Let's Misbehave (6 page)

Valerie gasped. “You want her.”

He couldn’t deny it, but he wasn’t going to admit it either. “I’m not going to have her.”

“Why not? Even you deserve a treat now and then.”

“I’m sure she’d love to hear herself be called a treat.” He snatched a glass of champagne from a waiter passing by and handed it to Val.

“What else would you call her? Look at her, she’s yummy.” She sipped the champagne, all the while gawking at Imogen Summerhill. “I may go over there and taste her myself.”

“You have a girlfriend,” he reminded her.

“A little nibble wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Valerie talked a big game, but that was all it was—talk. She was a commitment-phobe, but she was the most loyal person he’d ever known, next to Michaela.

Val nudged him again. “When was the last time you shagged anyone?”

Longer than he’d admit, even to Valerie. Not because he didn’t have opportunities—the risk wasn’t worth it. The public believed him to be in a relationship with Valerie, and last year when he’d been caught with other women, Thomas Kane had quickly had him branded as a serial cheater. He couldn’t chance bad press right now, not when he was so close to having his bill passed.

“Should we go talk to her?” Valerie asked, craning her neck to stare.

“No.”

Val raised her brows. “That was rather emphatic.”

“Well, I emphatically don’t wish to meet her.” He didn’t have to talk to her to know that she’d be the last thing he needed. Just looking at her made him want to howl.

“It seems like you’d be very much alike.”

He was going to ignore it, but he couldn’t. “All right, I’ll bite. How do you figure that?”

“You both project a persona to the public. She probably hides her real self, too.”

“I don’t hide my real self.”

“Don’t you, Ricky?” Valerie made a point of looking at his untouched whiskey. “Fine, then let’s just say you’re more than you let people see. Behind the curtain, you’re a different man.”

“I’m exactly the same at home as I am everywhere else.”

“Because you’re hiding from yourself, too.” She pouted. “You used to be a rock god. You played music that incited people to passion. You lived large, every moment to its fullest. You used to
live
, period. You don’t even play the piano anymore, and the piano was your soul.”

“That was a different lifetime, Val.”

“Was it?” She downed her drink and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. Taking Merrick’s from his hand, she slipped her arm through his. “Well, the sooner we find your bloke, the sooner we can leave.”

“I think he went upstairs.”

Valerie looked up to the next landing. A sly smile broke across her face, and she tugged him along. “I think I see him.”

He frowned. “You don’t know what he looks like.”

“All you politicians look alike. Come on, Ricky, we’re going to lose him.”

“You’re up to something,” he said as they went upstairs.

“I can’t believe you’d accuse me of such devilry.” She put a hand to her chest, the very picture of affront. On the landing, she pushed him toward the first gallery. “Go look in there. I’ll check the room on the other end. We’ll meet in the middle.”

Before he could point out that she’d never seen Howell, she was gone.

She was lucky he loved her. Shaking his head, he turned—

And bumped into Imogen Summerhill.

Everything suddenly made sense. “Of course, it’s you,” he said.

She raised a brow, tipping her head to one side so her hair trailed down one gorgeously bare shoulder. “Do I know you?”

“No, and you probably don’t care to.”

“Why is that?” she asked, her eyes bright with amusement.

“I’m a politician.”

“Say it’s not so!” She pretended to cower in horror. Then she gave him a sidelong look that he was sure brought most men to their knees. “You look more like an international man of mystery than anything.”

“Like your date?”

“Luca? How do you know him?”

“I don’t know him either, but it’s hard to miss a man in a red velvet coat.”

“Luca has superior fashion sense.” She sounded too happy saying his name. She strolled into the gallery and began perusing the artwork. “He’s a Roman god, isn’t he?”

“It must be nice having a ‘god’ captivated by you,” he said mildly, directing them toward a painting that looked like a watermelon had exploded on the canvas.

“It must be,” she agreed, staring at the painting.

A wistful expression clouded her face, but it disappeared so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it. She faced him. “Why aren’t you looking for your girlfriend?”

“You know her?”

Imogen’s cheeks flushed the smallest bit. “No, but she’s hard to miss. You have good taste.”

