The Price of Fame (12 page)

‘Oh … I didn’t think of that. Jeez, I’m an idiot.’

He heard the confusion and embarrassment and felt like a jerk, but it didn’t change the fact that she’d altered their relationship. Did she think he was staying on indefinitely? Did she think she could persuade him with little gifts of domesticity? How many women had plied him with similar gestures? A pot of home-made soup, a towel embroidered
with his name, hoping to lure him to the altar and set up a joint bank account.

‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought,’ he said, ‘but—’

‘Don’t worry about it—give them to charity. It’s fine.’

Nic knew from experience when a woman said ‘fine’ in that tone, it meant anything but. ‘I’m going to take a quick shower, then I’ll drive you home.’ Maybe he could smooth things over on the way.

‘No need, I’ve booked a cab.’ She spoke crisply, her expression devoid of emotion, and glanced at her watch. ‘He’ll be here any minute now. I’ll go downstairs and get out of your way.’

‘Charlotte …’
Wait
. An odd panic worked its way through the annoyance. ‘I said I’d drive you, just give me a damn m—’

‘The opera ticket.’ She dug into her bag, pulled it out and slapped it on the kitchen bench, eyes sparking now. ‘This way you can suit yourself whether you come or not.’

Charlotte waited in the foyer for Nic to show, pacing the thick carpet, ignoring the subtle glances of recognition cast her way. She’d not been out in public since the break-up and knew there’d be gossip in tomorrow’s paper. It would have been so satisfying to have had a partner to flaunt tonight and not to have to climb into a cab sad and alone at the end of the evening. Not that she wanted to
flaunt
Nic, especially since she’d revealed his identity to the press.

I just want to be with him
.

Biting back a sigh, she checked the time. Did she really expect him to show after this morning’s debacle? She’d done what he’d made clear he didn’t want from her; she’d gone domestic on him.

The last bell rang. Most patrons had already disappeared
into the auditorium. She should go home. There was no way she could enjoy the performance under the circumstances.

As she turned to leave she saw Nic approaching and her heart wanted to weep and dance at the same time. This gorgeous sexy man in a snappy dark suit and tie was here to meet her. She had to force herself to walk sedately across the carpet and not to fling her arms around his neck.

‘Traffic was heavier than I expected,’ he said, smelling freshly showered as he tucked her arm through his and walked towards the auditorium doors, which were already closing.

‘You’re here now.’ That was all that mattered.

‘Charlotte.’ He stopped, looked down at her, eyes troubled. ‘I shouldn’t have reacted that way this morning.’ He shook his head. ‘Everything about you, everything with you … It’s different.’

‘I know.’ And it scared her too.

‘So what’s the verdict on opera?’ Charlotte watched the street lights flicker over Nic’s face as he drove them back to his apartment.

‘I was too busy watching you.’

Always the smooth talker, was Nic, and she basked for a moment in the glow. But only for a moment because this morning’s exchange was still recent and raw. ‘Seriously though, did you enjoy it?’

‘I think I’m with your father on this.’

‘Okay … In that case, thanks for coming with me and giving it a try. You can chalk it up to a new experience.’

‘It was an experience watching you in your familiar environment.’

‘Yeah. Lady Mitchell’s probably on her phone right now, spreading the word.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘No.’ Knowing that Mum’s circle of friends would gossip and speculate as a result of bumping into Grace Mitchell no longer mattered.

They parked beneath Nic’s building, then took the stairs to the ground floor and walked the long way round to the entrance so they could see the ocean roll in.

‘This has been a
wonderful
evening,’ she said, hugging her upper arms against the chill blowing off the sea.

The wind combed Charlotte’s hair so that it streamed behind her like ribbons and Nic couldn’t resist running his hand through the silky strands. ‘It’s not over yet.’

‘Nic …’ She turned, her eyes as silvery soft as sea mist with a fragility that tugged at something deep within him. ‘This … thing …’

‘It’s okay,’ he told her softly, and realised he meant it. ‘Different is okay.’

She smiled slowly and it was like watching the sun coming out at midnight as she took his hands in hers and led him towards the lift. ‘Yes. It is.’

Wholly absorbed—
charmed
—with the vision in front of him, Nic followed. The doors slid closed, shutting off the sounds of the sea and enclosing them in stainless-steel walls as it began to rise.

Dragging off her scarf, she wound it behind his head and pulled him close. The lift jolted and the lights dimmed for a second or two before the lift resumed its ascent. ‘Uh-oh,’ she murmured against his chin. ‘Ever been stuck in a lift?’

Nic’s pulse skipped a beat and adrenaline spiked through his system. ‘No.’ He didn’t tell her he always took the stairs.

