Close to You (3 page)

He gaped down at Allison. “You have got to be joking.”

She shook her head, no hint of a joke on her face.

Kneel? In a hotel lobby in New Zealand to a deluded teen
ager? He looked back at the girl, whose face now held an expectant, imperious expression.

Suddenly he felt a tap at the back of one of his knees. Turning, he saw his uncle, in full Gandalf regalia. Of course he was.

He held out his cane and rapped the back of Jackson's leg again. “I'd suggest you do as Her Highness has commanded.”

He turned back from Louis's piercing, unblinking gaze, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head. “I apologize, Your Highness.”

Silence. After a few seconds his old Achilles injury started suggesting he might not want to stay kneeling for too long.

Finally, the girl deigned to speak. “You may rise.”

Standing up, he saw that four more people had joined their congregation: two old ladies dressed in floral dresses similar to Allison's, and a stocky guy and a slim blond girl. He wore a
Lord of the Rings
T-shirt and she wore one with
TEAM ÉOWYN
emblazoned across the front. Swords—replicas, he hoped—hung from their waists. He was the only person in the entire group dressed normally.

The tour hadn't even started yet and he'd already messed up. He addressed his uncle. “I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize this was a dress-up event.”

Allison spoke. “It's not. Nothing is, apart from the Hobbiton day, but we encourage our guests to assume personas if that will help them get the most out of the tour.” She raked her gaze up and down his body. “We have some costumes available. I could go and get something if you would like.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement.

There was nothing he wanted less than to look like he belonged with this bunch of losers and misfits. He opened his
mouth to decline her offer, but his uncle got there first. “I think that would be a most excellent idea. We would hate for Jack to feel left out.”

He barely managed to bite back the expletive that flew through his head. For the first time, it crossed his mind that it was possible the next three weeks were not going to be worth the prize at the end of the tunnel.

Three

A
LLIE ALMOST WISHED SHE'D ACCEPTED
the offer of the room upgrade for Jackson. Almost. But not quite. And she had been kind to him, in a sense. At least she'd provided him with an Aragorn costume to wear, which was the least ostentatious of the options she had on hand.

Though even that had backfired on her, since Esther took her role of Arwen more seriously than most teenagers took Justin Bieber. The unfortunate result? In Middle-earth, where the twelve-year-old was adamant they now resided, this made Jackson her husband.

Allie tried to ignore the fact that Aragorn was one of her favorite characters—the book version, not the movie one—and that Jackson made a particularly good-looking one. At least he didn't need any help to perfect Aragorn's brooding nature. He had that one nailed. Staring straight ahead, only acknowledging his queen when he absolutely had to.

The rest of the group were all entranced with the Weta
Cave, the tiny museum the now-world-famous Weta Workshop had set up to showcase their visual-arts achievements, not to mention flog large amounts of expensive merchandise to aficionados of all the movies they'd been involved in.

Allie glanced at her phone. A text from Kat flashed up, ­double-checking on their arrangements for Friday. Finally, something to look forward to. Allie couldn't wait to see what her best friend made of the group. At least they'd all been remarkably well behaved on the tour of the workshop, seemingly awed to be in the presence of someone who had actually worked on their beloved movies. And no one had tried to steal anything. As far as she knew. Which was more than she could say for a few people on some of her other tours.

Hans swung around in front of her, almost taking out part of the
Lord of the Rings
figurine exhibit with his replica sword. “How wonderful would it be to work here?” He swung his large arms around, one hand just missing a glass case.

Hans reminded her of the three large trolls that resided outside the entrance to the cave. Big and bumbling and not exactly the sharpest weapon in the armory. But he was good-natured and easygoing. Give her that over someone brilliant but nasty any day.

Allie pasted on a smile. “They are truly talented. Five Oscars and counting.” Which was true. Their work was ­spectacular—even she could admit that, as jaded as she'd become.

“Do you know people who have actually worked on the movies?” He swung in the other direction, and this time his sword clanged against Sofia's.

“More than I can count.” Actors, extras, costumers, set designers, visual designers, IT people, caterers. You name it, she
had friends who had done it. You pretty much couldn't throw a stone in Wellington without hitting someone who had been involved in the movies at some point.

“They are the luckiest people in the world! To be involved in such . . . such . . . genius!” This time both arms flew up, and the left one smacked into the glass protecting the
District 9
display.

