by Kara Isaac
“Do you know of another?” Peter flipped the cat around so he faced him. “The most valiant cat in the land, aren’t we, boy?”
If he kissed him, she was gone. “Try psychotic.”
“You just gave him a fright.”
“I just walked into the room!”
“He likes to sleep on top of the table sometimes.” He gestured to a table near the door. Presumably the launchpad for his stealth attack. “He’s usually very friendly. Here, give him a pat.” He held up the evil spawn toward her.
“You have got to be joking. He tried to scalp me.” Emelia put a hand up to her head, which was still throbbing. She had never been a cat person, and this little ball of spite only confirmed her perception of the species. “Why did you name him Reepicheep?” She may have hated the bearer of the name, but she was curious about the rationale.
Peter rubbed a hand down the cat’s back. “He was abandoned in a ditch down the road. I found him a couple of years ago. In a sack. There were other kittens in it too. They had all drowned, but somehow he’d managed to get out of the sack and crawl up the side away from the water. When I found him he was half-dead. The vet said he wasn’t going to make it, but he fought hard and pulled through. He’s been mine ever since. The name just seemed to fit.”
The connection between a feisty talking mouse with a sword and a psycho cat was clear only to Peter.
“And he’s yours?”
“Usually he lives with me, but I brought him up here in the lead-up to the Boat Race since I was away so much. He prefers the country life. But I’ll bring him home with us.”
In the same car as her? They’d be building snowmen in the Bahamas before that happened.
Peter ran his hand over the cat and the little sociopath purred under his fingers while giving Emelia dagger eyes. “See? You two will be friends in no time.”
She’d known Peter was too perfect. She’d just never guessed his biggest flaw was going to come in the form of a feline terrorist. While hers was that she’d killed his cousin.
The gravel crunched under Emelia’s feet as they said farewell to Peter’s parents and started walking back to his car.
She’d survived lunch. Survived Victor sitting there, staring at her, throwing in verbal jabs every now and then that only she understood. Survived touring the house and gardens with Maggie. Forced herself to concentrate on why they were there. The ball.
Tried desperately to come up with something, anything, that would mean they couldn’t have it there. But there was nothing. Especially not when Maggie had returned with the information that the first Saturday in December was free and she and Bill would donate the use of the house for the event.
She was tied firmly in a noose of her own making.
She let her glance move sideways. Striding next to her, Peter appeared equally deep in thought. Hands shoved in his jeans pockets, gaze downward.
“Peter!” The call came from behind them. His father. “You forgot your cat.” From the tone of his voice he couldn’t wait to see the back of the thing.
Gah. She’d forgotten about the rabid feline. From the surprised look on his face, so had Peter. “You go get him. I’ll just wait out here.” She wasn’t going near that cat again as long as she could help it. Named after a Narnia character or not.
“Okay, I’ll just be a couple of minutes.” He pulled the car keys out of his pocket and clicked open the trunk. Pulling a cat carrier out, he slammed it shut, tossed her the keys, and strode back to the house. Emelia shook her head at this optimism. There was about as much chance of it only taking a couple of minutes to get that cat contained as there was that she was going to be the next president.
Leaning against the car, she sucked in a lungful of early summer air and looked over the house. For all the hideous personal complications it posed to her, it was the perfect venue. The stately home of a viscount. Her mind churned with the possibilities. She wondered if it had been in any movies or TV shows. Country manors might have been a dime a dozen to the English but if she could get an in with the—
“So, which is it? Emelia Mason or Mia Caldwell? Or something else altogether?” Victor’s sarcastic query cut through her thoughts.
He’d snuck up on her, coming from who knew where. Now he walked around the back of the car, coming to lean casually against the roof a couple of feet from her.
The one good thing about years spent as a tabloid journalist was her well-honed ability to bluff. Emelia took her time, letting her gaze sweep Victor from head to toe. “What does it matter to you?”
Victor shrugged. “It doesn’t. But it certainly will to my brother.”
It took all her skills not to flinch. “I thought we had a deal.”
“We did. To stay out of each other’s way. I don’t think showing up at my parents’ house with my brother could exactly be considered you keeping your side of it.”
Touché.
“Look. I had no idea Peter was your brother or this was your parents’ place.” She tried to assume a nonchalant air. “As far as I’m concerned this doesn’t need to change anything.” She kept an eye on the front door. The last thing she could afford was Peter overhearing this.
Victor barked out a laugh. “You cannot be serious. The same tabloid hack who is responsible for my cousin’s death is now working for her charity trying to save it? Under another name? I’d say that changes everything.”
It did. And they both knew it. Her palm itched to wipe the gloating look off Victor’s face but instead she reached for the only weapon she had left in her arsenal. “Look.” The word came out icy. “Expose me if you want. Go right ahead. But we both know what happens if you do. I’m not the only one with a lot to lose here.”
“Careful not to overplay your hand, Miss Caldwell. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m the black sheep of this particular family.” His voice held a lot of bravado but something flickered in his face that told her she’d gained a foothold.
