want.”

“
You mean borrow.” Mrs Rock Star immediately produced her business card, while her daughter visibly bounced in her seat happily. “That would be awesome. A dress with a story behind it, sweetheart! Perfect.” She leaned in towards Christie. “She’s always loaning out my things to her friends. I get a call every week from some mother saying they’ve found their girls hoarding Louboutin and Balenciaga. One of them broke the strap on her school satchel and this little madam lent her my Hermés. I nearly died.”

“
Is he teething?” Adrik was saying to the couple on the other side. “Maybe give him something for that. But not vodka. That’s what made such a mess of me.”

“
Are you planning a family?” the producer asked. “We have great contacts if you want to adopt. Our first son was actually born in a women’s prison for drug and arms traffickers – his mother is serving a life sentence for leading a guerrilla group that undertook high-profile kidnappings. So we look upon our adoption of him as poetic justice.”

“
Call me old-fashioned,” Adrik replied, and rested his arm across the back of Christie’s chair. “I like the idea of making our own. And, I’ve been told it will stop her pestering me to get a dog.”

“
Are you looking forward to that, Christie?” the producer asked her, and gave a knowing chuckle as she presented Adrik with an unrehearsed glare. “Looks like you still have some negotiating to do, Maksimov.”

“
I’ll get there.” Adrik tickled her shoulder and nodded. “Eventually.”

I’m going to have to kill him
, a crazy voice panicked in the back of Christie’s mind.
This is getting completely out of control.
If she was Derek, she would be ordering that everyone else they’d spoken to be silenced as well. A social fumigation.

“
Is Olga Rose here today?” Mrs Rock Star’s daughter was inquiring.

“
No, darling,” her mother stage-whispered. “Not since she embarrassed herself all over Harry. But she might manage to sneak into the after-party later tonight.”

“
Would you consider doing a commission, Adrik?” the film producer’s partner asked. “We’ve been talking of having a family portrait done – something a little different. But not too inappropriate, of course…”

The show began, and it was mainstream, high-street friendly fashion combined with some more eclectic occasional wear, given that the audience consisted mostly of frequenters of Ladies’ Day at Ascot, Cannes Film Festival, and Royal weddings.

It wasn’t too stressful, in itself. The proximity of Adrik was more stressful. Especially when he reminded her that they were together.

“
You’re good at pretending I’m not here,” he murmured. “Who taught you to ignore your close companions so professionally?”

“
Why, are you feeling invisible?” she whispered, behind her show programme. She had to admit to herself that he certainly didn’t look it, in another intimidating black suit, and an olive green shirt that made his jade eyes seem all the more piercing. “I’m only looking at the clothes. Most people are, if you take notice.”

“
Eyeing up my clothes, just now,” he teased, and she scolded herself for checking him out so openly. “You look nice too.”

“
Thank you.” She fanned her face and neck a little. “And I’m not pretending you’re not here… I’m just not used to…”

“
Being out in public with a man?” He caught the programme amiably as she swatted it lightly at him. “Well, remember that all this courting celebrity is new for me too. But unlike you, I haven’t been brainwashed into behaving a certain way out in public.”

Hot and cold didn’t describe it. Christie felt as though the floor had suddenly dropped away beneath her.

Brainwashed?

“
I haven’t been brainwashed,” she retorted. “Things are just different in New York.”

“
What things are you referring to?”

Christie excused herself without attempting to answer, and headed for the powder rooms. Ridiculous. Adrik simply had no idea. And no conversational boundaries either, by the sound of it.

In the cubicle, she took out her phone, and looked at Derek’s name in her Contacts list. She read his last text messages. The final one, from two days ago, just said
Good luck 4 2nite.

Not even an
X
at the end. But that wasn’t his style.

Had she ever questioned his style? She wasn’t sure she’d even considered it open to question.

She put her phone down in her lap as she sat on the closed lid of the lavatory, crossed her legs and pulled off one of today’s choice of shoes – another bargain from Portobello that she had found yesterday, Miu Miu by Prada with a sculptural and unusual high heel. There was a slight wrinkle from wear in the leather insole that was aggravating her blister as it tried to heal. Maybe the reason they had been given away in the first place.

Her cell phone vibrated. It would be just her luck if this was Derek right now…

She opened the messages again.

ADRIK: I’m sorry. Are you okay? Xx

She let out a sigh, and uncrossed her legs to rearrange herself while she thought of a reply.

