by Mia Kay
The woman walked away, and Grace leaned back against the leather seat and closed her eyes, replaying the past. How did I not know?
The table crashed against the wall, jostling and rattling the salt and pepper shakers. She opened her eyes, expecting to see a server sprawled in front of her and her salad in her lap. Instead, she saw Ben slouched in the opposite seat.
“Months of trying to get on the same continent, and we end up in the same hotel,” he sneered.
She searched for a snarky reply to prove he wasn’t killing her. It eluded her. “Why are you so angry with me?”
He flipped his wallet open and thrust a folded piece of newsprint at her. Unfolding it revealed one of the memories she’d been reliving. They’d been on their way to Paris. Across the table, his warm smile had been replaced by a chilling one. His eyes were hard.
“That was on the front page of The Sun just after Christmas.”
She’d be sick about it later. “Okay. Well, that sucks. And?”
The question set him off. “You expect me to believe you didn’t give it to them? That you and your mother had no idea who I am? I mean, my God, she practically threw you at me while she waited for the perfect shot. And all your writing while we were traveling? I’m surprised there’s not been an exposé of our trip. Is that coming? Is it why you invited me out here?”
Grace sat, stunned into silence.
He continued with a snarl, “And as if one invitation wasn’t enough, you sent me a script to sweeten the pot. An audition my agent knew nothing about. It came directly to my office. Come read for your movie. And now, now, we’re in the same hotel, in the same bar, sharing a bloody drink like old chums.”
Of all the narcissistic, egomaniacal, haughty—as if she needed him for anything! He threw himself back against the upholstery and smirked. Self-satisfied jackass.
It was her turn to twist her face into a sneer as she kept her voice low. “Believe it or not, this is a coincidence. The studio books everyone into the same hotel. I came down here for dinner before my flight home.” She motioned toward the untouched salad at the edge of the table.
“I didn’t know you had an office, or an agent,” she added. “For all I know you live under a bridge like a troll. I don’t know how we got your name or your credits. They called me to come meet actors, but I have no say over who gets to audition. And we’ve seen more than you.
“As for my writing, the screenplay put me behind on the deadline for my next book, and my publisher and my agent were leaning on me. They want to time it with the movie release.”
She stopped while the server exchanged the salad for a check. She scrawled her room number on the bottom and hoped they’d charge her. She had precious minutes before she started to cry, and she had to get through this.
“My mother had no idea who you are.” She put her hand up to stop his interruption. “She wouldn’t have kept something like that from me knowing the hell it would play in my life. She certainly wouldn’t have thrown me at you.”
Grace gulped back her tears and nodded at the clipping. “Do you really think I’d subject myself to this? Did you pay attention to anything about me?”
As she stood, she grasped her bags in one hand and his tumbler in the other. She tossed back the remainder of his whiskey. “Sod off, Bennett.”
Keeping her momentum, she walked out of the bar through the lobby to the street and into the first taxi she could find. Slamming the door, she didn’t bother to check if someone else was waiting. “LAX, please.”
Refusing to look out the window, she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. This was awful.
Paul and his partners were depending on her series to kick-start the studio. She’d spent weeks learning everything she could, or closeted in her hotel room with paperwork spread across the king-sized bed. She’d wolfed down continental breakfasts while managing social media; spent lunches arguing with her agent about public appearances.
The buzz was building. Bestseller. Blockbuster. Her story. If she wasn’t so exhausted, and so terrified, she’d be grinning from ear to ear.
The heartbreak had nothing to do with it.
Knowing they were on the freeway and safe from Ben’s ugly sneer, she stared out the window and watched the traffic creep by. It wouldn’t matter how much she’d done or how hard she’d worked. She’d be branded a hormonal girl mooning over a boy she couldn’t have.
Everything was in danger because she’d kept a secret.
I know it’s scary, the writer on her shoulder whispered, but it’s time to take charge.
Without giving herself time to second-guess the decision, she called her agent. “Rick? I’ll do a public appearance. It needs to be in the L.A. area, and I want it scheduled far enough out that I can practice. I’ll choose the venue.”
No more secrets.
She hung up and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t cry.
Those three words remained her mantra through the long flight home and until she arrived on her doorstep.
“C’mon up, Idgie,” her mother called from the back deck of the main house.
Flinching at the once-loved nickname, she yelled back, “I’m exhausted. We’ll catch up later.”
