Sexy in the City
Page 160
She straightened up, brushed a hand over the back of her eyes, and looked at her reflection in the glass door. Her eyes were puffy and red, and she’d mussed her hair leaning against the wall. She dabbed a tissue across her eyes, thanking her lucky stars that she was wearing waterproof eyeliner and mascara. Then she gave her hair a cursory smooth and nodded. She was ready to face the world. And Redmond. He was watching her, saying nothing, but with a concerned look in his eyes. Was it real, or manufactured for any watching fans?
She nearly turned and fled again, but his magnetic gaze drew her as much as the gentleness in his voice as he finally asked, “Are you OK? What happened?”
As she hesitated, he took a step towards her and folded her in his arms. She tried not to relax into his embrace.
“I was so worried — I couldn’t imagine what would make you miss the results. Are you feeling OK? Do you need a doctor?”
Lisa had almost forgotten her feigned illness. She shook her head mutely.
“Shall we get some air?” Without waiting for an answer, Redmond steered her over to the stairs and sat down, encouraging her to sit down beside him.
“What about the results?” she asked, worried. Now that she’d steeled herself to go back in, she was puzzled to find herself heading in the opposite direction.
“You’re more important,” he said firmly, keeping his arm over her shoulders to prevent her rising and fleeing.
Lisa blinked at him, bewildered.
“Besides,” he continued, “the results will still be the same when we get back.”
Lisa shook her head. It might not be true.
“What if they give it to Harry and Tiffany because they’re still there?”
“Then they do. There’s more to life … I want to know what’s happening. What’s the matter?” He traced the track of a tear down her cheek with his finger, and the tenderness of the gesture brought a lump to her throat. Was it possible she’d been misled? She swallowed hard and tried to avoid the subject — it was all too much just now.
“What about Mark and Elaine? We should be there for them.”
Redmond thumped his fists frustratedly on the shabby stair carpet.
“Let it go, will you? It’ll be fine. Look, if you must know, I asked Elaine to ring me when they were actually announcing the results. They’re still doing the background stuff at the moment, so you have time to tell me what on earth all this moping is about. Is it about work?”
Lisa shook her head. So … that was why he wasn’t worried about the results. His precious mobile meant he wouldn’t miss anything important. He could afford to show up here and be all caring and sweet. But the competition was still the most important thing. For a moment there, she’d almost thought otherwise.
“Good,” Redmond said briskly. “I don’t want you worrying about jobs or money or anything. If you really want to get another job in business, I’m sure you can, but I think you should be dancing anyway, and you won’t have trouble getting a job after this. Mark and Elaine would have you like a shot.”
“If we don’t win, Mark and Elaine won’t be able to,” Lisa pointed out flatly. It seemed so wrong that the fate of the studio should hang on something as arbitrary as the results of one TV-sponsored competition. She’d battled for weeks to find a way round the situation, but there seemed to be no other way out. If they didn’t win, the studio was lost.
“Well … ” Redmond said, a little sheepishly.
Lisa looked up sharply. “What?” She knew there was something he hadn’t been telling her, but she was baffled as to what it could be, and how it related to the studio.
“You know all the phone calls I’ve been making?” Redmond sounded embarrassed.
Here it came. He was going to say that they were all to his mystery woman in Florida. Rich and pretty, she would bail the studio out in the blink of an eye if Redmond came back to her. Or something else equally horrible for Lisa to contemplate.
“Well,” Redmond said slowly, as if groping for the words to explain. Lisa forgot to breathe as she steeled herself for what was coming next. “You know I have a part share in the studio in Florida?”
Lisa shook her head. She’d assumed he was just employed there.
“Well, I do. I’ve been putting money in over the years and I’ve got about a quarter of the studio. Or had, I should say. I’ve been negotiating to sell my share to one of the other teachers so I don’t have to go back. It’s been underway for months, but the call this morning was to my lawyers to sort out the last few details.”
Lisa stared. It was the last thing she’d imagined.
“When the money comes through, I’ll be buying a share in Mark and Elaine’s studio. It’ll more than cover the renovation work, and hopefully we’ll be able to do some more exciting things too, with better premises and more staff. Summer courses. Bigger events — maybe even weddings and things, now that you can have them at civil venues.”
“So you’re staying here?” Lisa could hear the way her voice suddenly picked up. There seemed to be hope for them after all.
“Would you like me to?” Redmond searched her eyes, and she could see he was waiting eagerly for her answer.
Lisa thought about the nights they’d spent together and how perfectly she fitted into his arms. She thought about how he’d followed her all the way home after the scene in the restaurant, how he’d rescued her, and how he’d been working all this time to push through the sale of the studio so that he could help Mark and Elaine out and stay with her.