She couldn't help but smile at his childlike enthusiasm. Though her cynicism now ran deep, she would never disillusion her starstruck tourists with the reality behind the glamour. She wouldn't let them know, for example, that in Wellington, partners of people who worked at Weta were known as “Weta Widows,” since the hours their loved ones worked sometimes rivaled those of people working in an Asian sweatshop. Nor would she tell them the tales of how, when deadlines were looming, people had been known to not leave the premises for days on end, snatching a few hours of sleep under their desks when they could.

However, he was right. At least they got to be involved in the creation of artistic greatness.

Allie turned to Sofia. They hadn't really spoken, but she liked the girl already, if only for taking the fan road less traveled. “Great T-shirt.”

Sofia blew a breath that puffed up her fringe. “Thanks. I get so mad at people who act like Arwen is the only female in the
Rings
.” She put her hand on the hilt of her sword as if prepared to prove it. “Éowyn is so much stronger and more complex than some Elf princess. And Tolkien made her that way. Not screenwriters.”

Allie was about to reply when a thump echoed from behind
them. “Excuse me.” Ducking past them, she peered into the main room to see if any of her people had been the cause. The Barrett sisters were making one of the poor staff open up almost every merchandise display case, their voices carrying through the small space as they bickered over what to buy.

Off to the side, she caught a glimpse of Jackson, trapped in a pincer movement by Elroy and Esther, up against the case that housed the armor of Théodred. A life-size Gandalf sculpture watched from off to the side, as if amused. Elroy stepped back, attempting to demonstrate some sort of Elvish combat move, while Esther hung on Jackson's arm like an adoring fan.

Allie felt a spark of irritation. The girl was only twelve, for crying out loud. Her father shouldn't be letting her drape herself all over some guy she didn't even know. A flash of panic passed across Jackson's face as he tried to extract himself from Esther's hold and got nowhere.

Across the room, their eyes caught, and he shot her a look she couldn't decipher. She suppressed the urge to wade in there and pry the limpet off his arm. Purely for professional reasons.

That was it. The Aragorn costume was going to have to be retired for this tour. The last headache she wanted—or needed—was a socially awkward girl with an inappropriate crush for the next three weeks. It was bad enough handling the occasional drama between people who were over the legal age of consent.

“You think I was mean.” Mr. Duff made the observation from beside her, eyebrows tenting beneath his wizard's hat.

She looked into his sparkling eyes. “I wouldn't say that, sir. He just doesn't seem the dressing up type.”

The elderly man observed his assistant, who was now trying to save himself by pretending to be avidly interested in a replica of some armor from one of the movies. “Please, call me Louis. And it will be good for him. Jack needs to loosen up a bit, not take himself so seriously. Discover there's more to life than living in the fast lane.”

“And you think making him dress up will achieve that?” She doubted it. If anything, the guy had only gotten himself wound up tighter as the afternoon had progressed, and she was pretty sure Esther's unswerving attentions weren't the only reason.

Louis donned a mischievous grin. “I have something he wants very badly. I suspect there's not much he wouldn't be prepared to do in order to get it. Little does he know that a couple of hours in costume is the tip of the iceberg of what I've got planned for him.”

Interesting. The old man was clearly much more clued in than she'd thought. “Most of my clients couldn't care less about their assistants as long as they do their jobs.”

The old man shot her an appraising look. “Most tour guides have barely managed to graduate high school, and yet here I am with one who has a PhD from Cambridge.”

Touché. Her mouth went dry. She wasn't sure why. Anyone who Googled her name would be able to find that information within a few pages. At one point it had even been on Southern Luxury Tours' website as part of their marketing pitch when they'd repositioned themselves to attract the highest caliber of clients.

But there was something in the old man's look that gave the impression he was only scratching the surface of what he knew
about her. Information she had worked very hard to ensure remained hidden.

* * *

T
he door to Jackson's hotel room swung closed with a quiet click behind him, his attempt at slamming it thwarted by the annoying device installed in the top corner.

Storming into the small space, he stripped off pieces of his ridiculous costume as fast as his fingers could free him from the various buckles and buttons that constrained him.

Walking into the bathroom, he yanked on the tap, turning on the shower, and threw the bath mat onto the floor as water pounded into the tub. At least the country had decent water pressure. Steam filled the hotel bathroom, obscuring his vision and offering a brief respite from reality.

He looked at his watch, groaned, and shut the water off. Not enough time for a shower before he had to meet his uncle for a drink. Louis had sidled up to him as they were leaving Weta and informed him they needed to meet in the bar before dinner for a chat.

