Harlequin Desire January 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Maisey Yates

  The night he’d moved into the neighborhood, Julian had caught Rosie lighting a cigarette in the gazebo. At his approach she’d leaped to her feet, knocking a planter on its side. She hid the hand with the cigarette behind her back, but a curl of smoke rose above her head.

  “Are you supposed to be here?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. “Holy mother! You’re JL Knight!”

  “I know who I am.”

  “I’m not trespassing, sir,” she said. “I’m the nanny from next door. I come over once a week to do some light housekeeping.”

  She was older than him by a decade—and a Brit. Julian asked her to drop the “sir.”

  “Please don’t tell my employer you caught me smoking. He doesn’t hire smokers.”

  Her employer was his landlord. Julian told her to relax. The day he caused a hardworking woman to lose a job was the day his mother would turn in her grave—she who only wanted to rest in peace in her homeland of Jamaica. He and Rosie had been friends ever since. He would not have wanted to evacuate without first checking on her, and Wasabi gave him the perfect excuse.

  Julian accessed the neighboring property by a side gate. If not for the threat of flames and the low-hanging clouds of smoke, it was a peaceful morning. He made his way to the front door, passing a U-Haul truck parked in the U-shaped driveway. Rosie threw open the door before he had a chance to ring the doorbell. “JL Knight, you’re my hero!” she exclaimed. “You’ve saved me the trouble of mounting a search party for that cat.”

  “Next time check my garage,” he said. “That’s where he’ll be. Do you still have the code?”

  While Rosie checked to make sure her information was up to date, a little blonde girl came barreling into the foyer, squealing with joy at the sight of Wasabi. Julian knelt until they were almost eye level and put the cat in her arms.

  Rosie plucked her phone from her uniform pocket and snapped a photo. “How precious! Samantha, say thank you to Mr. Knight.”

  The little girl offered a shy smile. “Tanks.”

  Julian ruffled her hair and unfolded to his full height. Then he asked Rosie if she planned to evacuate with her employers.

  “We’re heading to the house in Palm Springs,” she said. “It’s a fixer, so we’ll be roughing it. How about you?”

  “I’m ready to roll out.” Julian had no definite plans. There were calls for donations to the fire department—water bottles and eye drops, mostly. He’d see to that and then possibly check into a hotel until it was safe to return. He had no place to be, really.

  Rosie asked Samantha to find Wasabi’s favorite toy and accompanied him down the front steps.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, JL Knight,” she said. “Now seems like the right time.”

  Julian winced at her use of his stage name. He’d asked her one hundred times to stop calling him that, but with Rosie it was either “sir” or “JL Knight.” This confirmed what he’d known to be true for some time. For some people, no matter what he did, he’d be indistinguishable from his acting persona. For years, he hadn’t minded. He was best known for his role in Thunder. The character had served him well and made him rich, but now he couldn’t shake him. Not that there would be any more Thunder movies. The third had bombed so badly at the box office there was no talk of a fourth installment. One day they’d reboot the franchise with another, younger actor and he’d be forgotten.

  Rosie linked her arm through his, and they walked down the path to the side gate. “I’m in no position to give you life advice.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Julian replied.

  Rosie was a practical-minded woman. In England, she’d run a playgroup in her home, but she’d found that looking after of the kids of the Hollywood elite was more financially rewarding. “They think I’m Mary bloody Poppins,” she’d confided one night. She planned to retire in five years once she had enough saved away to buy a cottage in her hometown. Her life was in order. By comparison, his life was a mess.

  “All this free time is not good for you. Get back to work.”

  “It’s not that simple.” Julian’s agent wasn’t returning his calls.

  “It is, actually. You’re too smart and talented to waste your time.”

  They’d reached the end of the path, and Julian felt a wave of relief. He recognized the truth when he heard it, and the truth wasn’t something he was equipped to deal with right now. He was running from an actual fire—no time to run from existential ones, too.