And something began to bother her.
“If you’ve been working on the sale for months,” she puzzled, slotting things together in her mind, “you knew we didn’t need the competition. So why did you come back for it?”
Redmond laughed.
“Why do you think?”
Lisa shrugged broadly, but her heart leapt. Was he going to say he’d done it for her? What other reason could there be?
“Well, I had to make sure you’d speak to me somehow.” He grinned. “I was an idiot, running off the way I did. It was only because I was so scared. I cared about you so much, but I wasn’t ready to settle down with you the way everyone would have expected me to. I wanted to make my own way in the world. And I did, but every success got emptier and emptier when you weren’t there to share them.”
Lisa couldn’t remember the last time Redmond had spoken so much. It was that, more than his expression, that made her believe him. Still, the cynical voice in her head put up a last small defence.
“You’re sure this isn’t just so we can have a big wedding at the studio and get lots of publicity?”
“Lisa,” Redmond said exasperatedly, ruffling her hair, “if you want to get married at the top of Snowdon with only the sheep for witnesses, then that’s fine with me, so long as you’ll marry me.”
Lisa smiled with relief and joy. Warmth seemed to flood through her as finally she let herself accept that it was for real. Here she was in the arms of her perfect partner, and that was how she was going to spend the rest of her life. She reached up to seal the unspoken agreement with a kiss, and neither of them moved until the familiar ringing of Redmond’s mobile startled Lisa into life.
“Shall we go in?” she asked, and this time she waited for his nod before she set off to face the verdict. Not that it mattered — the studio was safe, and the love in Redmond’s eyes as he looked down at her was a better prize than anything the competition had to offer.
It took her most of the way back into the hall to find the words she was looking for. Inside the hall, there was an expectant hush, but Lisa paused outside the door to look up at Redmond and tell him, “You know, whatever happens, I feel like I’ve won. This competition brought us together, and that’s all that matters.”
Then she pushed open the door and she and Redmond began the wal
k back to their seats. This time, looking around, Lisa started to spot faces in the crowd. She could see Rosie and Robbie near the back. And there, further forward, were Mark and Elaine, smiling encouragingly back at her, and next to them, Fritz whispering something in Jerry’s ear, which made Lisa smile. Maybe things were finally working out for Jerry.
“And here they are,” Phillipa announced, dragging Lisa’s mind back to the matter at hand. “Our winners.”
Lisa flung herself into Redmond’s arms and he held her as if he meant never to let her go.
About the Author
Stephanie Cage lives and writes in the beautiful county of Yorkshire, England. In addition to her day job in administration, she chairs a writing group, is a frequent guest on “Book It” (a literary show on community radio) and tries never to miss an episode of Strictly Come Dancing. She has a BA in English Literature from Oxford University and an MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa, and remembers her student days fondly as much for the ballrooms as the lecture theatres.
SNEAK PEEK EXCERPT FROM High Octane: Ignited by Rachel Cross and Ashlinn Craven
He’d been catching flashes of her smooth, tanned skin all night. In a conservative sea of blacks and taupes, her dress with its low-scooped back shone vibrant as a peacock’s tail. But that wasn’t what caught his eye. There were plenty of beautiful women at the Le Meridien hotel. What caught his attention was the way she carried herself; she didn’t glide about like a model, or vamp about like an actress. Instead her posture was ramrod straight—Queen’s Guard style.
He leaned against the wall, nursing his drink and watching, as she approached the bar. She gave the bartender a smile, revealing the kind of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth that indicated extensive orthodontia or good genes—in this crowd either was likely. He studied her lips as she mouthed her order, his gaze dropping to her fingers drumming impatiently on the mahogany bar.
A man at least twenty-five years her senior, vaguely familiar, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, sidled up and stood close enough to indicate familiarity. He laid a hand on hers, preventing her from taking the drink from the counter. Her expression darkened, her mouth twisted, and she said something—something cutting judging by the pained look that crossed his face.
She strode away, leaving the older gent gazing after her with longing. Ronan suppressed a shudder. May-December relationships still made him queasy, maybe because he was the product of one. He gave his collar a tug—he loathed these things. He’d been to sponsor events like this his entire career and it never—
“Incredible job in Budapest, Mr. Hawes. The way you managed the pits was inspired. This is Pantech-Windsor’s year!”
