A Brit Unexpected (Castle Calder Book 2)

by Brenda St John Brown

  Chapter Twenty

  After one train that’s hotter than the desert in July, dropping my Oyster card in the loo on train two, and getting caught in the taxi queue from hell at Waterloo station, I’m feeling high-strung by the time my taxi approaches the address Greyson gave me. Especially since Maddox House looks nothing like the glamorous hotel I was expecting. It looks more like a building of flats.

  “Are you sure this is it?” I ask the cab driver.

  The cabbie doesn’t even hesitate. “Positive.”

  It’s his job to know the streets of London backward and forwards, so yeah. I glance at the meter above my head and tap my bank card on the card reader by the glass partition. Okay, this isn’t what I envisioned, but Greyson isn’t your typical Hollywood type, so it’s probably fine. Plus, I’m here now. Later than intended and still without a dress for tonight.

  That thought propels me out of the cab and up to the front door of the building. There’s a keypad to the left similar to the one on my apartment building and I scan it for some clue how to get in or what to do. Finally, I press the silver button at the bottom and the door clicks open. I push myself and my suitcase through and end up in a very small lobby with a fish tank and a well-dressed woman in a suit, sitting behind a roll-top desk.

  “May I help you?” she asks.

  “I’m visiting Greyson Vaughn. He’s expecting me.” I hate that I sound unsure, but I am. How would she know he’s expecting me?

  “You are…?”

  “Claire Dyer.” I still sound tentative, but at least it’s not a question.

  She glances down. “Of course. Mr. Vaughn is in unit number three. Take the lift to the first floor and you’ll see unit three at the end to your left.”

  She points to the lift behind me, I mumble thanks, and press the button. For some reason taking the lift only one floor always makes me feel guilty, but in this case it beats dragging my case up a flight of marble stairs and it’s not like there’s anyone here waiting. In fact, the whole place is as quiet as a church. Even the lift seems to whisper, its doors swishing open and closed like the slightest intake of breath.

  When they swish open on the first floor, there’s still no sign of life and, even though I see the three on the door to the left as clear as if it were stenciled on my eyelids, I’m tempted to get back in the lift and get the hell out of here. Because what if this is some horrible mistake and I’ve misread everything? Greyson’s an actor. Of course he’s going to be convincing. And what if he just wants me here to further his claim that he’s not stalking Alexa? Nothing like showing up on his arm at a premiere to do exactly that. I’m the gullible one who changed my work shifts with hardly a question.

  But on the other hand, how many movie premieres am I going to go to in my life? And so what if it’s just another thing to further Greyson’s agenda? I could do a hell of a lot worse.

  The door marked with a three opens and Greyson stands there in jeans and a striped shirt left untucked. If I hadn’t just been half-talking myself into getting out of here, I’d fling myself at him because, Christ on a cracker, he’s looking very flingable. Or at least very tall and strong and able to catch me.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Wondering if I’m going to stay or get the hell out of here before this goes any further.”

  He doesn’t take a single step and he waits a good thirty seconds before speaking. Which is about twenty-eight seconds too long, but it’s worth it when he says, “If you leave here before I can kiss you, I will chase you down, I swear to God.”

  We both move at the same time and in two steps Greyson’s arms are around me and we’re kissing. In the middle of the hallway. With his hand snaking under my sweater, setting my skin on fire. His kiss is hot and hard and so possessive it takes my breath away.

  It also takes everything I have to grab Greyson’s wrist and say, “I don’t think the hallway’s the best idea.”

  His arm stays around my shoulder and he steers me through door number three, closing it firmly behind us and pressing me up against it. His lips come back to mine, then move down my neck as he says, “I’ve been imagining this for three days.”

  Me, too. And more. Especially after all of our texts-slash-sexts we’ve been exchanging rapid fire. Last night’s ended with me not even making it off the couch before unzipping my jeans and slipping my hand down my pants after Greyson and I hung up, that’s how turned on I was. After which I considered begging him to call me, but found some self-restraint somewhere and didn’t.

