She’d expect some kind of trophy in the mail for this performance.
Vickie accepted her outstretched hand. “Interesting. Nice to meet you, Quinn.” Through the filter of Vicki’s accent, her named sounded like
queen
. “You’re sure you don’t mind I have joined you?”
“Of course not.”
“Not at all.”
Quinn and Jack eyed each other. They’d spoken simultaneously, pretty much a dead giveaway something was up. They were unexpectedly rescued by Vickie’s request for a cappuccino, which had him scrambling from his chair at breakneck speeds. A silence like death descended over the table in his absence. Vickie’s great white gaze never wavered. Jack returned and shot a single look of pure desperation in Quinn’s direction.
He wanted
her
to get them out of this?
She angled herself toward Vickie. They were girls, right? There had to be something they could bond over. “You’re obviously the fiancée I’ve heard so much about. Congratulations! You’re going to be
such
a beautiful bride.” A big smile stretched her cheeks into painful territory. “Gosh, Jack did you justice when he told me how pretty you are. A model, right?”
“Yes.” Those scary deadpan eyes didn’t move. Had she blinked yet?
Quinn tried a different tack. “You came at the perfect time. We were discussing the, uh, great farming debacle that led to our clan’s separation, weren’t we, Jack?” She narrowed her eyes in warning.
Your turn.
He understood her perfectly. He leaned forward with his hands folded together in a studious position. A pair of wire-framed glasses and a bow tie would make him an English professor. “Quite right. Some, uh, hundred years ago, was it? They fought over potato farmland. The losing side immigrated to America. Probably Idaho, Quinn tells me.”
She fought gallantly to suppress her laughter and managed to cover it with a small cough. “I imagine so, yes.” She opened her mouth to say more but drew a perfect blank. Liar’s block, the fibber’s equivalent of writer’s block, set in.
Jack came up short, too. They sat silently, blinking at one another like owls.
Quinn’s luck had never been anything to brag about. It actually seemed to decrease as her age increased, like opposing sliding scales. As the uncomfortable silence between the three of them stretched to a level of awkward she hadn’t known existed, life officially proved her theory.
Nicholas walked through the front entrance of The Black Kettle.
Two minutes older, that much unluckier.
It took everything she had to resist diving under the table to hide. She arrowed a fierce frown in Jack’s direction. This was his fault.
It didn’t take Nicholas long to spot her, thanks, no doubt, to the bright yellow sweater on her back. She pasted on a welcoming smile and gave a helpless finger wave as he weaved through tables to reach them. Vickie and Jack followed her gaze.
“Quinn, there you are.” Nicholas failed to notice her companions right away. “I’ve been to every café in London looking for you. I almost gave up.” Awareness seeped in. He glanced from Vickie to Jack, to Vickie again
—
who could blame him?
—
and back to Quinn. “Apologies. I didn’t realize you had company.”
“No problem. Vickie, Jack, this is Nicholas Braum. Nicholas, Jack, and his betrothed, Vickie. Join us.”
She used her imagination for a living. With a little creativity, exceptional acting from Jack and the deep-breathing techniques she’d learned in weekly yoga classes, they might come out of this alive. Or they’d fail, and Vickie would reveal her natural-born talent for bloodletting that all sharks inherently possess.
“You don’t mind?” Nicholas directed the question at the darling couple.
Vickie shrugged. Jack smiled, the first real one to light his face since his other half crashed their party, and offered his hand. “By all means, mate, have a seat.”
He shot her look as if to say
This is Nicholas?
What had he expected? Another movie star?
Well, for his information she liked sweater vests and khakis. Not initially, no, but they’d grown on her. She ignored Jack and made further introductions.
Of course, the long-lost cousin story didn’t sit well with Nicholas. “Why, you never told me you were searching for your roots, Quinn. Didn’t you say your mother was French?”
“Well, I—”
“Is it research for your novel?”
Vicki sat up straight, and her cold, steady gaze darted to Nicholas. “Novel? What novel is this?”
Nicholas opened his mouth to reply, but a loud burst of indignant Irish gibberish interrupted him before he spilled the beans. “I can’t believe you haven’t recognized me, mate! I thought I’d be signing an autograph by now.” Jack gripped Nicholas’s shoulder and jostled him good-naturedly.
Quinn winced. The fame card? Well, desperate times . . .
Nicholas studied Jack in bewilderment. “Do I know you? I’m quite good with faces. I’d remember if we’d met before.”
Jack’s expression of faux disbelief morphed into one of genuine perplexity. “You’re serious? Color me baffled, mate. I’m on the cover of no less than three tabloids right now. Everyone knows me. I’m Jack Decker.”