  He faced Rosie and rested his chin on the top of her head. “Tanks.”

  She pushed him away and called him a softie. Julian marched home and blamed his stinging eyes on the smoke that thickened the air. He loaded his bags in the trunk of his car and went back inside the house for one last thing. From a bottom dresser drawer, he pulled out a dog-eared copy of a screenplay well into its ninth revision. Midnight Sun. He flipped it open, thumbed through it, shook his head, then tucked it under his arm.

  While he locked up the house, Julian got his assistant, Katia, on the phone. “Hey, Kat. Heading to Miami in the morning. Could you charter a plane and book a suite at Sand Castle?”

  “Only if I can bum a ride. I’m heading to Boca for the holiday.”

  Oh, right. Independence Day. “I’ll be there for a bit longer, but I’d welcome the company on the flight out.”

  “How much longer?” she asked.

  She needed this information to book the hotel, only he couldn’t give her exact dates. “A month or so.”

  “You’re not retiring to Florida, are you?”

  “No. The opposite.”

  She let out a grumpy sound. “Okay. Fine.”

  His next call was to an independent film producer who had once expressed interest in his project. When Julian had finally backed out of his garage, he didn’t get far. A police checkpoint at the foot of the Hills slowed the flow of traffic, but he felt as if he were going places.

  * * *

  Julian grabbed his phone and played a few rounds of the sort of game that would have solidified his reputation as a warmonger. He lost the final round, slipped off his headphones and listened for sounds of the woman locked away in the adjoining room. Ms. Taylor. She claimed to be a writer. Time to find out. He typed “female author Taylor” in a search engine and filtered the results by image. He swiped through dozens of photos of Taylors, including Taylor Swift, but there was only one professional headshot of a dark-skinned, brown-eyed beauty.

  In the photograph, she looked straight at the camera with a measured smile. She wore red lipstick and her black hair fell straight and loose, framing her face. The caption read: Nina Taylor, memoirist, NYT Review of Books.

  I’m only really qualified to write about myself. He recalled her words. They hadn’t made sense at the time. They did now. Julian reached for a second pillow and wedged it under his head. He was about to jump down the internet rabbit hole and might as well get comfortable.

  One hour later, he’d read several reviews of her memoir, Backstage Diva, and listened to snippets of podcast interviews. He’d watched a panel discussion on memoir writing on Book TV. She was one of three panelists, but by far the most remarkable. He’d learned the following:

  A) Nina Taylor was the daughter of a deceased stage actress celebrated for her Tony-nominated portrayal of Beneatha Younger in a 1999 Broadway revival of A Raisin in the Sun.

  B) Nina was a respected artist in her own right with a bestselling memoir and several published magazine articles.

  C) Nina was single, lived in New York City and was working on a collection of short stories.

  There was only one thing left to do. He purchased Backstage Diva, the audiobook, with one click. Then he adjusted his headphones and hit Play.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nina had dozed off on the couch halfway through the movie. She woke up to the sound of scree
ching tires, a car chase in full swing. She sat up and massaged a kink in her neck. If the Garden Room was still unavailable, they had better find her something! She had no intention of spending the night on a sleeper sofa while JL Knight slept in luxury. If Sand Castle couldn’t accommodate her, she was leaving. She’d arrange a ride to the airport, hop on any flight and get the heck out of the Sunshine State. Sorry, Mom. I’ll light a candle or burn sage and celebrate your life…at home.

  Her room opened to the hallway. Nina slipped out and took the stairs to the courtyard. The front desk clerk had no answers, so she marched to Grace Guzman’s office. When her knock went unanswered, Nina was certain nothing would be resolved tonight. Angry and aimless, she wandered along the cloisters, coming across an enclosed garden. It was small but lush. Mesmerized by the fairy lights creating the illusion of a starry sky, she traveled down a gravel path and somehow missed the bronze statue at the center of the garden. She struck her foot against the granite pedestal, fell to the ground and yelped like a dog.

