Undone by the Star

by Stephanie Browning

  “I met your grandfather once,” said Marc, addressing Alex, “when I was a boy, but hadn’t realized the connection to the hotel and your family until recently.”

  Interesting, thought Alex, seeking refuge behind her tea cup. But surely that was a long time ago. As if sensing her confusion, Marc explained, “My godfather and Miss Sadler’s husband were old friends, and fellow military buffs who’d met ages ago at Oxford.”

  “You were born there, were you not?” her grandmother prompted.

  “That’s right.” Marc smiled, “I’m practically a native. When I was picking a hotel for my stay here in London, where else could I go but The Sadler?”

  “Where else indeed,” beamed Eugenie Sadler. A moment of comfortable silence spread across the table.

  “The Sadler has excellent plumbing,” Alex heard Marc say.

  “It does,” agreed her grandmother with a chortle.

  Alex set down her cup with a sharp click. The only explanation was that she’d fallen down a rabbit hole. But who to cast as the Mad Hatter? Or indeed the White Rabbit? She nibbled at a strawberry while the other two chitty-chatted away. Grannie was morphing into the Queen of Hearts. Alex braced herself for a game of croquet.

  “Miss Kirkwood?”

  “Oh, do call her Alex, Marc. You’re practically family!”

  If Grannie’s ankles weren’t so fragile, Alex thought, she might have kicked her under the table. She glared at her instead. This was probably some kind of test to see if she, Alexis Kirkwood, fourth-generation Sadler on her mother’s side, was indeed worthy of taking over the family business.

  Not sure who was playing whom, Alex put on her game face and smiled sweetly at Marc. He caught her eyes, and she knew in an instant, that he knew exactly what was going on but he could handle it.

  “My parents spent several years at the University,” he explained, “My father was doing a doctorate in military history, hence the connection to your late husband, and my mother specialized in eighteenth-century English Literature. I was a baby when we returned to the States. But it does give me dual citizenship.” He took a sip of his tea and turned to Alex. “What about you, Miss Kirkwood?”

  Alex set down her dessert fork. “The short story is I grew up in Ottawa. Diplomatic service runs in the family, so when I was older, I spent my summers here.” She reached for her tea and took a sip.

  Her grandmother skilfully took over the conversation, gave Marc a quick sketch of the family tree and then filled his ears with the pranks of a wayward child let loose on a harried staff. How Alex and a friend from school had nearly given the cook a heart attack when they stole the Christmas goose from the dumb waiter and replaced it with dirty sheets.

  “Although after two years with us, I suspect Alex knows more about the workings of the hotel, and what goes on behind the scenes than I do.” Her eyes slid from Marc to Alex. “It’s your Saturday off, isn’t it dear?”

  “Yes,” said Alex carefully. “I do believe it is.” Her grandmother hadn’t navigated the diplomatic world on her husband’s arm, or helped attract an elite clientele to the family firm without being a master manipulator.

  “Why don’t you take Marc to Portobello Road? He’s never been, and apparently, he’s also quite keen on military history.”

  “Really?” said Alex. She quirked a brow towards the man in question, who gazed innocently back at her.

  Miss Sadler turned an inquiring eye to her granddaughter.

  If Alex said no, Grannie would accept it with good grace, yet that would be churlish after seeing how much her grandmother had enjoyed her exchange with Marc. But if Alex said yes, she would get to spend the day with Marc Daniels. Away from The Sadler, and away from prying eyes.

  Marc settled it. “If you don’t mind, I’d like that….”

  “Fine,” said Alex. “Now if you would please excuse me?”

  Marc stood. Alex gave her grandmother a brief hug and left. It had been an interesting afternoon. Not a word had been said about Marc’s acting career or Hollywood or even why he was in London. It had been all about Grannie. The man had manners; she’d give him that.

  But still, giving up her day off to shepherd him around Notting Hill was not in her job description.

  She was halfway across the lobby when Marc caught up with her. “I know this is awkward, Alex, but give me two minutes, please.”