  But now that we’re together in person? All. Bets. Are. Off. And, judging by his bulge pressing against my hip, I’m not the only one who’s ready for way fewer clothes and a lot more skin. So when Greyson backs away, it takes me a few seconds to realize he’s not kissing me anymore because my body is humming.

  “I already regret this,” he starts. My heart sinks faster than a paraglider caught in a down draft, but Greyson continues quickly. “But if we’re going to get you something to wear tonight, you need to get going.”

  “Right. Ted Baker. Yes. Wow.” I sound like a ninny, but my hormones are terrible at forming proper sentences and they’re totally in charge right now.

  “Jivika said she’d meet you at Starbucks on Oxford Street. She’ll get you sorted out on the dress front and take you for hair and make up. I’ll pick you up and then we’ll do the whole camera and red carpet thing, watch the film, and there’s a party afterwards at a place in Covent Garden.” Greyson’s demeanor is exactly the opposite of mine. Weren’t we just…? Wasn’t he…?

  He’s an actor! A hard-on is probably just an occupational hazard.

  But all those texts.

  Maybe he’s a method actor. That’s a thing, right?

  “Claire?” Greyson traces a finger across my collarbone. “Are you all right?”

  Blood rushes to my face and I hope I’m not suddenly all splotchy. “Yes, sure. Sorry. I was fairylanding.”

  “Fairylanding?” He smiles.

  “My old high school Spanish teacher used to say that all the time when we tuned out in class.” I smile, too. “I lost track of myself for a second there, but I’m back now. Who’s this Jivika person?”

  Jivika, it turns out, is a supporting actress in tonight’s film and one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever met. Which says a lot considering all of the time I’ve spent with Scarlett St Julien. Like Scarlett, Jivika has wild black hair, but that’s where the similarities end. Where Scarlett is tall and willowy, Jivika is petite and dainty. Unlike Scarlett’s trademark black and greys, Jivika wears so much color it’s hard to know where to look first. From the bright yellow scarf wound around her hair to her purple and pink jumper and white corduroys, she’s easy to keep track of in a crowd, which is good because she moves at lightning speed from the minute we meet.

  “I’m thinking a maxi cut-out, yeah?” Jivika says, pushing hangers to the side in the room full of dresses we’ve ended up in by slipping in a side door off Oxford Street.

  The other thing about Jivika is she says “yeah” constantly in proper South East London fashion, even though her accent isn’t British. Instead of answering, I ask, “Where are you from? I’ve been trying to guess, but I’m drawing a blank.”

  Jivika grins. “I’m from everywhere, yeah? I was born outside Mumbai, but we moved to New York when I was five and then to Hong Kong, Melbourne, Dubai, and finally London. My parents just moved to Singapore, but there’s no real film business there, so I’m staying here until I can figure out a way to get to California.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of places to live.” Says the girl who’s only ever lived in England and can count on one hand how often she’s left.

  “This might be a good one.” Jivika pulls a royal blue dress from the rack and thrusts it at me. “Yeah, but it was just what my family did. I liked it until I met a boy in Dubai. Then all of a sudden leaving wasn’t so great, yeah?”

  “I can see that.” I point to a red dress. “This
one, maybe?”

  Jivika looks at me and shakes her head. “I don’t think it will work with your coloring, but you can try it. Cool colors will look better on you. We have this amazing emerald green dress around here that would look great on you if I can find it.”

  She wanders off to the other side of the room and I look around again. This is some kind of warehouse; there’s nothing here but racks of clothes and a wall of mirrors. It feels very back stairs and I almost ask if the items here are legit, but what difference would it make? It’s my only opportunity to find something for tonight and I’m in Jivika’s care until I see Greyson next, so it’s best not to offend her.

  “What are you wearing tonight?” I call over to her as she pulls another dress from the rack.

  “I have a white and silver number. It’s very ooh-la-la.” Jivika grins. “The kind of dress my very conservative father will disapprove of.”

  “Are your parents here tonight?” I ask.