Her bare foot crunched on something, on the polished concrete floor.

* * * *

Adrik’s phone buzzed for his attention. He was already in the corridor outside the toilets, trying to catch up with her. Seeing that it was Christie who was calling, he answered at once.

“Christie…” He rubbed the back of his neck, annoyed with himself for feeling agitated, and for winding her up. “Are you all right?”

“
I don’t know.” There was a slight wobble in her voice. “I just stepped on a hypodermic in the bathroom…”

He was through the door in an instant. Christie had unlocked her cubicle, but hadn’t moved from her seat on the lid.

“…I don’t think it went in,” she continued. “But I’m not certain.”

Adrik rang the event organiser as he crouched by her. There was a smear of blood on the tiles, but he wasn’t sure if it was caused by the needle, or whether her already tortured foot had ruptured by itself on impact.

“Is there a paramedic on site?” he asked, as the call was answered. “Ladies’ room, please. A sharps injury.”

He put the phone away. Christie had already lifted her foot cautiously, and he reached under her ankle to support it.

“It’s not stuck in there,” he reported, and a small amount of relief overtook him. He rubbed her shin reassuringly. “It looks like the needle was covered with a cap. But the container has split open.”

“
I’ve busted my blister, haven’t I?” she said, wryly. “God knows what’s in my foot now… oh, well. Maybe I’ll get lucky. Foot Botox party.”

“
That was my fault.” Adrik rested his forehead on her knee. “I was prying again. I’m so sorry…”

“
No, I’m sorry,” she said. “For making you run into the Ladies’ room. You’re right – they do smell funny.”

Her hand went to his hair, and he was further upset to realise that
she
was trying to comfort
him.

“
What do you need to be happy?” he asked, looking up at her. Her concerned face was now taken by surprise. “Do you want an art studio? I’ll clear a room for you to have one. Or split the workshop…”

The paramedic appeared, accompanied by a representative from venue management and two members of security, who quarantined the toilets at once.

Adrik had to move aside and watch as Christie was checked and treated, initially with a great deal of saline and antiseptic to flush out the abrasion, while the manager did his best to put him at ease.

“
A lot of the women guests here are into anti-allergy and homeopathic treatments,” he was saying. “Don’t rush to any conclusions.”

Adrik barely heard him. He was listening to the answers Christie was giving to the paramedic, who was gently telling her to let him know if she suddenly started to feel either woozy, dizzy, hot, cold, breathless, hallucinate, or experience palpitations. So far, she was saying, nothing like that.

One of the security staff put on blue disposable gloves and retrieved the remains of the hypodermic injector, sealing it in a clear plastic bag.

“
The needle cap is intact, but the contents have leaked,” the security officer remarked. “There’s a logo printed on the barrel – I’ll look it up.”

“
Let me see.” Adrik saw the name, and a serial number, which appeared to be a medical reference or batch code. His phone was in his hand at the same time as the security guard’s was, and they both copied the logo and numbers into searches.

“
It is medical…” he frowned, concerned. His mind, overworked and distressed, was stuck thinking in Russian. What was it describing – a medical condition? An addiction treatment?

“
It says it’s silicone filler,” the security guard announced. She held up her phone, a cosmetic surgery info page open. “For feet.”

“
You’re joking, right?” Christie overheard. “I stepped on the one thing that would actually do me some good?”

“
Stops bones and shoes rubbing and causing corns, apparently,” the officer nodded, and put her phone away. “Don’t worry – we’ll send it along to the hospital with you to get it tested, and make sure.”

“
Do I have to go to hospital?” Christie asked.

“
You’ll need the usual tests for following up an unknown sharps incident immediately, and a tetanus if you’re not up to date,” the paramedic confirmed. “I’m going to wrap this foot up temporarily for you now.”

“
Where are they getting this stuff?” the manager sighed, exasperated. “Normal people shouldn’t be walking around with cosmetic surgery treatments in their handbags…”

Adrik leaned on the doorframe of the cubicle. Christie glanced up, and caught his eye.

“Sorry,” she said. “Spoiling your day out. You can stay though.”

“
What?” He realised his hand was over his mouth in worry, knowing that it was still too soon to relax, and dropped it abruptly. “No… I’m coming with you.”

“
I thought you might want to go to the after-party…”

“
No. Screw the after-party. We’ll go to hospital and get you treated, and go home. We’ve done enough.”