  She was tempted to keep going, but one did not, under any circumstances, ignore a valued guest, especially one who attracted a lot of surreptitious attention.

  “What can I help you with, Mr. Daniels?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Call me Marc or I’ll tell your grandmother on you...just kidding!” He held up his hands before she could sputter a protest.

  “I am not the enemy, Alex. At least, I’m not trying to be. However, if I were, I know who my commanding officer would be.” He smiled down at her. “She disarmed us both, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Alex relented. “She does have a way of teasing out every little bit of information.” She grinned. “I do adore her. And, thank you. She was in top form today.”

  “I honestly had no idea you were related until this afternoon. But, given the way the conversation went, I thought it best not to mention my plans.”

  “Which are?”

  “I intend to stay in London indefinitely. And I want my own place. I’ve lived in too many hotels and rented houses selected for me by someone else.”

  “I can recommend a number of estate agents who specialize in what I believe you are looking for,” Alex said. And she could, easily. Marc Daniels wouldn’t be the first guest who’d decided on a permanent address in London.

  “Thank you, Alex.” said Marc. “Now about Saturday.”

  “What about it?” Alex tried and failed to keep her voice neutral. She liked having him call her by her first name. It sounded…intimate. Stop it, Alex, she warned herself.

  “I could have an urgent meeting with my producer,” Marc suggested, “and have to cancel?”

  “Don’t do that! Grannie would have my head!”

  Marc was staring down at her. ‘If that’s the only reason you agreed to accompany me, then perhaps we’d better not go.”

  She drew her brows together and studied him. Was he insulted or looking for encouragement?

  “I’ll see you here in the lobby at nine-thirty,” she said. “Sharp. And try dressing more like…,” Alex frowned, “…like you did the other day.”

  That terrifyingly wonderful smile lit up his face. “Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a quick salute and left.

  Damn his eyes, and damn the rest of him, thought Alex as she watched him walk away. Just looking at him was enough to want him. And there was no place in her life for casual. She would do her job, escort him to Portobello Road, and make sure he found the perfect flat. Then he would move out of The Sadler, and her life would be her own again.

  Why did the idea suddenly seem a little bleak?

  Strolling along Portobello Road with a coffee in his hand and Alex by his side, was the most normal thing Marc had done in ages. Just taking the underground to Notting Hill Gate had given him a sense of new-found freedom. They’d simply blended in with the throng of Saturday shoppers wandering through the market. The slightly ragged hoodie pulled up over his head and the broad sunglasses had done the trick. He was invisible to the crowds. The sheer pleasure of feeling like a regular guy out for the day with a beautiful woman made Marc want to throw his arms around Alex and hug her.

  Even the weather was perfect. Alex’s hair had a copper sheen to it in the sun and she seemed happy to be out of uniform, more relaxed than he’d seen her before, in a pair of form-fitting jeans and a cotton top. He could hardly take his eyes off her.

  Knots of antique hunters and gaggles of tourists gathered in front of shop windows and spilled over into the street making it difficult to navigate. They stepped to one side to finish their coffees, then rejoined the crowd.
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  “Hey, check this out!” Alex beckoned him towards a window filled with vintage costumes, travel trunks and all the props for a 1920s weekend in the country. “Isn’t that your era?”

  Marc had told her about the film he was working on when they first set out, a post-war drama set on a crumbling estate in Yorkshire. He was excited about his meeting with the studio execs the day before, and wanted to share it with her, but most of all, he’d wanted to ease any awkwardness she might feel over this “date” of theirs.

  He studied their reflections in the shop window. Without thinking, he set his hands on Alex’s shoulders. And felt her freeze. Her eyes shot up to his and held steady. Marc felt her body relax beneath his hands and the warm floral scent she wore wrapped around him. Like shadows they held steady in the reflection of the window, intimately, breathlessly, connected. And then the moment was gone, jostled by a knapsack-wearing tourist.