Turning on the cold water, he splashed it over his face and ran his fingers through his hair. Everything hurt, and he had a cracking headache because of the socially awkward Esther/Arwen, who had leeched onto him for the entire afternoon. One second, she'd been looking at him with disdain for pronouncing a character's name wrong or not knowing some tiny pedantic detail from one of the books. Then the next, she'd been wrapped around his arm tighter than cling wrap and reminding him that in Middle-earth they were married.

It was creepy. In spite of his best efforts to disentangle him
self, she'd stayed glued to his side for the entire three hours. Worse, his attention was torn between trying to eyeball the girl's father and get him to take some responsibility for his daughter and his growing alarm at the amount of time his uncle and Hobbit Girl were spending together, trailing behind the group in conversation.

By the time they'd finally boarded the van back to the hotel, his blood pressure had been somewhere in the stratosphere. And he still had dinner to contend with, when what he really needed was more time to cram as many Tolkien facts into his head as he could manage.

Whether it was the jet lag, the pressure of playing the role of assistant, or the unending amount of information he needed to absorb, his usually almost photographic memory was failing him. The business brain that had catalogued every nuance, fashioned the business deals that had made him successful, and found niches in the market that no one else had seen had abandoned him the day Nicole walked out.

He'd clearly never had much of a brain when it came to his love life. How could he not have seen that his greatest threat lived with him? Woke up next to him? He could tell by the twitch of an eye or the flicker of an expression when a business competitor was lying, but he'd been living with the enemy for months and had no idea.

Six months later, he still had no clue as to what had gone wrong. That was what infuriated him most of all. He was a rational man, a logical one. Some might even say cold and unfeeling when it came to business.

He'd given her everything. Funded her lavish lifestyle, showered her with gifts, introduced her to people she could
only have dreamed of meeting before him. What had he gotten in return? Treason. And some bleating note about how his fiercest competitor “got her.”

Stupid, stupid girl. What Richard Evans had gotten was his hands on Jackson's most fiercely guarded commercial secret. The thing that was supposed to seal his success and make him richer than Croesus when it catapulted his company to one of the most successful Wall Street offerings this millennium.

Stalking across the floor to the bed, he reached into his suitcase for a fresh set of clothes. The photo of his family tugged at him from the bedside table. Open, honest smiles. Contentment radiated from the expressions of his parents, sister, brother-in-law, niece, and nephew.

How could he have been so reckless? So arrogant to not have settled everything for them when he had the chance? He could live with what he'd lost. It was only a matter of time before he made it all back plus some. But if the delay cost everything his parents had ever worked for, he would never forgive himself.

Picking up a folded shirt, he flicked it open with a quick shake and pulled it over his head. His fingers made quick work of the buttons before he threw the matching tie around his neck. Pulling his pants on, he snapped the belt into place and shoved his feet into black dress shoes.

He could have—should have—paid off some of the farm's debts in the months before his world unraveled. One simple little funds transfer was all it would have taken. Especially when a few bad years meant they lived shadowed by the constant threat of foreclosure. But no, he wanted to be the big man, and do it in person. Drive back into town in some flashy sports car,
throwing money around like Halloween candy, rubbing it in the faces of all those people who predicted he'd come crawling back like the prodigal son within six months. Prove he wasn't the failure they all thought he was.

Never again would he be so stupid. Never again would he let any woman get past his guard, find her way into his heart. The only person he could trust was himself.

Shoving his wallet in his pocket, he pulled on his jacket as he walked back out the door. Trudging down the corridor, his fingers tugged his tie into place so it sat snug around his neck like the noose that it was. His family depended on him. He was not going to let them down again. If he could handle high-maintenance investors, he certainly wasn't going to be undone by a group of Tolkien lunatics who couldn't even separate reality from fantasy.

* * *

J
ackson ran his finger around the edge of his collar as he waited in the restaurant bar for his uncle to join him. It was anyone's guess as to whether he would appear in the form of Gandalf or show up in civilized clothing. The itinerary had said suit and tie for dinner, but who knew what the Middle-earth equivalent of that was.

At least, as far as he could tell, they were dining in an ordinary restaurant tonight. Not a hobbit hole, or an Elf castle, or some other weird Tolkienesque place. He'd been afraid their first dinner would be like that scene in the first
Hobbit
movie, where the dwarves run around Bilbo's house ripping food apart with their bare hands. His borderline obsessive-­compulsive tendencies had been scandalized just watching it, and he couldn't
imagine having to partake in such a revolting scenario. Just thinking about it gave him the creeps.