Manolos In Manhattan. Katie Oliver
a pretzel from a street vendor. Ciaran good-naturedly signed his autograph on bits of paper, menus, street maps, and even inked his name on one insistent woman’s bra strap.
“The perils of being an actor,” he sighed as they returned, their feet aching, to the waiting Town Car and climbed in.
“You poor man.” Holly regarded him in bemusement. “Is it always like this? So crazy, I mean, with women throwing themselves at you and offering up their bra straps for autographs?”
“They’ve offered up more than their bra straps, believe me,” he replied. “And yes, it’s always like this. I usually wear sunglasses and a cap to avoid notice. But I threw myself onto the altar of rabid fandom for you. And your father,” he added.
“Very self-sacrificing of you, I’m sure.”
Ten minutes later, with dusk beginning to fall, the Town Car drew to a stop in front of 30 Rockefeller Center.
“Rock Center?” Holly said, surprised. “Why are we here? Isn’t this where they film a lot of television shows?”
“It is,” he confirmed. “And my new talk show will soon be one of them.”
“Your own talk show? That’s great, congratulations!” She kissed him in excitement. As she drew back, she noticed a lipstick smear on the corner of his mouth. She reached out to wipe it away with her finger. “Oops. Sorry about that.”
Ciaran caught her finger in his and raised it to his lips. “No apologies. I’ve had a wonderful time tonight, Holly,” he said, all teasing gone. “I’ll be back soon to start taping the show. I hope you’ll help me find a suitable apartment when I return.”
Holly looked at him, all too aware of his lips against her fingers and the green-brown enticement of his eyes. She was torn between the negative things Mr Darcy had said – he wasn’t to be trusted, he was no good – and her own overwhelming attraction to him. She knew he was a player, in every sense of the word; he was an actor, after all, one who pretended to feel things on-screen that he really didn’t...and he was paid very handsomely to do so.
And she was engaged.
“Of course I’ll help you find a place,” she found herself saying. “I’d love to.”
“Excellent. Now let’s go see my new dressing room. Then – as much as I hate the idea – I’ll return you to your fiancé.”
“Thank you, Ciaran,” she said. “For all of this. Today’s been...magical. Fantastic.”
He smiled. “Good. I hope the publicity helps the store.”
“How could it not? You’re world famous, after all,” Holly pointed out. “I’m just a nobody, along for the ride.” She glanced at the interior of the Town Car. “Literally.”
“Oh, bollocks. You’re smart, and funny, and beautiful, whereas I’m merely famous. Now,” he added as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, “let’s go inside, so I can show you off just a bit more.”
It was dark when Ciaran returned Holly to the Midtown Hotel. He walked with her across the lobby to the lift and pressed the button.
“I don’t want this day to end,” he admitted as she stepped inside the car.
“Me, either. It was really fun. Thanks.” Holly smiled. “I had an amazing time. “Goodnight, Ciaran,” she called out as the doors began to close.
“Goodnight, Miss James. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
With a smile and a wink, he turned away, and left.
On Monday morning, Christa Shaw took the key her manager had given her in London the day before and opened the front door. The townhouse, located in Gramercy Park, would be her new home for the next couple of weeks. A pair of topiary trees as round and green as lollipops flanked the entry.
Despite her jet lag, she was beyond curious to see the interior.
“Wow,” she breathed as she came inside and dropped her bags by the door.
A staircase rose to the left of the entrance hall, and a Victorian chandelier hung overhead like an elaborate, old-fashioned jewel. Dark-red flocked wallpaper adorned the walls.
She might’ve stepped back in time to the turn of the century – the nineteenth century. It looked like something out of an Edith Wharton novel. She half expected to see Lily Bart come sweeping down the stairs to greet her.
“Come in and have a look at this, Dev,” she called over her shoulder. “You won’t believe it.”
“Crikey,” he echoed as he brought in two more suitcases and set them slowly down. “This place looks like the inside of a candy box...or a bordello.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” She picked up a white card from the elaborately carved half-moon table in the hall. “‘Gavin Williams and Associates, Interior Design.’” She put the card aside and added, “Well, we know who to blame for this Victorian nightmare, then.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Devon mused. “I kind of like it. I wonder how many bedrooms in this place?”
“Five. Or was it six? Max told me, but I don’t remember.” Max Morecombe was the manager Christa shared with Dominic Heath, British rock singer and one of her closest friends.
She smiled coyly. “Why do you ask, Mr Matthews? Did you want to christen the bedrooms?”
He slid his arms around her waist. “Not just the bedrooms, love. Every room.”
Christa draped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “That can be arranged,” she said huskily, and kissed him again.
Devon dragged his mouth from hers a few minutes later and turned to pick up the suitcases. “I might as well take this stuff upstairs. I don’t know about you, but after that flight from London, I’m knackered. I could do with a few hours of sleep.”
“Thanks for coming along. I’m glad the CID let you have a couple of weeks off.”
“I think they were all glad to be rid of me for a bit, to be honest. And I know you’re more than a little nervous about this concert.”
“I am,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve performed in plenty of other places, but...Madison Square Garden is the biggest venue I’ve ever played.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said firmly. “You’ve played Glastonbury and the Royal Albert Hall, for crying out loud.”
“But this is huge,” Christa said. “And it’s my first U.S. concert. What if no one shows up?”
“The show’s sold out. It sold out within two hours.”
“What if I forget the song lyrics? Or bollocks up one of the dance routines? There’s a lot of choreography.”
“That’s what rehearsals are for,” Devon reminded her. “And you’ve got one first thing in the morning, don’t forget. Now, stop worrying. You’ve got this, babe.” He reached out and took her hand, then lifted it to his lips. “What you need is rest. You’re tired. Come on, let’s go upstairs and go to bed.”
“And get some sleep?”
“Yeah. That, too.”
“Listen to this,” Devon said the next morning as Christa joined him at the kitchen table for coffee and toast. He began to read out loud from the New York Daily News in his hand.
“’Manhattan’s elusive cat burglar struck again last night, robbing an undisclosed Park Place apartment and stealing an estimated $2 million in jewels.’” He lowered the paper. “The thief made off with a small fortune in stolen jewels, and not for the first