Nicholas shook his head and apologized. “I’ve no use for tabloids, I’m afraid. Jack, you said? Does sound familiar.”
Quinn’s stomach did a cartwheel.
Of
course
his name sounded familiar. She’d talked at length about Jack. Nicholas had the whole story, from their one-night stand to the most recent character development of Ezra. She had to intervene and prevent him from connecting the dots, which would only make an awkward situation completely intolerable.
She made a show of ogling her watch and jumped to her feet. “The time! I hate to break up our powwow when we’re all getting acquainted, but I really need to be off.” She grabbed her bag and pulled the strap over her shoulder. “Novels about eighteenth-century Ireland don’t write themselves. Nicholas, would you mind walking me home?”
“Certainly.” He nodded and rose. “Allow me to order a tea to go.” He headed in the direction of the counter.
The relief on Jack’s face might’ve been drawn in black magic marker. They’d pulled it off. “It was interesting to meet you, cousin.”
Vickie interjected before she had a chance to reply. “Might we get your phone number, Quinn?”
“Phone number?” she repeated dumbly.
Vickie unleashed her smile in a blinding show of perfect teeth shining through plump, silken lips. Remarkable beauty replaced the haughty veneer. “We don’t want to lose touch with family again. Maybe you will even find something good for our wedding in your researching, yes?”
Wedding. The word was like sand in Quinn’s eye. “Yeah. Sure.” She reluctantly recited her digits while Vickie programmed them into a gemstone-studded cell phone.
Nicholas returned. Quinn once more walked away from Jack Decker without saying good-bye. She didn’t want to catch a smile, a wink, or any other image that might wriggle into her head and sear itself onto her hippocampus and leave her useless for days while she sat around throwing hellacious pity parties and daydreaming about the what-ifs.
What if Jack was as perfect as he seemed?
What if their chemistry was the real thing?
What if Vickie fell into a volcano?
What-ifs had a flipside, too. A side no discerning, intelligent woman dared ignore.
What if, underneath his Irish charm, Jack was a real jerk?
What if their attraction stopped at the physical?
It didn’t matter, did it? He’d promised himself to the vivacious Vickie. The real deal or a real jerk, Jack dwelled beyond her realm of reality, unobtainable and so far out of her league they might as well be playing different sports.
Besides, they were hell and gone from the closest volcano.
“He’s not really your cousin.” Nicholas made the statement without a hint of question.
They walked slowly, side by side, down the path leading home. “Nope.”
“Is he famous like he says?”
“Yes. I’m surprised the supermodel sitting next to him didn’t give it away.”
“Jack Decker. Jack Decker.” Understanding crept into his voice. “Oh, I see.
That
Jack, am I right? Your Ezra.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Yep. That’s why I had to get us out of there. He has no idea, and I plan to be far away when he finds out. He might demand royalties.”
Nicholas managed a small smile for her joke. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Coincidence you ran into him this morning?”
She read the question behind the question. Did she have a lover on the side that might explain her reticence to get married? Last night’s events came back to her, along with a sense of discomfort she’d pushed to the back burner. “Purely coincidental. I haven’t seen him since Hollywood,” she finished quickly. “One-night stand” had such a trashy ring to it.
“I see.”
“I had no clue he was in town. I mean, I guess I knew he lived here, but in my mind he’s off being a movie star somewhere.”
Nicholas tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “Why the long-lost cousin charade? I’ll admit I’m somewhat confounded. What an unusual encounter.”
She stopped walking and let the suppressed mirth bubble over. She laughed until tears gathered. Part of it was directed at Nicholas for using the word
confounded.
She suspected only a Brit could pull it off in casual conversation.
“Oh . . . Oh, my.” She swiped at a tear. “I wish I knew. Ridiculous, wasn’t it? We’re chatting like old college roommates one minute, the next I’m introduced to his bombshell fiancée as Cousin Quinn, the dingbat American searching for her family ties. Hilarious, but nerve-racking. Not an experience I’d willingly repeat.”
They were moving again. Nicholas chuckled in his quiet manner. “I daresay he handled it poorly.”
“I tend to agree. Then again, I wouldn’t want a woman like Vickie to get the wrong impression, either. That lady has one mean glare. Oh, but she’s stunning.”
“You aren’t any man’s definition of dowdy, Quinn. I don’t like to seem rude, but I didn’t find her very impressive from the neck up. When you’ve got the personality of a scorpion, it tends to shine through.”