“Well, I guess that remains to be seen.” Movement drew her attention back to the house, where Peter had just emerged out of the front door with a squalling cat carrier.
When he saw Victor standing next to her, his speed increased across the gravel. “Everything okay here?” His gaze jumped between the two of them. Emelia almost couldn’t hear his words for the sound of her heart trying to break out of her rib cage.
This was it. Thirty seconds from now it might all be over. She didn’t have any words. Had never planned what she was going to say if her secret was revealed without any warning. Which was stupid on her part. As soon as she’d seen Victor at that ball she should’ve prepared for exactly this kind of thing.
Victor casually pushed himself off the roof. “Simmer down, Bunny. We were just talking about the cricket game. I’m looking forward to it.”
Peter looked confused. “You said you weren’t going to play.”
“Well, Emelia here has helped me see the error of my ways. It is for Anita, after all.”
“Okay.” Peter looked like he didn’t buy a word of it. “If you want in now you need to talk to Max. He’s captaining.”
“Consider it done, Captain Bunny.” Victor gave him a mock salute.
“Great.” Peter unlocked the doors and gave his brother a pointed look. “Do you mind? I need to put Reep in the car.”
Victor stepped out of the way. “You’re way too wound up, little brother. You need to get laid more often.”
Emelia almost choked. The guy’s jerkdom really knew no bounds. Peter just ignored him as he put the carrier in the backseat and slammed the door shut.
Victor threw her a wink. “So nice to meet you, Emelia. Look forward to seeing you around. Peter’s very lucky to have someone with your experience on this.”
He may not have given up her secret but she was under no illusions; his silence would be coming with a high price tag. The only question was whether it would be one she’d be prepared to pay.
Twenty-Six
“I STILL DON
’T UNDERSTAND WHY we couldn’t just get a DJ.” Since they now had a date and a venue, apparently the entertainment was the next big thing on the spreadsheet. Which was proving to be more of a challenge than he’d anticipated, given their meager budget. Most of which Emelia had already allocated to a string quartet for the first half of the evening.
“Because this is a high-class fund-raising ball, not a school disco. Because a live band is so much cooler. Besides, that DJ you came up with, remind me again, he wasn’t available on our day because of . . . ?” Emelia cocked an eyebrow at him.
Peter mumbled the answer under his breath. She was never going to let him live it down.
“Say again?”
“He’s due to have his hip replaced.”
“So I say no to the octogenarian DJ.”
“You hate all my ideas.” He tried to get a smile out of Emelia. Since the trip home, she’d been guarded. Excruciatingly polite, but the easy camaraderie and chemistry had disappeared like it never existed.
She crossed off something in her notebook, all business. “No, I only hate the really bad ones. Unfortunately your track record so far has pretty much only been bad ones.”
“Edible table arrangements are going to be the next big thing. It’s not my fault if I’m a visionary ahead of the trend.” He finally got the hint of a smile playing at the side of her mouth. He’d take it. “So, who are we seeing tonight?”
Emelia checked her list. “They’re called the Groovestars.”
Peter smirked. This could be entertaining.
“What? They had a flyer up at Tesco’s and they have a Facebook page.”
“You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not brimming with excitement about seeing a band who advertise by the fruit and veg aisle.”
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport.”
“And this is where they’re playing tonight?” They were standing outside a run-down pub. Flakes of paint peeled off the outside. Peter thought he knew Oxford rather well. Lord knew he’d hauled his brother out of almost every pub in town. But not even Victor had stooped to this one.
Emelia double-checked the address and nodded. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. They’re probably young. Just starting out. Playing whatever gigs they can get. And, most importantly, we can afford them.”
They stepped inside. The dim room smelled like the carpet hadn’t been cleaned since the Beatles were big. Along one side ran a bar, behind it rows of the cheapest, nastiest liquor you’d find anywhere in the country. A few peeling signs displayed advertising that had to be pre-millennium. There wasn’t a bartender to be seen.
Four very senior citizens sat around one square Formica table. In the corner sat a tattooed couple hunched over beers.
Emelia looked around, not even bothering to hide her dismay.
One of the old men stood up. “You right, luv?”
“We’re, um, here to see the Groovestars. They were supposed to be playing here tonight?”
The old man’s face brightened. “That’s us!”
Peter tried to restrain the smile he felt taking over his face but failed miserably. So miserably you could probably have seen it from space.
“Boys. Look! We have gropies!”
A guy who had to be going on ninety and was wearing a gray cardigan spoke up. “I think, George, you’ll find the word is ‘groupies.’ ”
George ignored the guy. “I told you having a page on that face thingy would work!”
“I’m going to take a wild guess that someone’s great-grandchild is responsible for these young startups being on the face thingy.” Peter murmured the words to Emelia, who looked like she wasn’t sure whether to punch him or laugh.
George turned back to them. “Sorry, we’re a bit delayed. Harold needs to take his medication and he can’t have it on an empty stomach, so we’re just waiting for him to finish his snack.” George gestured to where an old man with an impressive white mullet was eating a bag of crisps. On the table in front of him sat a pair of drumsticks, and lined up along them was a row of pills of varying sizes and colors.
