“Where the hell is your Chauncey Miller? He’s quickly turning from dream marketing plan into the disappearing spy that he is. I called his office or headquarters or whatever you call it—”
“Scotland Yard,” Sophia interrupted. She slammed the empty glass down on the table. Even while fighting nausea she managed to frown at the man’s rant. She didn’t like the director talking about her Chauncey as if he were a prop or a troublesome runaway teenager. Didn’t he know Chauncey had cases to solve and people to save?
“Yeah. Bottom line is they either don’t know where the top gun of their so called ‘Flying Squad’ is or they aren’t telling me.” He glared at her. “So?”
She furrowed her brow and stared back at him. She flitted a glance at Grace, who looked serious and pale.
“Give me his damn cell number. This is no time to be secretive. We have an airing schedule to keep. I can juggle the shoots, but the programming schedule is like petrified wood. It ain’t changing.”
Chauncey was out on a mission. And she wasn’t there. She felt the anvil of truth slamming down on her heart. She didn’t care about anything else at that moment but being with him. More importantly, being there for him to check in with and come home to. She jumped up from her chair. To hell with the damn show and the programming schedule. What good would it do to be a TV decorating star if she wouldn’t be going home to win Chauncey’s proud smile at the end of the day? What else would her triumph mean? Very little. Very damn little. She may as well pay the bills working at the grocery store chain with her father.
She dashed inside and through the great room, hopping over wires. The place felt like an obstacle course and at the end of it was her Chauncey. Or at least her cell phone. She would call him and beg him to let her come back to London.
She snatched her phone from her bag, finding it on the first try for once, and punched in his code number—one-one. She didn’t wait long for the message as she paced into the hallway with the phone pressed to her ear. It didn’t even ring, but went straight to his away message. The anvil dropped straight to her stomach and she found herself pacing back to the great room and dropping into the nearest chair. She gulped air in and out. Her mind went blank.
Chauncey turned his cell phone off as instructed by the flight attendant and gazed out the window in the direction of the States. He looked at his watch and wondered again whether he should have called her to let her know he was coming. But how would he have explained over the phone why he was coming? All his explanations sounded lame because they were excuses for the real reason. And he’d be damned if he was going to talk to her about his deepest feelings over the phone. He didn’t suffer through to this point, reaching some level of wisdom, so that he could mishandle it with an overseas phone call. He’d explain it all to her in person. His father was right. He smiled.
It was a comfort to know the wonderful warm father of his boyhood was not gone. He still existed beneath the rock-encrusted exterior of a law enforcement legend turned bureaucrat. He would be lucky to follow in his father’s footsteps after all—in every respect. Although the road had changed, he was headed for the same destination. A life fully lived in every respect. It’s not that he wouldn’t do some things differently. He would not hold his children at arm’s length, no matter what happened.
He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes and popped a picture of his Pixie into his mind like he was flipping open a photo album. He knew he had that special man-in-love smile on his face and he cared not what the hopeful flight attendant thought. Last month he’d have taken her with him from the airport to his room. One short month and he’d become a wise man. Or at least wiser. He pictured Pixie’s skeptical squint at the notion and barked a laugh.
“Is everything all right, sir?” came the question from the hovering flight attendant.
He opened his eyes. She smiled at him. He shook his head and pushed back onto the head rest. “Everything is perfect. Or it will be in about seven hours and twenty-two minutes when we arrive.”
She nodded and treated him to a bigger, brighter smile. He gave her no more than a nod and, turning to the window, he returned to contemplating his mental slideshow of Pixie.
“We’ll have to go on without him—it’ll be all right. When he gets here we’ll add him into the shots, right?” Grace looked to the director for reassurance. She sat on the arm of Sophia’s chair, put an arm around her shoulder and leaned in.
Sophia knew she had to do something—anything—to find out what was going on with Chauncey. Her Chauncey. She felt baffled at how she could have possibly walked away from him a few short days ago leaving their relationship in limbo.
What was wrong with her? Where was he now with his phone turned off? She needed to catch the first plane back to London to find out.
“You can carry on without me too because I’m headed for the airport.” She shrugged from Grace’s protective hold and stood.
The director shouted, “No way that works. We don’t have time to wait for you to find him and bring him back. The shoot schedule is tight up against the airing date as it is.”
“You don’t understand. I don’t care about the—”
Grace stood and grabbed her, clamping a hand over her mouth, and then squeezed her in a hug, whispering in her ear, “Don’t be rash.”
Then out loud Grace said to the director, “You’re right of course. He could be en route—his plane delayed. We don’t even know if he’s in London. He could be on assignment anywhere….”
Sophia had a flash. “Let’s call David. He’ll know—or he can find out.”
Grace’s face lit up. It was the mere mention of David’s name that produced the angel-glow aura every time. “I’ll bet you’re right.” Grace reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. She tapped one finger, put the phone to her ear and patted Sophia.