She laughed at the comment. “She didn’t like me. I bet she’s real nice when some strange woman isn’t sharing breakfast with her man. Besides, she must have some redeeming qualities, or Jack wouldn’t want to marry her. He didn’t even propose. It must’ve been one of those whirlwinds of passion that sweep people up and make things like marriage and babies
—poof—
happen.” She snapped her fingers.
Nicholas was slow to respond. “Perhaps. Perhaps.”
Way to go, Quinn.
Remind the poor guy why he too didn’t dwell among the happily engaged this fine day.
He spoke again, thus freeing her from the responsibility of repairing the careless statement. “While I’m happy to have rescued you from such an awkward situation, I was actually hoping to speak with you about last night.”
She sighed inwardly. Here was irrefutable cosmic proof you shouldn’t hide from your problems, and there were unpredictable and uncomfortable consequences for trying.
She pasted on a smile. “Shoot.”
Nicholas drew in a measured breath and plunged his hands even deeper into the pockets of his standard-issue khakis. “I regret leaving things as we did. I’m not certain if being friends is necessarily in our future, but let there be no hard feelings over the matter.”
The smile she had for him this time was the genuine article. “I really appreciate that.”
“Yes, well, I merely needed time to think on it.” He glanced up from his perusal of the sidewalk. “I wish you well, Quinn. I truly do. If you don’t mind, I’m headed the other way. I’ll see you in the shop, won’t I?”
“Absolutely. There’s no one else I’d trust with my paper needs.”
With a smile and a nod, Nicholas walked away. They’d rewritten the end of their chapter together, and she liked this version better.
Chapter 7
F
or two long, uninterrupted hours, Quinn sat glued to her laptop, lost in another woman’s struggle. She no longer occupied a space behind a desk. She wasn’t even in England anymore.
She traversed the damp, uneven ground, the soft mud squishing up between the toes of her barren feet. There’d been no time for her sheepskin boots. Hard ferns caressed her ankles and calves with their wet, reaching arms. In the dense, cold fog, they were nothing but vague shapes cloaked in white at her feet. She shivered beneath the wool shawl covering her hunched shoulders, her only armor against the elements. She cradled her belly protectively with one thin hand as she crept, silent as the hunting fox, through the wilds of Ireland. The air puffed from her lungs in small clouds of
—
Quinn jumped when a cell-phone chirp abruptly broke the spell.
Irritation came swiftly and with great force.
She hated being ripped away from a scene, especially one requiring her to engage the senses. Dialogue came easily, but motion had to be crafted with care. Her words had to inspire
feeling
. Every adjective, every sparsely used adverb must be able to describe in a concise manner what a character experienced, both physically and emotionally. If the sun beat down on a scorching day in the Sahara, the reader should feel the heat on their backs. If the heroine’s heart shattered, the reader should experience her sorrow.
She snatched up the phone and issued a brisk greeting without checking the identity of the caller.
“Quinn?”
Only one person in her acquaintance, however recent, had an accent like that. And it wasn’t her hero. “Hi, Vickie. What can I do for you?”
“You can stop lying.”
Quinn paused to consider her options. Tell the truth, continue with Jack’s lie, or meander over to the love seat on the far side of her office and lay down. Hooray for Option C. “I’m sorry for whatever impression you got today, Vickie, but I promise you
—
”
“Liars don’t make good on promises. You’re lying to Jack, but I’m not gullible like him. You want money?”
Quinn came up on one elbow. “You think I’m after Jack’s money?”
“You’re greedy American, no?”
That hurt. “The thing is, I kind of have my own money. Remember the book I mentioned? I’ve written several. My bank account probably rivals his.”
“Of course. I see. You find your long-lost cousin, and he happens to be rich and famous? A pleasant surprise for you. If you don’t want money, you must want fame. Oh, and you’re the writer? So you write a book about Jack, huh? Paparazzi in disguise. Very clever.”
“Listen, I can—”
Her tone turned snide. “I don’t know who you are, or what place you crawled out of, but you are not his family. You, Miss Novella, are nothing but a bug, stealing and manipulating. You work fast, but I’m going to discover who you really are and what you’re really after.”
“Did you call me a bug?”
“I’m going to bring you down, Miss Novella
—
”
“I don’t have time for this.” Quinn sighed. “Do whatever you need to.”
“I’m going to—”
One little push of the End button cut off the rest of what Vickie was going to do.
Quinn strode back to her desk but soon found her concentration shot. Was it fair to say Vickie really did have the personality of a scorpion if she was only protecting her husband-to-be?
Maybe a river of pure, sweet honey ran beneath her steely, imposing visage. Maybe a cute little clown fish swam behind her shark’s gaze. Quinn bit the inside of her cheek. Maybe Nicholas would take up karaoke and sport fishing.