Peter couldn’t see. The tears of laughter he was trying to restrain had blurred his sight. His chest hurt from trying to contain it.
“We’re looking for a band for a fund-raising ball.”
“There’s going to be a squall? Why would that be? Winter’s long finished,” Harold barked from the table as he popped two pills in his mouth and took a slug of water.
Peter’s shoulders jumped up and down like a demented grasshopper with the effort of trying to contain his mirth.
“Don’t worry. We’re better than we look. Not that that’s saying much. I’m Norm, by the way.” It was the guy with the cardigan who spoke, eyes twinkling.
Peter scanned the room and realized he had previously missed a drum kit the size of a postage stamp, a lone bass plugged into a small amp, and a microphone.
“Help yourself to a drink.” George gestured toward the bar. “We operate on an honor system while the band is playing. Just leave what you think is right on the bar.”
“Thanks.” Peter managed to get the word out before he walked toward the bar, Emelia trailing after him.
“Would you like something?”
Emelia cast her gaze to a brown stain on the ceiling. “Only if it comes in a sealed container.”
Peter ducked behind the bar and grabbed two cans of Coke from the fridge, setting a handful of change on the bar as the twang of a guitar came over the amp. He took the drinks back to Emelia and made a show of snapping hers open in front of her. Handing it over, he did the same with his and took a long sip.
Next came the sound of something hitting the drums followed by the squeal of . . . no, surely not. But there was no mistaking the distinctive sound. Bagpipes.
“Hello, everyone.” It was Norm at the microphone. “Welcome to our gig tonight. We’re the Groovestars.” The couple in the corner didn’t even make any sign they’d heard him. The band launched into “Walking on Sunshine.” Every single band member had a hearing aid. Probably turned off, going by the bumpy first few lines.
It was unlike any music Peter had ever heard before. Norm half crooning, half barking like an aged Elvis. George powering it along on the bagpipes. Harold tapping away on the drums, and the guy they hadn’t been introduced to barely managing to keep up with the rest of them on the bass.
“Would you like to dance?” He turned to Emelia.
“What?”
“You heard the man. We’re his gropies, Smoky. We can’t let him down.”
“Try groping anything and you’ll lose your hand. Just remember that.” The quiver of Emelia’s lips finally gave her away.
“Oh, c’mon. I’d be making my move chaperoned by four octogenarians. It doesn’t get any better than that. It would be the most excitement they’ve had at one of their gigs since Harold’s last heart attack.”
Emelia looked at the band, shook her head, and smiled. Ha! Got her. “Why not?”
Taking her Coke and putting it down on a table with his, Peter grabbed her hand and tugged her between the two tables separating them from the band. He put his hand on Emelia’s waist and started spinning her across the 1970s-era brown and orange carpet until she was breathless and smiling.
It was no ball, but for some reason, it was even more fun.
As he turned her around on the nonexistent dance floor, he saw George’s eyes twinkling at them, and the old man gave him a wink.
He lowered Emelia into a dip with his good arm, and she clasped her hands around his neck, grinning up at him. Their gazes caught and something in her expression softened. For a second, the final note of the bagpipes, the worn carpet, and the dingy pub all faded away and there was only her. Wavy hair falling out behind her, the ends touching the floor, her eyes sparkling, her smile carefree.
Friends, just friends. She thought he was crazy for wanting to make a comeback. He forced the thoughts through his brain before he did something stupid. Were there any more tor
turous words in the English language?
She should never have said yes to dancing with Peter. Emelia’s heart started pounding again under the intensity of his gaze. Not knowing what to do or say, she tucked her chin into his shoulder as he pulled her back to her feet.
He let her go into one final spin as the song ended, and she immediately missed the feeling of being cradled against his chest.
Her gaze lingered on him for a second at the other end of his outstretched arm, then she let go of his hand and turned toward the band, clapping.
The four old men grinned and offered little bows.
Shoot. She so wanted to hire them for the ball. High society or not. What they lacked in talent, they more than made up for with chutzpah.
“Let’s slow it down, gentlemen.”
The opening notes of “It Had to Be You” drifted out and Peter held out his hand.
Emelia studied it for a second, then moved toward him, captivated by some weird magic. Tucking her against his chest, Peter waltzed her across the floor, the top of her head against his chin, the feel of his breath wafting down the side of her face, tormenting all her senses.
I wandered around, and finally found . . . The words drifted across the room.
The heat of his hand warmed through the back of her top, and she gasped as he lowered her into another graceful dip, his hold strong and steady underneath her. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to drop you.”
“I know.” She looked into his face and suddenly wasn’t sure if they were talking about dancing anymore. Time to change the subject. Fast. “What are your plans until Boat Race training for next year starts? Besides babysitting me, of course.” She tried to keep her tone light, teasing.
He pulled her back onto her feet. “Summer is busy for beginners’ courses and I’ve still got a couple of coaching jobs.”
“How’s your shoulder?” Emelia focused on keeping some distance between them, despite the almost overwhelming urge to tuck her head into the curve of his neck and rest against his chest.