  Probably for the best, thought Marc. He dropped his hands and took her elbow.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s find those lead soldiers your grandmother was telling me about.”

  “Across the street,” said Alex pointing the way. “Exactly how did you meet my grandfather?”

  “My godfather was an avid collector of lead soldiers, and your grandfather was the executor of his estate,” explained Marc. “Whenever I visited, I always helped my godfather clean the figures. I loved to line them up in their regiments, and play with them, which is probably why he left me his collection when he died. I was maybe ten at the time. Your grandfather helped me box it up and arrange for it to be shipped to the States.”

  They were moving at a snail’s pace. Marc shifted his hand to Alex’s shoulder so they wouldn’t get separated. “But, and this is the cool part, he had me pick my favourite soldier and we packed it in cotton wool. It should travel with me, he said, just like an army scout.”

  Alex smiled back at him. “My Grampa must have died shortly after that. I wasn’t very old but I loved the smell of him when I sat on his lap. All smoky and spicy from his aftershave.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. She reached up and squeezed his hand back.

  “In here,” she said, cutting through the stream of pedestrians to enter the Antique Hall. It was incredibly cramped inside, tiny shops with barely room to pass by, let alone get a good look at all the silver and jewels beneath the glass counters, or the fine laces and art lining the walls. Every surface was covered. Every step meant pushing shoulder to shoulder past other shoppers. The rumble of hundreds of conversations was as much a physical presence as the goods on offer.

  Alex mouthed, “This way.”

  Marc leaned his head close to her ear. “Don’t want to lose you,” he murmured as he reached for her hand.

  Alex simply nodded. She could feel the warmth of their togetherness working its way perilously close to her heart. Just for today, she told herself, she would let herself forget who he was…who she was.

  They edged past heaps of antique silver, paused at a display of military patches, insignia and medals, and came to a full stop in front of a glass counter housing a magnificent collection of lead soldiers.

  “These are amazing,” Marc said in her ear, his breath caressing her skin. While Marc spoke with the dealer, Alex pressed up against the counter, feeling a little weak at the knees, her eyes roaming over the mock battles and rows of infantrymen. They were sorted by regiment, and lined up on shelves at the back of the stall. She surprised herself, happily identifying uniforms and time periods: Napoleonic, Victorian, the American Civil War, World Wars I and II. No wonder Marc found them so fascinating; they were a microcosm of history.

  “I’ve got just what you’re asking about,” the vendor, a huge bald man who looked more like a bouncer than an antiques expert, said loudly reaching into a drawer and pulling out a small box. The figure nestled within was about the size of Alex’s baby finger.

  “Oh, wow,” Marc pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt, took off his dark glasses and turned to her. “Alex, look at this!”

  It happened in an instant. A middle-aged woman in the crush behind them took one look at Marc and squealed, “Marc Daniels! I can’t believe it! It’s Marc Daniels!”

  She whipped out her phone and the camera flashed.

  And then suddenly, guerrilla photographers were popping up everywhere. First one, then another and another.

  Marc held up his hand to shield them, but the non-stop flash of multiple cameras was overwhelming. “Just doing a little shopping here!” Marc called out. He had slipped into star mode, Alex realized, diverting the fans with a heart-stopping grin, but all that seemed to do was galvanize the celebrity-obsessed crowd even further.

  Alex watched in horror as regular, everyday tourists surged toward them like a tidal way until the tiny aisle was packed so tightly, she could scarcely breathe. The rumble had become a roar. Alex glanced at Marc, but he didn’t seem concerned. She certainly was. He was her responsibility and she was bloody well going to get them out of there!

  Acting quickly, Alex pulled out her phone and pressed the number code for The Sadler’s private fleet.

  “Frank!” she shouted into the phone. The jostling and screeching increased in volume. She was caught up in the crush of bodies as she hunted frantically for a way through the crowd. “Send a car for us. Right. Westbourne Grove...I’m sure that’s the one….”

  Alex pocketed her phone, jabbed a woman with her elbow and made her way back to Marc, grabbing him by the arm. “We have to go!”