  She choked on a sob. Had she flown to Miami just to make a fool of herself?

  Rhythmic applause, sharp and slow, rose up from deep in the garden. Nina scrambled to her feet and wiped away the blades of grass stuck to her cheek. When she was presentable, she scrutinized the shadows and saw, quite clearly, Grace Guzman staring back at her. Grace sat in a rattan chair, hair loosened from the bun she’d sported earlier. Besides her was a low table with a pitcher of red sangria and a couple of wineglasses. Say what you want, the woman had style.

  “You’re quite the performance artist, Ms. Taylor.”

  Off-duty Grace was even bitchier than on-duty Grace. How was that possible?

  Nina pointed to the statue. “This thing is a hazard.”

  “The goddess is not a hazard.”

  “Goddess?”

  “Aphrodite,” Grace said, as if it were obvious.

  Nina examined Aphrodite. Hunched low to the ground, her demure pose struck Nina as unnatural—Aphrodite being the goddess of love and beauty and all. Shouldn’t she stand tall?

  “Have a seat, Ms. Taylor,” Grace said. “That statue will be here long after you’ve gone.”

  Those words put everything in perspective. This mansion had seen war, economic depression and ecologic catastrophe. Aphrodite was no stranger to drama.

  Her chin held high, Nina hobbled over to the offered seat. Grace poured a glass of sangria and handed it over as if it were the cure for all things. Then she folded her hands on her lap and waited for Nina to explain herself. If there was a goddess in this garden, it wasn’t Aphrodite.

  When Nina wasn’t forthcoming, Grace broke the silence. “I like to sit here in the early evenings. The guests are getting ready for dinner and the hotel tends to be quiet.”

  The hotel was as quiet as could be expected with the street noise drilling through the wall of high shrubs. Nina raked her brain for something to say. “This is a beautiful garden. The lights are a nice touch.”

  “We were supposed to host a wedding here tonight. It was canceled.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “The couple was eloping,” Grace said with a sigh. “Never a good sign.”

  Nina disagreed. “Not every bride needs an entourage.”

  “Yes, but for some it takes a village,” Grace said. “They need a nagging mother, a dozen bridesmaids and a minimum of fifty guests to get them to the altar. I know I did.”

  “My mother is dead.”

  The words spilled out without warning. Fragments of her mother’s obit surfaced in her memory. Estelle Taylor, star of A Raisin in the Sun and Porgy and Bess, died of pneumonia in New York City on July 3. She was sixty.

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Ms. Taylor.”

  “Oh, never mind.” Nina dabbed at the corner of her eyes. “It’s been a year. I don’t know why I brought it up.”

  “Does it matter if it’s been a year or ten?” Grace asked.

  “No.”

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Grace said, “but you look exhausted. Get some rest tonight.”

  “I don’t have a room!” she reminded Grace. “I’m on a sofa bed in the study! How restful will that be?”

  “You and Mr. Knight came up with this solution on your own.”

  “I didn’t think it through,” Nina said.

  “Had you let me do my job, I would have offered you accommodations at any one of our hotel partners.”

  Had Grace done her job, she wouldn’t have given away Nina’s suite to JL Knight. But she was too exhausted to belabor the point. “Is that still an option?”

  It was a holiday weekend, and she assumed most hotels were booked solid.

  “It is. But you should know the sofa bed is very comfortable. It’s imported from Italy.” Grace stood to leave. “I’ll leave instructions with the front desk. Whatever you do, don’t delay.”

  “Because of the holiday?”

  “Because of the rain.”

  As soon as Grace spoke the words, a gust a wind swirled through the garden trailing the scent of rain. A clap of thunder had Nina jumping to her feet.

  * * *

  Nina was out of breath when she made it back to the third floor, just narrowly escaping a downpour. She entered the suite through the sitting room. The doors to the balcony were wide-open and there he was, standing with his back to her. Without the added layer of a jacket, she could plainly see the contours of his muscles under his T-shirt, and it was impressive—not that she cared.