  “No, but I like to base my wardrobe choices on what he’d dislike. If my father had his way, I’d dress like a nun.” Jivika hangs the dresses on the end of a rack and waves me over. “Let’s start with these because I think one of them will work and we need time for hair and make up, yeah?”

  “Greyson said something about that, but you don’t have to…” I start.

  “It’s part of the arrangement, no worries. And Laura is a miracle worker. Not that you need a miracle, but when you see what she can do, you’ll be chuffed.” Jivika waves her hand at me. “Are you trying those on or not?”

  Yes, I am. In the middle of this warehouse with no curtain or changing room, apparently. Good thing I’m wearing decent underwear. I try on six dresses and settle on the emerald green one Jivika said would be amazing. It’s a deep green with a bit of shimmer, fitted through the bodice with tiny spaghetti straps and a flared skirt that hits right above my knee and swishes when I walk. Jivika gives a low whistle and assures me it will photograph well, but before I even ask what she’s talking about, she thrusts the dress at me and pulls her phone from her pocket, motioning me to follow.

  We weave down Oxford Street single-file because, for four o’clock on a Thursday, it’s packed. Don’t these people have jobs? Some have that young professional look, but there are plenty of couples and groups of girls who look like they’re out having a jolly. Unlike Jivika, who looks purposeful—at least judging by her backside and the way she strides down the pavement. She’s fast, which is impressive for a short girl and not only because she’s on her phone the whole time.

  I miss most of what she’s saying, but the snippets I do catch are all about the premiere tonight. Nothing about Greyson or me, except when we turn down a small side street, she turns a key in a big glass door and we start climbing a steep flight of stairs, she says into her phone, “I’ve got to go, yeah? I’m with Greyson’s girlfriend on my way to hair and make-up.”

  “Oh, I’m not… Greyson’s not my boyfriend.” My words tumble out, but Jivika’s not listening.

  “He’s picking us up in an hour and Drew will meet us at the theatre. I’m going to text him when we’re in the car and if traffic cooperates we’ll arrive at the same time so we can do the carpet.” Jivika pushes through another door and motions me to follow. “Greyson and his girlfriend will come in last. It keeps the cameras there and gives us all some extra exposure, so make sure you’re ready to actually smile. Okay, see you at show time, yeah?”

  Jivika doesn’t turn around as we arrive in an airy room filled with chairs and mirrors. It’s a beauty salon, but we’re the only ones in it, save for a gorgeous redhead, who Jivika embraces like a long-lost sister, speaking French that’s way too fast for me to follow along.

  Then she flounces into a chair and gestures to the redhead, “Laura, this is Claire. Work your magic.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jivika wasn’t kidding. When Laura finishes with me, I look so incredible I’m still doing double takes as the car slows when I catch a glimpse of myself in the tinted window of the Mercedes we ride in to the theatre. According to Greyson, we’re at one of the smaller venues for a London premiere, but it doesn’t look small to me with the red carpet stretching from the curb and a group of camera-wielding photographers pointing lenses at our car like a firing squad.

  His hand rests on my knee. “It looks worse than it is.”

  Does it?

  Greyson and I have exchanged exactly zero minutes of conversation since he picked up Jivika and me from Laura’s salon and I have no idea how we’re going to do this. From the basics—is he going to hold my hand or am I supposed to take his arm?—to the more finite details, like what the hell do I say when someone asks me a direct question about our relationship? Instead, he’s been coaching Jivika. Who, not to sound like a cow, looks like she was born for this.

  I mean, first of all, she’s stunning. Her silver and white gown against her dark skin and her wavy hair filled with shiny combs make her sparkle like a fairy princess who could and would grant your every wish. Jivika’s been amazing to me today and I know this is her moment, her film, her premiere. But, dammit, I could use a little coaching myself.

  Greyson called this a date when he asked me to join him here today and all of our conversations this week have felt like foreplay. Even that kiss at his flat—Jivika told me Maddox House is a building full of luxury serviced flats—was begging for more. But how does that translate here in front of a wall of cameras and vloggers eager for a sound bite from the so-called mystery woman on Greyson’s arm?

  “What do I say when they ask me about you?” I blurt out.