  “Wait!” He shook her off, pulled a wad of cash from the pocket of his jeans and thrust it at the dealer. Scooping up his prize, Marc turned to leave, but the seething mass was now pushing bits of paper and pens in his face and clamouring for his autograph.

  The dealer had obviously had enough. He barrelled his way to the front of his stall making a barrier between Marc, Alex and the crowd.

  “Give a customer a break!” he bellowed. “Go on, all of you! Show’s over!”

  “Now, Marc!” Alex hissed in his ear. “We have to go now!”

  She clamped her hand around his and yanked him in the opposite direction, taking them deeper into the warren of stalls. She was aiming for the back corner of the building where the dealers dumped their unsalable odds and ends. “Through here,” she urged Marc. They slipped past a stack of packing crates and tore down the passageway.

  Alex was so relieved to see the exit she slammed against the crossbar. They bolted through the door and onto the pavement just as their driver raced up in a silver sedan. Marc dove into the back, and Alex scrambled in after him.

  As they sped away, Alex looked out the back window to see Marc’s fans literally chasing after the car, still waving their scraps of paper and snapping photos.

  She turned to glare at Marc. “How do you stand it?” she demanded.

  “It comes with the territory.” He shrugged, but his rigid jawline told a different story.

  “That’s it?” Alex challenged. “That’s all you’ve got to say!”

  “No, it is not all I have to say.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Alex hunched a shoulder and turned her back on him, staring out the window at the London scene they wove through the Saturday traffic towards The Sadler. “Take us through the mews entrance, please, Frank.”

  “Ma’am.” The driver’s eyes flickered briefly in the rear-view mirror, a reassuring sight after the close call they’d had in the marketplace.

  Absently, Alex rubbed a bruise forming on her arm, thanking her lucky stars she’d had the foresight to tell Frank they might need a lift home. But never in her wildest dreams had she thought they would be swarmed by a horde of middle-aged paparazzi!

  By the time they reached the hotel, Alex was so very over Marc Daniels, she wanted to cry.

  CHAPTER THREE

  By Monday morning, having cleaned her tiny flat from top to bottom, done her laundry and filled two boxes with donations for
the charity shop, Alex was forced to admit it. Her plan to exorcise Marc Daniels from her mind had failed.

  If she wasn’t reliving the feel of her hand in his, she was mooning over how perfect they had looked together, their image reflected back at them as they browsed the shops along Portobello Road. She couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened had their day not ended in disaster. A leisurely lunch in a nice restaurant, maybe, or a stroll through Kensington Gardens….

  But he’d been so obliging, so much the film star, posing for pictures, acknowledging the adulation of the crowd, that she’d been unable to contain her anger. The man reflected beside her became a chameleon – someone she didn’t know at all. It was only later, when she lay in bed unable to sleep, that Alex realized the whole sequence of events had left her feeling abandoned, and, even, if she were brutally honest, a tiny bit jealous.

  Which, in the light of day, was absurd. They came from different worlds, and that was all there was to it. She’d wasted enough time sulking in her room; and if she didn’t get a move on, she would be late for work. She reached for her suit jacket, gave it a brush, and slipped it on. She was doing up the last button when her phone rang.

  “Alexis Kirkwood,” she answered.

  “Alex. It’s Cyril, front desk.”

  His voice was off. Alex scooped up her keys and walked rapidly towards the door.

  “What is it, Cyril?”

  “A Mrs. Taylor is asking for you. She was to meet your grandmother here. At 11:30 to attend a luncheon at Kew, and it’s nearly noon. I took the liberty of calling Miss Sadler, but there is no answer. Perhaps…?”

  Alex was already on her way down the stairs. “Have Helen meet me at Grannie’s suite.”

  Ending the call, Alex flew across the cobblestoned courtyard. Grannie was nothing, if not prompt. Especially on days when she was going out. Helen, her personal assistant would have been with her this morning, but she generally returned to her other duties around eleven.