Inside, she was confronted with a house full of lies. Pictures from Europe were everywhere, but he wasn’t in them. Her desk still had a spot for her laptop so he wouldn’t see the storyboard covering the wall. Her turquoise chemise hung on the bathroom door. On the bedside table, propped against a lamp was the only picture she had of them together—from Vienna, right before their first kiss.
She tried to tear it, only to lose heart and toss it whole into the trash and then go back for it. It was her only proof she hadn’t imagined the entire trip.
Instead of sleeping, she opened her computer and googled Bennett Oliver.
‘The Beast of Britain.’ Oh, my God.
In the photos, he was always wearing a cap and sunglasses. Most of the time he had his head down. The face-on ones were scowls or impassive stares.
The same woman appeared in every photo. Hillary Dunham. Tall, blonde, dressed to the teeth, sparkling with jewelry. If they weren’t dancing or posing with other people, they were screaming at each other. Photos of them leaving various hot spots and high-profile events documented their high drama.
The articles were awful. Screaming arguments in clubs, abandoning Hillary at parties, flirting with co-stars on set, snapping at interviewers. After a few stories, she got bored. They all said the same thing.
Grace sat back in her chair and stared between the computer screen and the photo propped on the kitchen counter. Who is this man?
She went after her answers like she would any research project. The movie database revealed Ben’s steady stream of jobs, sometimes two at once, beginning with small roles and moving to larger ones. Few of his projects were high profile, but all had been well-received.
She researched every film and looked for interviews. Ignoring the heartbreak over hearing his voice and seeing his animated face, she listened as he promoted films and watched video clips of his performances. Directors and co-stars praised his dedication and his work ethic.
Red-carpet photos with his co-stars showed a relaxed group, but Ben was always at the back. If he was alone, he appeared wary and poised for flight. Having Hillary with him didn’t seem to help. While her smile was blinding and her pose perfect, he looked wooden.
Returning to the club photos, Grace looked past Ben’s angry features. Hillary always faced straight into the camera, smirking.
Grace began a new search. Hillary Dunham, model-turned-actress. Her screen credits were short and abysmal. She’d worked more in the beginning of her career, but the promise had faded as the roles dwindled. Her modeling career had followed the same path.
She’d used h
im. And now, he thinks I’m doing it.
Closing the screen, she picked up her phone and tapped the proper contact. She dropped her head into her hand as she waited for an answer.
“How’s my favorite author?” Nora’s voice rang as she silenced the background noise.
The tears Grace had been damming behind her curiosity leaked free one at a time as she related the events of the last few weeks.
“That son of a bitch. The egotistical, narrow-minded bastard.” Nora punctuated every curse by banging on something so loudly Grace could hear each strike. “So now what? He’s gone. Good riddance.”
“It’s not so simple. He’s the perfect person for this role. And now I’m worried he’ll think I cast him on purpose.”
“He kinda is perfect, given that thing he did a few years back.”
“Wait, you knew?” Grace wailed. “How could you not tell me?”
“Because it was his story to tell. How would you have felt if I’d blabbed about you? Let’s think for a second. Did you ever, even once, think about him as Ian?”
“Of course not. Ian’s a fantasy. Ben isn’t.”
Nora snorted. “Yeah well, don’t look him up on Pinterest. Would you cast him if it wasn’t for all this other crap?”
“In a heartbeat, but—”
“Then do your job, Grace,” Nora counseled. “Do the right thing and build your life looking forward, not behind.”
That’s the worst advice ever. Couldn’t she just agree with me? “Thanks,” Grace grumbled.
She hung up only to have the phone ring in her hand. Paul. She took a deep breath and answered.
He didn’t even say hello. “I’ve been watching a movie with this Oliver guy. He rocks. Have you made up your mind?”
“He’s perfect for it. He’ll be a big asset all the way around.” I can do this. “Make the call.”
“The guys want you to be an associate producer,” Paul continued. “Your work would be your contribution rather than cash. What do you say?”
She inhaled and closed her eyes. “Before I decide, I have something to tell you, and I don’t want you to interrupt me.”
After she started, she couldn’t stop rambling every detail. Where she’d muffled her sniffles on her call to Nora, she blew her nose in Paul’s ear. When she was done, she slouched into her office chair, exhausted by the anxiety.
“Can I talk now?” Paul asked.
“Yep.”
“So the wine binge on New Year’s Eve was over Bennett Oliver?”
“Yes.” She resented the pitiful squeak in her voice.
“Well, we won’t cast him.”
“Thanks, but I’ll deal with my end of this. I just wanted you to know. It may change the guys’ opinion of me,” she sighed. “I don’t want to let you down or cause a problem before we even get started. I wanted everything to go smoothly.”