“I do.” He arched his brow. “But Valerie isn’t my girlfriend, she’s my financial advisor.”

Imogen laughed. “That’s what they all say.”

“Truthfully, I’ve known her forever, and she does handle my money. She’s a financial idiot savant. A Midas in heels. But she’s also my best friend, and we’re not dating.” Why did he need her to know that? He shook his head. But he also couldn’t help asking, “And you and the Roman god?”

“He’s in love with my oldest sister.”

“Then you’re free.” He frowned at himself, hating that it felt important to establish that when he should be running from her.

“No, I’m not.” She sauntered away, pretending to be interested in another painting.

Walk away, he told himself even as he hurried to keep up with her. “You’re seeing someone else?” he asked, his voice low.

“No.” She seemed like she wasn’t going to answer, but then she said, “I need to behave.”

The word
behave
falling from those lips made the word seem sinful. “I take it that’s difficult for you?”

“It’s not, which is why I’m staying away from you. I doubt you know the meaning of the word.” She looked him over. “You may lead a respectable life and wear somber clothes—”

“You think my clothes are somber?”

“—but I can see under the disguise.” She stopped in front of a painting and pursed her lips, considering it as though she were wondering what it’d look like hanging in her house.

He waited for her to continue, and it drove him insane when she didn’t. He edged closer, lowered his voice. “What disguise?”

She raised her seductive blue eyes up to him. “You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, aren’t you?”

His tiger surged inside, liking the recognition, but he chuckled as though the idea were absurd.

Imogen smiled faintly. “Laugh all you want, but I can recognize a playboy when I see one.”

“Valerie says I’m increasingly dull.”

“On the surface.” She gave him a thorough, head-to-toe perusal that made him wonder if she had X-ray vision. “Underneath you’re a bad boy.”

He frowned. She
did
have X-ray vision. “What kind of underwear am I wearing?”

She glanced at his crotch. “Boxers. Silk.”

Damn.

She flashed him a sassy smirk and moved on to the next painting.

As he caught up with her, he told himself he was keeping her company, not chasing her.

“I want a part in a movie,” she said quietly without looking at him. “But the director won’t hire me unless I keep my nose clean for the next three weeks. So this isn’t going to happen.”

He tried not to see it as a dare, but … “This?”

She arched her brow. “Are you seriously going to play dumb? I’m the blonde here.”

He glanced around. No one paid attention to them, so he edged closer to her, crowding her. Unable to help himself, he brushed his fingers along her bare arm. “You mean this?”

She glanced at his mouth and licked her lips. “Yes,” she said in a velvety sex voice.

He leaned closer to her—

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lawrence Howell stroll into the next gallery, his wife on his arm.

Damn it. Merrick looked at Imogen, the way her lips begged him for a kiss. The tiger inside him growled to take a bite of her.

No, he told his animal. To Imogen, he said, “I have to go.”

“Good.” She stepped back. “Good luck with your life.”

Did she sound hurt? He reached for her. “I’m trying to get support for an important measure. My opponent’s been painting it and me in a bad light, and I need one man’s vote to get the rest of the party to align with the legislature. He’s been elusive, and I just saw him.”

“I see.” She smiled, but it wasn’t genuine at all.

He hated it. “Imogen—”

“Go do whatever you have to. It was nice not quite meeting you.” She winked at him and sauntered away.

Merrick stood, torn between going after her to explain and racing after Howell.

It had to be Howell—he had too much riding on this initiative. Ignoring his tiger’s rumbling protest, he turned and went after the man, but no matter how much Merrick looked, he was nowhere to be found.

When he went back to find Imogen, she’d disappeared as well.

Chapter Six

Holly stared into her tiny closet. What did one wear while babysitting a movie star?

She decided to wear what she always did: black. It was the color of assistants—the perfect color to fade into the background.

She rifled for the wool skirt she’d bought at a secondhand store. Her wardrobe was limited: two pairs of pants, one skirt, four nice blouses she rotated. She added scarves to change the looks so it didn’t look quite so obvious that she wore the same clothes over and over.