Her cell phone rattled in her hand. Another unknown caller. Having learned her lesson about avoiding problems, she answered. “Hello?”
“Quinnie!”
Wonderful. “Hi, Jack. How nice to hear from you again.”
Her sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed. “Aw, c’mon, I’ve gone through some trouble to call you. I had to steal your number from Vickie’s phone.”
“Sounds dangerous.” She tried to sound bored but meant it wholeheartedly.
“You’ve no idea.”
“Oh, I think I do. I hung up with your lovely fiancée only moments ago.” No need to tell him she’d hung up
on
his betrothed. “She’s a real peach.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m the sarcastic one, remember? She’s figured out I’m not some distant relative. I’ll admit I might’ve overplayed my part. The real problem is she believes I’m lying to
you
rather than you lying to
her
. I’m after your fame, obviously, since I’ve got my own fortune. Or I’m an undercover journalist attempting to infiltrate your inner circle. Oh, that’s not bad.” She jotted a quick note on a sticky pad she kept handy for such moments. “Infiltrate. Celebrity. Inner. Circle.” She set the pen down. “You need to come clean.”
He’d been laughing. It ended abruptly. “I can’t. You don’t understand.”
“Explain it to me.” She stood firmly in Vickie’s corner. She’d been the butt of Blake’s extramarital joke for long enough to pity any woman on the ignorant end of a lie.
“It looks bloody awful, but I swear my reasoning is sound. You see, Vickie is jealous to the point of insanity. She’s literally crazy with it. This isn’t my ego talking, nor do I use the term ‘crazy’ with a light heart. She’s jealous of my
dog
. Had I introduced you as yourself, we would’ve been forced to recount every nuance of our time as acquaintances. When we met, where we met, how we met, if we’d slept together, how many times, last time we’d spoken. What does the truth sound like?”
Quinn leaned back in her cushy desk chair, crossed her ankles, and considered. “We met in Hollywood after I caused a scene in a bar. You spent the night with me in my hotel room, and we haven’t seen each other since. It’s been well over a year.”
“Quinn, Quinn, Quinn.”
Never had such a world-weary tone crossed her ears.
“You and I sat talking for hours this morning, babbling like two neighboring old biddies. Normally, when two people with our particular past run into each other, it’s an awkward meeting of desperate avoidance and eyes that can’t quite meet. We’re far too friendly for our history, you and I. Vickie would’ve assumed the worst.”
She understood. Nicholas’s thoughts had run along the same vein. “An affair.”
“Precisely.”
“Why didn’t you say we’d worked together or something?”
He scoffed. “Oh, right, because we did such a fine job of acting off the cuff, did we? Look, the lie backfired as they’re known to do, and I’m sorry to have dragged you into the mess. I’ll fix it. The good news is she didn’t assume we’re involved.”
Quinn rolled her eyes. “That’s not good news. You merely channeled her suspicion into safer waters. Safer for
you
, anyway. You get to be the victim while I’m a fame-hungry man thief.”
“Oh? And if she thought we were shagging, she wouldn’t call you a man thief?”
He’d already ruined her day. Did he have to make sense, too?
“I’m truly sorry. No lip service. There’s a lot at stake, though. She might’ve canceled the wedding.”
Quinn made silent gagging motions. “Sure. I gotcha. You know, for being an actor you’re a terrible liar.”
Affronted, he replied, “They aren’t one and the same. Acting is an art.” He paused. “I suppose lying is, too, for those who work at it. Still, I maintain they’re two entirely separate entities. Lying involves a victim. Acting is an honest portrayal of another person, be they fiction or non.”
She pursed her lips. “You’ve given this some thought.”
“I’ve never lied to her before.” The quiet confession surprised her. “Never had a reason to. I’m a well-behaved bloke despite what the rags will tell you.”
She sighed against a wash of melancholy. Her Irishman hadn’t changed a bit. Still charming and funny, curious and eager, and from teasing to earnest in the space of a single sentence. No man should be this easy to talk to.
They’d talk forever, joke forever, argue mindlessly over nothing and everything forever if she didn’t do something. “I’m sorry for the trouble my little morning exploration has caused between you and Vickie, though to be fair it’s mostly your own fault. Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. I wish you both the very best. Good-bye, Jack.”
“Good-bye? Nonsense. I’m inviting you to the wedding! We’re best friends, remember? And family, besides.” The unmistakable laughter in his voice made her want to throttle him.
Ten whole minutes of her life went down the drain in futile bickering before Quinn called a cease-fire. If he truly managed to annoy her, it might forever sully her image of Ezra. And Ezra had to be perfect.