Sophia folded her arms across her chest, fully aware that she was clamping down on the vicious beating of her heart while they waited for David to answer. He would definitely answer Grace’s call no matter how many times she called for something stupid. The thought wrenched Pixie’s heart sideways. She wanted Chauncey to be that way with her.
“David—I’m so glad I got you—what?” Grace stopped speaking and Sophia watched her friend’s face as she listened to her husband. Something was off.
Grace shut her phone and looked at her. “He’s here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m here.”
The familiar gruff voice commanded her attention and she spun around to see Chauncey. He stood right there in the entry with David behind him. Her entire world spun and the dizziness gave her a fizzy feeling, like an uncorked bottle of champagne. She was propelled forward with the force of her emotions to land in Chauncey’s waiting arms.
He withstood the onslaught—more challenging due to the emotions churning his insides and cranking up his heart rate than from the force of Pixie landing against him. His arms wrapped around her as she buried her head in his chest. He kissed the top of her silky red-wigged head as if it were some sacred, nearly lost talisman. More like she was a lost part of him. Her generous curves crushed against him were having an effect, and though the people around them politely gave them their moment, he doubted they’d stand for him dragging her into the nearest bedroom to have his way. He willed his hormones to back down as they seemed to race to his brain, threatening to overwhelm him.
Chauncey took her by the arms and pulled her from him, moving his hands to caress her face and turn her eyes to his. He sucked in a breath when he saw the sparkle of tears on her eyelashes. The mischief flooded from her green eyes. She immediately squirmed from his hold as a pinkish hue rose to her face.
“We were worried. You could have let us know you were running late.” She gestured like the true Italian she was, with her hands flying around her. “We were all waiting. You know how much money it costs to run this?”
“I believe that’s my line, honey,” the director ap
proached from behind. Chauncey despised the immediate spike in his ire. He knew “honey” was a meaningless term. Still, he clenched his jaw and gave the man an unwilling smile. And questioned what the hell he was doing here—on the set of a decorating show no less.
Chauncey put his arm around Pixie as she turned to face the director and leaned into her, whispering, “You had damn well better appreciate my appearance here at all.”
He watched her nostrils flare with smug righteousness. He was the one out on a limb here—an unfamiliar place for him when it came to emotional entanglements. The tightening in his chest and the racing pulse told him she was worth it, but the discomfort of danger grew, even if it wasn’t the danger of losing life-and-limb. His excitement blurred between his need for her and his fear she would reject him. He couldn’t even tell if the uncertainty was irrational—leftover from childhood hangups—or how much should be attributed to the real possibility that she didn’t want him. Not for keeps anyway. Experiencing that kind of crushing blow could reduce him to his helpless eleven-year-old boy state. How would he come back from that? He shuddered as he half-listened to the director.
“…Sophia’s brilliant idea, but I agree. Marketing her show as hip and exciting cutting-edge Bondian decorating, with a salute to retro elements…”
None of it made sense to him except that Pixie was using him to market her show. Beads of sweat moistened his temples and the back of his neck. The director paused and Pixie remained quiet and still next to him. He sensed a requirement for him to nod his approval and he did so. In for a pound.
“We’ve put our heads together with the producer…”
“Who put their heads together with the producer? I wasn’t…” Pixie finally spoke. Even in his ridiculously unsure state of mind, he sensed her anxiety and that stirred a positive spurt of hope. Or maybe it was adrenaline. Still, uncertainty tortured him. He tightened his arm around her shoulder to reassure himself, though she could take it as reassurance for her if she needed it. One damp palm hugged the wondrous curve of her waist. He dwelled on that curve because he needed to and almost missed what the director said next. Pixie’s stiffening alerted him to pay attention.
“…don’t worry, you’ll only be half naked,” the director said.
“Half…” He couldn’t have heard correctly.
“What did you say?” Pixie interrupted him.
“I told you. We took your idea and we’re running with it. It’s time we got some eye-candy on decorating shows for women. Of course we’re including the usual gorgeous girls too. We’ll even allow you to help pick out the Bond-esque girls, Mr. Miller—or is it Sir Miller?”
He knocked his incredulous boiling blood down to simmer and answered. “No, that would be my father.” The thought of his father and what he’d make of it all sent a spasm of trepidation through him. The thought of how much of this was Pixie’s idea slipped through the crack in his confidence that she’d managed to widen. How much of her insistence that he participate in her show was due to missing him and how much was fed by her ambition and this wild marketing plan?
“Darling, don’t you think that’s a bit over the top and off the reservation for a decorating show? After all, we need to think about planning a show every week and we can hardly…” Pixie sounded reasonable.
“Natch, Pix, we’re talking launch show here—the big kick-off. The rest of the shows will all be around decorating homes for people on the go and into the latest gadgetry—the sophisticates—people who entertain and want to impress—including the wow factor with practical high-tech functionality…”
“Whatever.” Pixie paused, wrapped an arm around him and squeezed herself to his side as if she wanted to become attached to him and said firmly, “There will be no Bond-esque women. Chauncey will be fully clothed.”