Holding her breath in, she shimmied the skirt up her thighs and lay down on her narrow bed to zip it up. When she stood up and could breathe, she counted that as a good omen.

“Success.” She slipped on a black shirt that didn’t have stains. She tied a scarf around her waist like a belt, partly for color but mostly to camouflage the pulling fabric around her middle.

She checked the time. “Damn it.” She hopped into her shoes as she headed to the kitchen. She put on her coat, picked up her purse, and scrounged for a pound to drop into the curse jar before hurrying out of the house.

Instead of taking the tube or a bus, she walked. It gave her time to compose herself and, even though her shoes pinched by the time she arrived at the South Street address, she’d given herself a pep talk.

She was going to be great at this job, and the studio would promote her.

On the doorstep, she pulled her skirt straight and made sure there wasn’t any lipstick on her teeth. Then she rang the doorbell.

Her nerves jangled. She pretended she was Jamie and assured herself Imogen Summerhill would like her.

The door swung open and a grandmotherly woman in black smiled at her. “You must be here for Gigi.”

“Actually for Imogen Summerhill.” She craned her neck to look for the street number. “Am I at the wrong house?”

“No, dear, we’re talking about the same girl. Come in.” The woman stepped aside so she could enter. “My name is Fran. I run the household.”

“Holly Martin.” She shook the woman’s hand. Fran smelled of warm things and spices, and Holly’s stomach rumbled in hunger.

“This way.” Fran led her down the hallway. “Gigi’s waiting for you in the library. I’ll bring some refreshments.”

“Please don’t go to any trouble on my account,” she said, distracted by all the expensive looking furnishings around them. It was like a museum. She imagined Jamie running down the hall and winced.

“Nonsense.” Fran frowned at her. “And look at you. You need fattening up. Do you have a man?”

“No.”

“Because men like a little meat on their women’s bones.” The older woman patted her arm as she opened a door. “Don’t worry, lamb, we’ll take care of you.”

It sounded both lovely and ominous, but before she could figure out how to reply, Fran motioned her toward a set of open doors. “She’s in the orangery. Just go in.”

“Okay,” she said, standing in the threshold.

It was a solarium of sorts, with trees and plants all over. Light streamed in from a long, tall wall of paned windows. There were sets of chairs and couches, the sort you expected to see dainty ladies from a bygone era perched on while sipping tea and gossiping.

Jamie would have loved this room. Neck craning to take everything in, Holly entered. It smelled warm and earthy in there, not musty like the moldy basement they’d lived in after Jamie had been born.

There was a rustle from the left. Jerking to attention, Holly smoothed the scarf at her waist and stepped forward to meet her assignment for the foreseeable future.

Imogen Summerhill was draped in a light blue dress, her hair clipped back from her face. Her shoes, which looked more expensive than Holly’s rent each month, were kicked off and her feet were tucked under her skirt. She leaned forward, intent on the mobile in her hand. On the table in front of her there was a bottle of Pellegrino and a book in a language Holly didn’t recognize.

The actress should have looked relaxed, a diva idly passing the afternoon, but her body language was tense. She gripped the phone and glared at it like she wanted it to explode.

Holly must have made some sort of noise, because the actress looked up. Holly was shocked by the sharp intelligence in her gaze. She suspected Imogen Summerhill didn’t miss much.

Imogen held out her mobile. “Look at this.”

Holly stepped forward took the device. It was a picture of Imogen and a handsome man in a tuxedo. The caption underneath read

New Acquaintances, or Old Friends??

Holly wasn’t sure what she was looking at or how she was expected to reply. She could tell being a handler was going to be challenging.

She cleared her throat. “You look pretty.”

“I have to look pretty,” the actress said without a hint of vanity. “It’s part of my job. I mean this.” She tapped the screen, on top of the man standing next to her.

Certain this was some sort of test and that she was failing it, Holly said, “He’s pretty, too.”

“He’s bloody delectable, but that’s beside the point.”

She shrugged as she handed the mobile back. “I’d think that’d be the whole point, actually.”

Imogen smiled. “I might like you, Holly Martin, but pay attention. And sit down. You’re looming over me.”