Kiss (27 page)

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Authors: Jill Mansell

BOOK: Kiss
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When the song ended and he didn’t move, she thought for a second that he was asleep. Then, slowly, he opened one eye. ‘Play it again.’
 
‘Please,’ murmured Izzy, rewinding the tape.
 
He smiled before closing his eyes once more. ‘Please.’
 
Fifteen minutes later, when ‘Never, Never’ had finished playing for the fourth time, he sat up and ejected the tape, turning it over in his fingers and looking thoughtful. Since he still hadn’t said anything about it, Izzy was by this time almost paralysed with anticipation.
 
‘Well?’ she said eventually, and with great difficulty because her tongue was by this time stuck to the roof of her mouth.
 
‘I’m impressed,’ he replied, sounding faintly amused. ‘But then you knew I’d be impressed, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to drag me out here. What I don’t understand is why
you
don’t want to sing it.’
 
‘I didn’t drag you out here,’ she reminded him evenly. ‘And I do want to sing it. Very much indeed.’
 
‘Then why offer it to me?’
 
Izzy took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of leather upholstery, cigars and cologne. ‘Because I want us to sing it together.’
 
He looked stunned. ‘A duet?’
 
‘That is, I believe, the technical term for it,’ she agreed with a brief smile.
 
‘I don’t do duets.’
 
‘Maybe you should. The public likes them. Look at Tom Jones and Cerys Matthews.’
 
‘And?’ prompted Tash.
 
‘Bryan Adams and Mel C.’
 
Tash shot her a wry look. ‘Not to mention Kermit and Miss Piggy.’
 
‘George Michael and Aretha Franklin!’ Izzy swiftly intercepted him before he could start making fun of her again. ‘Oh please . . . the fans
love
that kind of thing.’
 
‘Is that right? And how many fans do
you
have?’
 
‘Approximately seventeen,’ said Izzy, deciding that it might be prudent to exclude Toupee-Man from the list. She paused, then added, ‘And a dog.’
 
‘I see,’ said Tash thoughtfully. ‘Is the dog small or large?’
 
She risked a smile, because he still hadn’t actually said no . . . and because he was still here in the car . . . and because she was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, he might be seriously considering her suggestion. ‘Why?’ she countered, her expression innocent. ‘Is size really important?’
 
‘You tell me,’ he countered, lying back and tapping the cassette idly against his denim-clad thigh. Then, turning abruptly to face her and regarding her with shrewd, dark eyes, he said, ‘No, tell me how long you’ve been planning this.’
 
For a second, Izzy wondered whether he would be more impressed if she said weeks, or months. Maybe if he thought she had written the song specifically with him in mind . . . that it had never even occurred to her that anyone else
could
sing it . . .
 
But they weren’t really the kind of eyes you could lie to, she realised, and the events of the evening were beginning to catch up with her. She simply didn’t have the energy left to start improvising now.
 
‘About an hour ago,’ she admitted with a small shrug. ‘When you arrived at the club.’
 
Tash was struggling to keep a straight face. ‘So, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, an impulsive gesture. How very flattering.’
 
‘But does that make it a bad idea?’ Izzy demanded with a trace of irritation because he was laughing at her now. ‘Is your rock star’s ego too great to cope with the fact that I didn’t write the song
for
you?’
 
‘A little diplomacy never goes amiss,’ he replied, deadpan, ‘but I daresay I’ll recover, in time. Is this really your name?’
 
He was holding the cassette up to the dim light, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinised the label for the first time. Izzy, caught offguard by the abrupt switch in his train of thought, said crossly, ‘Of course it’s my bloody name.’
 
‘Hmm.’ He paused, apparently lost in thought. The next moment, without even glancing at her, he had reached for her hand once more and raised it to his lips. The gesture was innocent enough. Its effect, however, was wildly erotic. Izzy, tingling all over, murmured faintly, ‘Hmm what?’
 
‘Tash and Van Asch,’ he said, breaking into a smile. ‘I don’t know about you, but it sounds pretty good to me . . .’
 
Chapter 28
 
Sam, who didn’t enjoy musicals and who had been given a pair of much-coveted tickets to see the latest Andrew Lloyd Webber show, newly opened in the West End, dropped round to Kingsley Grove the following afternoon and offered them to Gina.
 
Gina adored musicals and was delighted. ‘Stay for dinner,’ she urged, returning her attention to the mixing bowl of pastry she was in the midst of kneading and inclining her head towards the plate of steak fillets on top of the fridge. ‘
Boeuf en croûte
, and I’m making far too much, so you really must join us.’
 
Sam hesitated. ‘I only really called by to give you the tickets,’ he said, not even allowing himself to wonder where Izzy might be, or whether she had even returned home last night. ‘Vivienne’s expecting me back at the flat . . .’
 
‘Phone her,’ said Gina happily. ‘Tell her to come round, too. The more the merrier!’
 
A moment later he heard a footfall upstairs, and the sound of a bedroom door opening. ‘Is that Izzy?’
 
Gina, now energetically rolling out the pastry, puffed a strand of hair away from her forehead and shook her head. ‘I heard her come in at around six this morning, but by the time I got home from work she’d disappeared again. That was Kat you just heard.’
 
Sam tried hard not to think of Izzy and Tash Janssen in bed together. Instead, turning his attention back to Gina and realizing how much better she had been looking over the past few weeks, he said, ‘You’re cheerful.’
 
Gina stopped rolling and smiled at him. ‘I am, aren’t I?’
 
At least he could be pleased about that. It was about time Gina had some luck. He tilted his head slightly. ‘So?’
 
‘Oh, Sam,’ she breathed, wiping her cheek with her forearm and streaking it with flour. ‘I’ve met someone, someone really nice . . . and I know it’s far too soon to even think about the future, but he’s so
special
. . .’
 