‘So do you want to be?’

‘Be what …?’ He was finding it hard to concentrate on
her words when his vision was turning dark and his pulse was drumming and he
couldn’t breathe
.

She flicked the buttons of her coat undone. ‘Stuck in a lift …’

‘Not particularly.’ A bead of sweat trickled down his back.

Tugging on the ends of her scarf, she pressed her body hard up against his. ‘Are you sure? Lifts have a stop button somewhere, don’t they? I imagine it could be—’

‘Don’t even think about it.’ Did his voice sound too harsh, too loud?
Stop!
he yelled silently, using his self-help technique. Forcing his breathing to slow, he watched the number for his floor wink on and let out a private sigh.

‘Too late, you’ve just lost your chance.’ She danced out ahead of him, her heels tapping on the polished boards, her scarf trailing behind her. It gave him a moment to suck in air.

Shrugging off her coat, she tossed it over the sofa then turned, eyes bright and playful. She slid the strap of her black dress off one shoulder and flicked him a sultry look beneath her lashes. ‘Want to see what I’m wearing underneath?’

‘Later.’ Self-disgust was a dark and lonely place. ‘I’ve got some urgent matters to attend to. I’ll be in my office.’ He kissed her bare shoulder to take the sting out of what she’d see as a rejection, but he wasn’t up for sharing his shortcomings. ‘You warm up the bed for me, I’ll be along in a few moments.’

Charlotte awoke in the darkness, disoriented, and aware that something had disturbed her sleep. Some sound of distress? Turning her head on the pillow, she saw the empty space beside her. She vaguely recalled Nic coming to bed
at some stage. But now the sheets were twisted and thrown back. It was four-twenty a.m.

She slipped out of bed, pulled on his shirt from the bottom of the bed, then made her way carefully along the unfamiliar hallway till she reached the living room. She saw Nic on the balcony facing the sea,
naked
, his overlong hair blown back by the wind. Solitary. Lost. Alone.

I love him
.

The knowledge—its dazzle and the dismay—ripped through her, body and soul, and she stumbled backwards. No. Not now, not with him: a man who’d made it quite clear he was happy with their temporary relationship. A man who’d told her he didn’t know how to be anyone but that lonely figure standing on the balcony.

Because her legs were trembling, she sank onto the nearest available chair.
Count to five. Breathe. This is not allowed to happen—he’s a friend, a lover. That’s all
.

She wasn’t aware how long she sat in the dark, watching him, listening to the hum of the fridge, the sound of her heart drumming in her ears and convincing herself it was hero worship. He’d rescued her, right? When he went back to Fiji it would fade. She just needed time and distance.

He must be freezing his butt off out there.

Her heart shivered in empathy, and she hesitated, torn between offering support in whatever way might be appropriate and afraid he’d not welcome it.

Maybe he liked to plot when inspiration struck. Maybe he worked best at night and naked. She was hardly familiar with his sleeping habits.

He turned so that his face was in profile. From a few feet away on the other side of the glass, she could see the lowered ridge of brow, the tight flat line of his mouth, his hands fisted on the glass balcony. He didn’t look contemplative,
he looked disturbed, yet he’d been fine until they’d got to his apartment.

She thought of going back to bed but she simply could not walk away and leave him to the cold winter’s night. She picked up her coat that she’d left on the sofa earlier.

He turned, surprise crossing his gaze when she opened the glass door.

‘Nic …?’

A guarded wariness smothered the surprise, then a hint of that playboy grin flirted with the corner of his mouth. It didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Hey, babe, that shirt looks better on you than it does on me.’

‘Nic, it’s freezing out here.’

He shook his head. ‘Go back to bed, Charlotte.’

‘You’ll catch a chill.’ She held out her coat.

‘Don’t give me that mummy routine.’ But he took it, shrugged it on. ‘Happy now?’

‘Not really. And sorry about the “routine”; that’s the way I am. Would you like something warm to drink?’ She bit her lip.
Stop. Now
.

‘I’m right, thanks.’ He lifted the brandy bottle from the table beside him, splashed liquid into a tumbler with a clink of glass on glass.

‘Bad dreams?’ she ventured. ‘I thought I heard …’ She shook her head once—a man like Nic would die before he’d admit it.

‘I’m working.’ He took a healthy gulp of his brandy, then studied the bottom of his glass. ‘Dreams give me a different perspective. Hero’s got himself in a bit of a tight spot.’

‘Are you sure that’s—?’

‘Inspiration strikes at the oddest times.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘I do my best work at night.’ His gaze lifted skywards. ‘There’s something about the stars at this time of
the morning. They look closer somehow. You feel connected to something bigger than yourself.’