  Greyson and Jivika both turn to stare at me. Jivika answers first. “Tell them you’re his paid escort. I want to see that blow up on social media.”

  “Christ Almighty.” Greyson’s eyes widen, but he smiles. “That’s not the kind of publicity any of us want.”

  “Okay? So?”

  “Tell them yes, you’re the girl everyone’s wondering about. That way it answers the question and you don’t come across as coy. But when they press you, you can say you’ve been spending time together getting to know each other and you don’t feel comfortable speculating further at this time.” Jivika says this in a lilting sing-song, completely the opposite of her real voice. “You could also add how much you’re looking forward to tonight’s film because you’ve heard it’s totally kick ass, but I’ll leave that up to you.”

  I laugh and feel some of the tension leave me. Jivika’s answer is a good one and I can use that in a pinch. “I’ve heard one of the supporting actresses steals the show.”

  “Damn right, she does.” Jivika flattens her hands on her skirt. “Okay. It’s show time. I’m going to pop out with Drew and you two come last, yeah?”

  She slips out the door and I see a tall guy with shoulder-length wavy black hair come to join her on the red carpet. Flashbulbs go off and a blonde woman in a short red dress stops them and shoves a microphone in Jivika’s face. Fuck a duck, I am not sure I’m up for this. Greyson’s hand finds my knee and I tear my eyes away.

  “Can I tell you again how amazing you look?” he murmurs.

  “Of course.” A girl can’t hear it too often and it’s possible I’m going to be replaying the minute Greyson first saw me in Laura’s salon for years to come. To say he was awestruck is an understatement, but then again, so am I. Because Greyson Vaughn in a tuxedo? Bloody marvelous.

  “You look amazing.” Greyson’s lips brush my ear. “And I’m sorry I’ve not prepared you very well for this. I promise you’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”

  “Are you going to be yourself?” The firmness of my tone surprises both of us.

  “What do you mean?” Greyson’s brow furrows.

  “This is work for you tonight, isn’t it?” I wait for him to nod. “So, you’re here as Greyson Vaughn, actor, and I’m here as that guy’s date.”

  “Which means you want a script?” His shoulders straighten and he nods without waiting for my reply. “O
kay, Jivika’s suggestion was a good one. The woman in the red dress is from one of the talk shows, so she’ll be the most aggressive. If anyone’s going to force a sound bite from you, it will be her.”

  “Good to know.” I have visions of her prying my mouth open and it makes my stomach somersault.

  “What feels natural? Say something and see how it comes out,” Greyson suggests. He drops his voice as he continues, “So, Claire, your relationship with Greyson. Care to elaborate?”

  My palms feel damp. “Um, not really. I know everyone’s been wondering and, yes, Greyson and I have been spending some time together. But I’d prefer to keep private matters private. I’m sure you understand.”

  Greyson laughs loudly. “I think that’s perfect. It’s so English and proper.”

  I smile, but I can’t deny the warmth flooding my stomach, a combination of relief and pleasure. “Well, I’m English and proper, so that’s about right.”

  Greyson raises a brow and his grip on my knee tightens a fraction. “Are you? Because some of the things you’ve been texting to me didn’t…”

  I elbow him in the ribs and stare pointedly at the driver, who can hear every word we’re saying. The last thing I need is someone asking the driver for behind-the-scenes dirt on Greyson and me.

  Before I can go down that rabbit hole, Greyson points out the window. “That’s Tabitha Fuller and Zeke Jones. They’re the leads in the film. After they pass the next set of cameras it’s our turn.”

  Oh. Lord.

  My palms now feel like I’ve washed my hands and there’s no hand dryer in sight. I can’t wipe them on my dress for fear of wet marks, so I settle for wiping them on my shimmery black tights, which has zero impact. My stomach starts doing back flips as Greyson slides across the leather seat and reaches for my hand, stepping out onto the pavement.

  I give him my fingertips, but he slips his palm into mine and I cringe because I’m sure it feels like grabbing a wet flannel. He smiles anyway and says, “Come on. Let’s go have fun.”