‘I’m glad,’ said Sam, getting up from his chair and kissing her unfloured cheek.With mock severity, he added, ‘And you’re not so bad yourself, Mrs Lawrence, so don’t let him think he has some kind of monopoly on special-ness. ’
 
Gina shook her head. ‘At the moment I still can’t believe how lucky I am. And you’ll meet him, if you stay for dinner. He’s due here at six-thirty.’
 
‘In that case,’ said Sam, reaching for the phone, ‘how can I refuse? I’ll tell Vivienne to pick up some wine on the way over.’
 
When he had replaced the receiver, he said, ‘Now, what can I do to help?’
 
The doorbell rang. Gina, whose arms were floury up to the elbows, smiled. ‘Answer that.’
 
Since neither Sam nor Gina were aware of Ralph’s alarming tendency towards over-punctuality, which Katerina had always maintained was a by-product of the fact that the acting profession was so notoriously insecure, it didn’t occur to either of them that the doorbell ringing at five forty-five could have any connection whatsoever with his expected arrival at six-thirty.
 
Sam, opening the door and recognizing him at once, was only momentarily surprised. ‘Oh. Hi,’ he said easily, glimpsing a gold bracelet and suppressing a grin. ‘Izzy’s not here, I’m afraid. Was she expecting you?’
 
‘Er . . .’ Ralph’s composure had temporarily deserted him. Behind Sam, he could see Gina hovering in the hallway.
 
‘She may be back soon,’ Sam continued, cheerfully unaware of the havoc he was creating. ‘Why don’t you come in and wait?’
 
‘Er . . . er . . .’
 
‘What’s going on?’ said Gina, her voice unnaturally high. She felt as if someone had switched channels in mid-programme. All the colour had drained from her face.
 
Sam, who had a good memory for names, stepped aside so that she had an unimpaired view of their visitor. ‘It’s Ralph, sweetheart. Have you two met before? I was just saying that if he’s arranged to meet Izzy here he must have a drink with us while he’s waiting.’
 
Gina stared, first at Ralph, then at Sam. Slowly, wondering whether she might be going mad, she said, ‘What are you . . . talking . . . about? Is this a joke?’
 
Improvisation had never been Ralph’s strong point. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said with feeling.
 
‘What?’ demanded Sam, glancing in turn at Gina and realizing that she was on the verge of keeling over.
 
It was her stricken expression that finally gave it away. His heart sinking, he echoed beneath his breath, ‘Oh, shit.’
 
 
Izzy, returning home at seven, found Sam waiting for her in the kitchen, alone. Buoyed up by her day at the head offices of MBT in Mayfair, where she had been introduced by Joel McGill to the company’s president, its manager and financial directors and the producer with whom she would be working, she was in tearing spirits. And this evening she was having dinner with Tash.
 
‘Hallo, darling!’ she exclaimed as Jericho, scrambling to his feet, hurtled towards her. Then, grinning at Sam and realizing that it was no good, she couldn’t keep her wonderful secret from him any longer, she said, ‘Hallo, Sam. Guess where I’ve been?’
 
Then, as he looked up at her, she saw the cold fury in his eyes. ‘You mean apart from that creep’s bed?’ he spat with contempt. ‘I really don’t know, Izzy. You could have been anywhere, stirring up any amount of trouble and disrupting any number of innocent lives.’
 
Izzy, stunned by the unexpectedness of the verbal assault, gazed blankly at him for a second. She’d never seen Sam so angry before. Then she twigged: he meant Tash. Sam had warned her not to approach him and she had ignored the commandment. Rock stars, it seemed, weren’t the only ones with big egos . . .
 
‘Not that it’s
any
of your business,’ she replied crossly, because she had come home bearing glad tidings and now he was spoiling it all, ‘but I didn’t sleep with Tash Janssen. I have no
intention
of sleeping with him—’
 
‘Of course you don’t,’ Sam jibed, fuelling the words with sarcasm. ‘Come on, let me guess.You spent last night admiring his art collection!’
 
‘We spent last night talking about music,’ Izzy retaliated, a faint smile lifting the corners of her mouth. Heavens, she hadn’t dreamed that Sam would react this strongly. He must still care about her, after all . . .
 
‘So, you two were “talking about music”,’ he continued, his tone dangerously even.
 
‘We had a cup of tea as well,’ volunteered Izzy, beginning to enjoy herself now. ‘And I ate six chocolate biscuits.’
 
‘Where was Gina?’
 
‘What?’
 
‘Last night,’ prompted Sam, moving inexorably in for the kill. ‘While you were out. Where was she?’
 
‘You mean
our
Gina?’ Izzy, confused by yet another abrupt switch in the conversation, said, ‘She wasn’t there! She went out to dinner with . . . someone else.’
 
‘And who exactly did she go out to dinner with?’
 
‘Oh, hell!’ Izzy, understanding finally what he was saying, closed her eyes in dismay. ‘Bloody hell.
Bloody
Ralph . . .’
 
‘Bloody who?’ he demanded, suppressing the urge to shake her until her teeth dropped out. Izzy’s ability to swan through life absolving herself from all blame was positively breathtaking. ‘How the fuck could you stand by and let it happen? You
condoned
it . . .’
 
‘I did not!’ Her fingers gripped the edge of the dresser. She was quivering with rage now. ‘I told him not to hurt her.’
 
‘And if you’d told her in the first place, she wouldn’t be hurt now. But you chose not to, didn’t you? Because it amused you to play along with the charade . . . because it made a good story to tell your friends.’ He gestured towards her with disdain. ‘You probably told Janssen about it, last night.’

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