Maybe. But one thing was abundantly clear—he didn’t want or need her company. She gritted her teeth against the chill and the hurt at being shut out and stepped away, both literally and figuratively. ‘I’ll leave you to your inspiration, then.’

F
OR
what was left of the night Nic found refuge in his office and distraction in his cyber world. Hours later, as dawn lightened the sky, he watched the surf roll in over an indigo sea. The never-ending horizon cut the sky, sharp and precise as a blade.

He breathed in slowly and deeply, until his lungs were full and his mind clear of the suffocating darkness that had plagued him since childhood.

His personal and private hell had obviously disturbed Charlotte’s sleep too. Had he cried out? By God, he hoped not. Bad enough that he’d barely got out of the damn lift without making an ass of himself.

He’d hurt her. He’d seen it in her eyes when he’d not taken her to bed, craving her comfort even as he did so.
Because she cared
. She was falling for him and that hadn’t been the plan.

And against all his rules, he’d fallen for her too.
Big mistake, Nic
. What woman would want a guy with his baggage and his secrets and his phobias? Charlotte Dumont was a long-term, commitment-driven, family kind of girl, and he didn’t know how to do family. Nor did he need mothering, for pity’s sake. He’d done okay without it his entire life.

And she was one of those women he avoided—the kind who liked to discuss
feelings
.

Not Nic. He hadn’t discussed feelings since he’d told his mother he was scared because it had got dark while she’d been gone and he couldn’t reach the light switch. Had talking about it changed anything? Not a whit. Had talking about it made the dark seem more real, more menacing, more stifling? You bet.

But in his Utopian world, he wasn’t confined, he was free. He could be anyone he wanted, do what he wanted.

Not with Charlotte. So with what was left of their time together, he’d be that fun casual guy she’d met at the airport. Decision made, he got back to work.

She must have slept, because the next thing Charlotte knew, Nic was dressed and alert and suggesting breakfast in one of the little cafés downstairs.

As they ate she saw no trace of the man she’d left on the balcony, just the usual carefree, flirty Nic.
That
man she could deal with and keep her true feelings hidden.

‘Red kitchen, red towels, red car,’ she said as she settled into the passenger seat for the drive home.

‘A Ferrari’s gotta be red.’ He glanced at her jeans and mushroom-coloured top. ‘I’d like to see
you
in red. Fire-engine-red silk … Hoo, baby, you’d look hot.’

‘Red’s not a colour I wear. Unless it’s lingerie.’

His eyes flicked to her breasts and he jiggled his eyebrows as he turned the ignition. ‘So are you going to model any of that red
lingerie
for me some time soon?’

‘Maybe.’ Persuasive, he was. Seductive and irresistible.

As they cruised out of the underground garage and onto the main road, he said, ‘Just because you don’t wear red, doesn’t mean you can’t try a change now and then.’

Oh, but she
had
changed. Maybe he didn’t realise he’d brought about change in her and in so many ways. Good changes. She’d left the woman Flynn had known, and rejected,
behind. Nic had forced her to look at life in a different way and she was going to miss him terribly for that.

Not only that.

She rubbed a hand over the ache in her heart that was growing every day, every hour, every minute. She saw many things differently now. What she’d had with Flynn was a pale imitation of the real thing. Like comparing beige sack cloth with red silk.

The eighty-minute drive to the Barossa Valley gave her time to ring around for attendees for the fashion show and take her mind off Nic. Yesterday she’d locked in her first choice for a venue, available in two weeks due to a late cancellation.

She tapped in the first name on her list. ‘Lady Alexandra? Good morning, it’s Charlotte Dumont.’

Nic tuned out as Charlotte made her endless list of calls.
Lady Alexandra, Sir William Beaumont, Mrs Hartford-Jones
. This up-scale event with South Australia’s landed gentry was going to be a new experience for him.

They were driving into the Barossa now, the road flanked with bare vines. Low hills the colour of porridge rolled along the horizon. They passed a winery, its cellar door doing a thriving business in the middle of the week with a couple of tourist buses parked outside.

Would Charlotte use her inheritance to set up something similar as she’d originally intended? She knew the wine industry and he could see her interacting with people. But her expertise in fashion design was marketable and more unique.

Eventually he followed her directions down a private road, which widened into a circular drive around a smooth emerald lawn big enough to play a round of golf on. Bright spring bulbs danced in the breeze at the base of a two-tier fountain directly in front of the massive front door.
The home itself was a rambling two-storey blue-stone. White pillars supported a wide wrap-around veranda on both floors.

‘Come on,’ she told him, excitement bubbling through her voice as she climbed out. ‘It’s my turn to show
you
around.’