Ronan pasted on his professional smile and turned to greet the speaker. “Cheers, mate.” Some tire corporation chap if he wasn’t mistaken. American. They were crawling all over Formula 1 these days, thanks to Supernova Energy Drink. They’d money to burn. Supernova had brilliant engineers and brought new sponsors and fans into the mix. In fact, they had everything but a sane driver. Maddux, their lead driver, had more luck than a man deserved and occasional flashes of brilliance, but no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. Ronan shook the American’s hand, received a clap on the back in return, and continued moving through the crowd.
Speaking of the maverick Texan devil, Maddux Bates made eye contact across the room, sending him a sly grin, Vivienne on his arm. Ronan froze. He nodded back, teeth clenched, and headed in search of the peacock with the military bearing. He’d do anything to avoid contact with Vivienne McCloud. The woman who had gone straight from his bed to Maddux’s two races into the season, spawning such inspired tabloid headlines as “Hey You Get Off My McCloud” and “Bates Outrates Hawes.”
Teal dress was alone on the edge of the room, studying an abstract modern painting on the wall. The older man was nowhere in sight. Ronan took a sip of his Pellegrino and wandered over.
She turned her head, her gaze sharp, assessing every inch.
He stared down into her heart-shaped face. Her nose was a smidgen too tip-tilted, her mouth a shade too wide, but her eyes were clear and intelligent. The dress highlighted their not-quite-green-not-quite-blue color perfectly.
“Thoughts?” he said, indicating the painting with his drink.
She blinked at him and turned around to resume her study of it. “I’m no expert where modern art is concerned, but it looks like it might be upside down.” Her husky American-accented voice sent a surge of testosterone down his spine.
He extended his hand. “Ronan Hawes.” He waited for the spark of delayed recognition, a comment about his season. Nothing. Then again, this Brussels event didn’t house a strictly F1 crowd.
She assessed him coolly for a half a second too long, and then extended her own for a brief, firm clasp. “Cassidy Miller.” She swept a lock of wavy, dark brown hair out of her face. Only ice remained in the glass she held.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes, thanks. Double bourbon on the rocks.” She turned back to the painting.
“Right. Double bourbon it is then.” American whisky was almost as revolting as their beer.
On his approach back, he noticed that her gaze went beyond the painting and her jaw was set, the soft curve of her mouth a rigid line.
She started when he reappeared at her side.
He handed her the bourbon.
“Thanks.” Her expression smoothed back into bland. “In town for the race?”
“Yes, you?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Are you a fan?”
“Of Formula 1? Not so much. But I love NASCAR.”
He pressed his lips together. Americans and their precious NASCAR. “Oh?”
“I’m with someone who loves Formula One.” Her lips quirked. “So I deal.”
“If you enjoy racing, you’ll enjoy F1.”
She tilted her head, eyes wide. “You think?” She shook her head. “Formula One is so much more about the car than the driver.”
“Interesting opinion, but there’s the catch—the cars don’t drive themselves.”
“Don’t they? With all that technology, isn’t F1 less … I mean, aren’t the NASCAR races more of a test of the driver’s capability?”
His lips curved in an insincere smile, and despite his attraction to this woman, despite Vivienne across the room, he was tempted to walk away. It had been ages since he’d had to explain his sport to a novice. He’d more trouble with people toadying up to him than with them denigrating the sport. “You shouldn’t even mention NASCAR in the same breath as F1. Those guys wish they had our cars.”
Her wide-eyed gaze was steady on his. “Oh?”
“Formula cars are the fastest circuit racing cars on the planet. We can max them out at 350 kilometers per hour.”
Her brows lifted.
“That’s 220 miles per hour to you,” he said. “To reach that speed you need perfection—aerodynamics, suspension, tire design, all of it.”
“So it is the car?”
Was she having him on? No, she seemed merely curious.
“It’s everything. The team, the technology, the engineering, the driver. All of it packed up and shipped out after every race to the next Grand Prix, racing on different circuits, on city streets—it’s a global sport, not just for you Americans.”
“Well, maybe if you came to the United States ...”
He smiled and raised his glass. “Ah but we do. Texas built us a brand new circuit in Austin. We’ll be there in November.”
“Texas?” She pretended to shudder. “You race in Monaco. Why not the streets of New York or San Francisco?”
“San Francisco?” A laugh escaped him as he pictured his car on one of those hills. He stepped back, readying his departure with a polite smile.
She stayed him, laying a small, fine-boned hand on his forearm. He studied it—no rings or bracelets, her fingernails clipped short and without varnish, rather like her method of chatting up. His gaze rose.
She was grinning at him. He’d been baited.
She drained her drink, threaded her arm through his, and stole his line. “Want to get out of here, Mr. Hawes?”