Character worries aside, she had more important tasks at hand than debating with her friend/muse/long-lost cousin over the wisdom of her attending Vickie’s dream wedding to Jack. She informed him she’d be changing her number in the morning.
He was still arguing when she hung up. Persistent to the end.
Quinn was still half-asleep when she reached for the screaming cell phone on her nightstand and squinted at the painful brightness of the room. The sun must’ve come up early. It didn’t make any sense, but neither did receiving a phone call at an hour when normal people were sleeping.
“Hi, hon.” She smiled in anticipation of Seth’s response to the endearment.
“Who, me? Well, all right.”
She sat up.
Her sleep-laden eyes popped wide open at the Irish brogue coming over the waves. “Jack?”
“None other. Can you call me
hon
again?”
She covered her face with her free hand in an effort to block out the light. “Stop flirting with me. Why are you calling me? It’s too early for battle.”
“You’re a wily one. I half expected you to have changed your phone number by now, and it’s only early if you’re a college student. We’re well into afternoon, Quinnie.” He laughed. “Late night with Nicholas?”
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and shuffled across the room to the robe hanging on the back of the door. She didn’t sleep in. Why had she slept in? “Damn it. Late night with my manuscript, more like.”
She stumbled into the kitchen and made a beeline for the coffeemaker where she dumped out yesterday’s brew. “What do you want, Jack?” She didn’t have time for his antics today. “I’m not going to the wedding, okay? I mean it.”
“The wedding. Right.” A certain gravity in his voice gave her pause. “A few terrible things have transpired since I saw you last. It’s probably a lucky thing you haven’t left your flat today.”
“Terrible things? What terrible things?”
“First, check outside for me, will you? Anyone lingering near your doorstep?”
She finished measuring out grounds first. One must have priorities. She then traveled to the living room and peeked through the curtains at the front stoop. “Not a soul. What’s this about? You’re making me nervous.”
“It’s something I ought to show you. Thanks for confirming the coast is clear. I’ll be right over.”
The connection ended.
Quinn stared at the phone in her hand disbelieving. She hadn’t had breakfast yet, and she expected company? She tossed the phone onto the couch with a growl and retreated to her bedroom to swap her robe for something marginally more decent. Lavender velour pants and a white tank top were as decent as she intended to get. Her search for her brush was less successful.
She was on her second cup of coffee when the doorbell sounded and she admitted an anxious Jack into her apartment.
“Coffee?” she offered by way of greeting.
“You’re a bloody angel. Yes, please.” He hung his jacket on the peg next to hers and curiously looked her over.
“What?” she snapped. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable.
“Your hair is a fantastic mess.”
She declined to reply, fearing something less than kind would escape from her lips. Instead, she guided him into the kitchen and inquired how he took his coffee, a picture-perfect hostess.
“I’ll get it. I don’t need to be waited on. Go on, have a seat.” He plucked a mug from the carousel next to the coffeemaker.
It was too early to start an argument, so she did as he suggested. Jack poured his mug to the brim, no sugar, no cream, and joined her wordlessly. From his back pocket, he pulled out the thin, rolled-up magazine she’d noticed but not commented on. He set it in front of her.
She scanned the front page. The title was familiar, a celebrity gossip magazine widely available in the States. It took her less than ten seconds to spot the thing that had Jack nervously chewing his thumbnail while he waited. In the top right corner, a photograph showed the two of them locked in an embrace seemingly inches away from kissing.
Intimate.
No other word existed to describe the image. “Jack Decker’s Mystery Woman” read boldly beneath the inset along with a tagline inviting readers to page three for the juicy details.
The air in her lungs vanished. “Oh, no.”
Jack urged her to keep reading. “Go on, page three has the real goods.”
Quinn flipped through to find the photo enlarged and accompanied by three paragraphs. Well, that wasn’t so bad, right? Not a full article; three tiny paragraphs.
She read aloud. “Jack Decker, star of the critically acclaimed
Myron’s Office
, is seen here with an unidentified mystery woman. The only thing known for certain is there have been no reports of Decker’s long-term relationship with Venezuelan actress and model, Vickie Lana, being on the rocks. Neither party could be reached for comment.” She followed the rest in silence, panic growing with every word. “They weren’t supposed to take your picture. You said they wouldn’t. This is bad. Oh, my God, this is bad.”
“It’s a bloody nightmare.” The heat in Jack’s voice was unmistakable. He stood up and began to pace. “I guess the deal’s off if I have my coffee with a side of beautiful blonde, especially one who is not my well-known girlfriend.” He plopped back into the seat and ran a hand over his hair.