He followed her up the shallow steps and waited while she decoded the security. Inside, the house was no less impressive. A Scarlett O’Hara staircase, stained glass, Persian rugs. It smelled of floor polish and a hell of a lot of old money.

He stared up at the foyer’s enormous chandelier. ‘How many rooms does this place have?’

‘Twenty-two. That’s including the cellar, which has its own chandelier,’ she said, following his gaze.

‘A chandelier in a cellar?’

‘Not just a cellar, it’s also a place for entertaining. I’ll show you later.’

Not if he could help it
. ‘And you live here alone?’ He looked down at her and the flush of excitement faded; sadness clouded her eyes.

‘Suzette stays over sometimes. Since Flynn left.’ She seemed to shrink in stature. ‘I can’t sell it,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s all I have left of my family.’ She turned away and started walking towards the back of the house. ‘Go for a wander—I’ll put on some coffee.’

He suspected her snappy departure didn’t have as much to do with refreshments as the unwillingness to look him in the eye. And it shouldn’t be that way, he thought, climbing the stairs. He should be offering support. Coming back to an empty home under such circumstances had to be tough.

But how could he when he didn’t believe her decision to stay here and dwell on the past was in her best interest?
He knew that to tell her selling up was a better option would not go down well.

He ambled down the wide hallway, past bedrooms and guest suites filled with antique furniture, then paused at the doorway to what was obviously her parents’ bedroom.

‘I’ve left it exactly as it was,’ she said behind him. Her shoulder brushed his as she slipped into the room. She walked to the bay window, fingered a tapestry on one of two French-polished chairs facing each other over a round matching table. ‘Mum’s cross-stitch that she was working on.’

Nic saw a half-finished jigsaw spread out on the table and a pair of men’s spectacles set neatly to the side.

‘They used to sit here together in the evenings. They believed in having at least an hour every night to talk to each other without the distraction of TV.’

‘Charlotte …’ He walked towards her slowly, the back of his neck prickling as though the room’s occupants were still there. And to Charlotte, they were. ‘This isn’t healthy, sweetheart. You need to move on.’

He lifted a hand and might have touched her cheek but she sidestepped out of reach, her posture stiff, arms crossed like a shield, lips a thinned white slash in a whiter face.

‘And what the hell would you know about it, Nic?’

Yeah, Nic, what the hell?
His hand fell to his side, curling into a fist as a tide of dark emotions ripped through him. This world—Charlotte’s world—was an alien landscape to him. His teeth clicked together audibly and he stepped back. And kept backing all the way to the door. ‘You’re right. I don’t. I’ll get going. I’ve got some work, and—’

‘Nic.’ Her hands swept up to her face. ‘Nic, no. I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just … just snapped.’ Shaking her head, she hurried towards him, eyes as huge as saucers.

‘But we both know it’s true.’

‘No.’ Light fingers touched his arm. ‘Please … It’s just … I’ve not been away, not even for one night, since they … left.’ Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. ‘That’s how it feels—like they just went on a trip and they’ll come through that door any moment now, bursting to tell me all about their Alaskan cruise, and I need to be here in case—’

‘It’s okay, Charlotte.’ He gently but firmly lifted her hand away.
I’m trying to understand
. Their Fiji fling suddenly seemed like a distant memory, and this girl wasn’t the same girl he’d made love to every night for over two weeks. ‘You should … get some rest. You didn’t sleep much last night.’

‘But you’ve just driven me all this way. Won’t you stay for coffee at least?’

‘It’s best if I go. I’ll see you soon.’

‘Soon?’ Her brow creased and her clouded grey eyes searched his face.

He knew it sounded vague. Damn, he was trying to get his head around all this. Because he had the urge to smooth that worry and hurt from her forehead, he stuck his hands in his pockets.

‘Come for dinner.’ She spoke as if she expected a refusal. ‘I owe you a dinner, don’t I? Tomorrow night.’

‘I’ll let you know.’ He began walking down the hall towards the stairs.

Charlotte followed. ‘Seven o’clock,’ she said, her voice stronger as he turned to her at the front door. ‘I’ll do something special. Please, Nic?’

How could he resist those eyes? ‘Okay. See you then.’

He drove with the window down and the wind screaming past his ear. He couldn’t get the image of her standing
in her parents’ room out of his head. The pain, the grief still so bright and sharp.
Two years?

She’d made the house a shrine to her family. From the little he knew of her life since her family’s deaths, her decision to go to Fiji had been her best decision in those two years.

But now she was home would she build on her new experiences or slip into reverse and be satisfied existing on memories for the rest of her life? That wasn’t living; it wasn’t even close.