“Listen, you’re the talent; you don’t make these decisions and I…”
“What the lady says goes.” He spoke the words with the finality he felt and the surge in his adrenaline pushing his voice to a boom that quieted the room.
For a beat, there was silence. Then the director, pulling himself to his full height, and addressing Pixie and not Chauncey, spoke up again.
“Or what?” The man took on the smug look of a man holding all the aces. Chauncey felt Pixie tense and ready herself for a retort, but he spoke for her—for both of them—and with confidence this time.
“Or we—and I mean both of us—will not do the show.”
The gasp came from everywhere, and Pixie pulled away and looked up at him, for the first time since they stood side-by-side. He met her gaze and those squinty green eyes looked back. They sparkled and the corners of her mouth turned up in spite of the effort she made to squelch her smile. She knew what it would cost him to do the show. Same as he knew what it would cost her not to do the show.
“You can’t do that…you signed a contract,” the director said, returning his gaze to Pixie to address her. “You won’t get another chance.”
“I’m taking my chances. With Chauncey.”
Grace, who’d been standing with David’s arm clamped around her shoulder, finally spoke up. “Now let’s not throw this baby out with the bathwater. I’m sure we can still have a smash show without naked chests and extraneous Bond women.” Grace took the director’s arm and turned to him. “Let’s give the producer a call and be sensible about this. No need to let this brainstorm fly out of control here. At the core, we’re about decorating…” She led the director away from their hallway conference and back onto the set.
“I need to speak with you. Privately,” Chauncey said to Pixie.
“Funny. I have the same need.” She didn’t bother hiding the pleasure in her mischevious green eyes. Like emeralds. More priceless than the emerald he’d lost all those years ago. He remembered the incident and all its horror, but he didn’t feel the familiar gut wrenching that had gone with the memory for so many years. Whatever river of deep-seated angst had been feeding his horror and sadness had run dry. She’d done that. Pixie.
“I know a room where we can go,” she said and led him to the last bedroom down the hallway—a place he hadn’t seen on his previous visits to this town house. Now that he thought of it, he’d become rather fond of this place after all that had happened here. It had become one of those special places in their relationship. Some people had restaurants. They had a decorating show set.
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind them.
She turned to him with her hands on her hips and her bravado in full force. He smiled—on the inside—without the least trepidation or break in his confidence. He folded his arms and gave her a halfhearted glare, ready to hear whatever trumped-up complaint she had.
“You have a lot of nerve putting my career on the line like that.” To say her insides felt like jelly didn’t cut it. She felt more like a volcano filled with seething lava, all bubbling and threatening to explode. But not with hot anger—no, more like hot nervous-to-the-point-of-nauseating excitement. Every molecule of her body twitched with excited tension. She’d become a human version of a live wire, all jumpy and sparking.
“Yes. I do have a lot of nerve. It takes a lot of nerve to do what I do.”
“So—it’s not always about what you do—what about what I do? Doesn’t it count for anything?” Her plea for affirmation sounded pitiful to her. She could just imagine how it sounded to him. She’d said it. She’d practically admitted how unimportant her job was compared to his. Her hands flew from her hips and she lost her angry pose.
He came to her in one step. He had that soft melting look on his face—the one that she couldn’t call patronizing because of the concern etched around his eyes. Enveloping her in his arms, he spoke earnestly, bowing his head down to her ear. “Pixie, your job—no your gift—is important to me because it’s part of who you are. You don’t need a TV show to be who you are. And I won’t let some off-balance director get carried away and push us around.” He pulled back from her and looked int
o her uptilted face. His words had calmed her nerves. He held a magic switch in his power to soothe and excite her at will.
With his intensely convincing blue eyes capturing hers, she realized he could say anything he wanted, anything at all, and it would be wonderful to her ears. “So I won’t apologize for looking out for our interests. We’re in this together, after all.”
She stared back at him a moment, letting the words spread through her. She needed to lean into him, but he held her by the arms firmly where he could look her in the eyes. Then the implication of his words dawned on her.
“We’re in this together?”
“Yes, we are.” There was no question or hesitation in his voice. He didn’t need her to confirm her agreement. She wondered how he did that—how he could be so sure of how she felt when she was barely sure herself.
“Still, even if it’s not save-the-world important, this TV show is important to me.”
“I know. The director will come to his senses. We can’t really blame him for getting caught up in our larger-than-life exciting personas. We have that sexy aura about us. It evidently made him momentarily insane.”
She laughed at his tongue-in-cheek words spoken with a killer-serious demeanor. “Evidently.” She hesitated a moment, then had to ask, to purge her one last ounce of insecurity. “You weren’t tempted at the prospect of being surrounded by half naked beautiful women? Not even for a minute?”
“Pish-posh. Every day stuff for me.”
She automatically slapped his arm but with no force and a burst of laughter. He grinned back, that rare and special deep-dimpled, eye-twinkling smile that caught her breath.
The Scotland Yard Exchange Series Page 90