  Nina drew a breath for courage and joined him on the balcony, leaning against the rail. He smiled down at her, and she noticed that his soft brown eyes were flecked with gold. How had she not noticed before?

  “There you are, Goldilocks.”

  Nina cringed, but only on the inside. On the outside, she remained cool. “I spoke to the manager. They can put me up at another hotel.”

  “You’d head out in the rain?”

  “I love rain.” It was Miami! Summer showers were part of the package.

  “What do you love? Singing in it? Dancing in it?”

  “None of the above.” The sound of it was enough.

  “Hate to rain on your exit parade, but if anyone is leaving, it’s me.”

  “I just think—”

  “Stop thinking,” he said, interrupting, and yet his voice was gentle. “We agreed to make the best of this. Don’t flake on me now.”

  Her gaze fell to his hands gripping the rail. In the movie, he’d gripped the steering wheel of his sports car in the same way. To take her mind off the soft color of his eyes, his gentle voice, firm grip and sculpted arms, Nina turned away and focused on the view. The palm trees swayed in the rain. Below, a cluster of tourists stood outside the hotel gates. Once dubbed the Playboy Mansion of the South, it was a Miami Beach tradition to pose on the stone steps—even in the pouring rain.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I worked here as a valet attendant?”

  She had read about that online, but she couldn’t tell him that. “When would you have told me, JL Knight? We’ve just met.”

  “Call me Julian,” he said. “Trash this hotel suite if you like. I don’t care. But I insist you call me Julian.”

  “In that case, Julian, I insist you call me Nina,” she said. “Call me Goldilocks one more time and I’ll throw you off this balcony.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” He stretched lazily. “Nina is a pretty name.”

  The unexpected compliment threw her off guard. She felt herself softening and couldn’t allow that. “We’re off topic, Julian. I’ll stay the night, but I’ll probably leave in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s the Fourth,” he said. “Won’t that ruin your holiday?”

  Her holiday was ruined. There was no use pretending that it wasn’t. “I’ll buy a hot dog at the airport. Th
at should do it.”

  “You’ll be missing the pool party,” he said. “Grace says it’s not to be missed.”

  This day had been so draining, so bizarre, that she hadn’t even made it to the hotel pool. How sad was that?

  Julian’s phone rang in his pocket. He reached for it and answered right away.

  “I know, I know,” he said, laughing at whatever the caller had said. “Soon! Promise! But tomorrow won’t work. How about the day after that? Would you be up for it?”

  Nina turned away, pretending as if she weren’t listening. The winds picked up and tossed her braid about like threadbare rope. Julian wrapped a hand around her elbow and steered her inside, still carrying on his conversation. “You don’t have to sell me on it. I want to come, and I miss your cooking.” He shut the door behind them. “All the flowers you want. Promise.”

  Nina crossed the sitting room to her door. Julian’s conversation was taking an intimate turn, and it made her uncomfortable. But when he spoke up again, she knew he was addressing her.

  “Have you eaten?”

  She turned in time to see him pocketing his phone. “I’m not hungry.”

  She had a couple protein bars and airline pretzels stashed in her purse. She’d make a meal out of it. More than anything, she wanted to lock herself in her room, fold out the bed and sleep for twelve hours straight. She wanted to say good-night and disappear behind a shut door, but a nagging feeling kept her rooted in place. She had something to get off her chest.

  “Julian, I’m not a crazy person in real life.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You just play one on TV?”

  “Something like that.”

  Nina might never be able to correct his first impression of her. Back in Hollywood, he’d likely entertain his friends with the story. “Did I tell you about the time I walked into a hotel room in Miami to find a woman taking a selfie on my bed?” And they’d all laugh.

  He sat on the arm of a wing chair and leveled those golden-brown eyes on her. “Why did you do it?”

  “You mean sneak into your room, climb on your bed and pose for a selfie?”