“Things never go smoothly, Gracie. You might as well get used to it. And this isn’t a problem, necessarily. You didn’t plagiarize your ideas or run over a pedestrian. You met a guy. And this whole thing isn’t on your shoulders. We’re going to rely on you a lot, yes. But we believe in you. This doesn’t change that.”
Chapter 13
Ben sat in his home office, bone-weary after the immediate turnaround flight to London and the sixteen-hour tag-team match as fear and anger had warred with memory and hope. With no clear winner, and sleep eluding him, he called the only referee he could think of.
The phone rang, then connected. When Bon Jovi blared through the speaker, Ben moved the phone to save his hearing. The guitar solo was cut off in the middle. “Sorry. Hello?”
“Adam?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“It’s Ben.” There wasn’t any further greeting. How many British men called his parish? “From—”
“Ben. Sorry, I’m finishing a sermon. Nora keeps telling me multitasking is bad for my people skills.”
Gentle laughter now seeped through the phone. Ben wished he was calling for a friendlier purpose. He could at least try. “How are you?”
“I’m great. It was difficult to get back into a regular routine for a while, though.”
“How’s Nora?”
“She’s good. She has a show coming up, so she’s working like crazy. Apparently all artists procrastinate. I think she heard from Grace.”
Ben closed his eyes. Of course Grace would have called Nora.
“Did you know who she is?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Bollocks. Of all the cack-handed, bloody stupid—” He took a deep breath and reigned in his temper. “Sorry. Why didn’t you say something?”
“You’re adults, Ben. Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t she?” Adam’s calm, reasonable questions reminded Ben why he’d picked the pastor as his lifeline. “What’s happened?”
Ben told him everything. When he finished, a chair squeaked and papers ruffled but no one spoke. “Adam?”
“Sorry. Had to check something. Did you get home with everything?”
The odd question threw Ben. He stared at his luggage, still next to the door. “From L.A.?”
“From vacation, sorry. Are you missing anything?”
“Yes. No.” Ben spun in his chair and put his back to all the distractions. “There wasn’t anything missing.”
“She didn’t snoop? Pack your bag for you?”
“No.” Ben ran his hand back through his hair. “She never even asked what I was reading.” Which would have sorted this hashed up mess.
His exhausted brain was fuzzy. He’d called for help, not twenty bloody questions. “Adam—”
“The night in Vienna, when I told you I knew who you were, you looked like I’d trapped you in a corner. Did she ever look like that?”
The memory wasn’t difficult to find. Sitting with her in the pub, cozy in front of the fire and laughing along with the local patrons.
Phillip, the smitten waiter.
Ben spun back to his desk and rested the phone on his shoulder as he did a quick internet search. “Oh, bloody hell. Her book is in the National Library. That git of a waiter must’ve told her.”
He remembered the way she’d glowed in the library. Think of who else has read these. Her book on the same shelves as Hapsburg treasures. No wonder she’d been giddy. “She told me he’d asked for her autograph, and I thought she was teasing.”
“I don’t remember Sunny taking pictures, do you?” Adam asked.
Their first night in Salzburg, when they’d separated from their mothers, Sunny had refused to take the camera. She’d said Grace needed it more.
The notebook, the camera. Not memoirs. Research.
Nausea swamped Ben, threatening to drown him. His lungs tightened, and his stomach tilted. How could he have thought, said, what he did . . . what had he done? “Will Nora—”
“Since Grace called she’s been taking out her frustration on a piece of scrap iron in the barn. I don’t think you want to hear what she has to say.”
“How do I recover from this?”
“Ben, I knew you for two weeks. We were in a bubble, true, but I don’t think it was that far from your life. Not your job, but your life. Before I ever agreed to keep quiet, I did my research. I had to weed through fifty tons of rehashed photos and stories, but I found the truth.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“Wrong question,” Adam said. “It doesn’t matter if Grace knows the truth. Do you?”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck, my friend.” Adam rung off.
The tag team match had a winner, and it wasn’t Ben. He paced a track in the carpet, his conscience now warring with jet lag. After a lengthy battle, jet lag won. The prize? Nightmares.
Once they unlocked the doors, he walked in and up to the desk, using his free hand to remove his cap and his sunglasses. “Good morning, I need some help finding a book.”
“Do you have a particular one in mind?” The older woman teased as she looked up from the computer. Recognition lit her eyes and her smile faltered. “You can leave the cap on if you’d like, Mr. Oliver.”
“Ben, please.” He held her gaze. He missed his anonymity, but this was part of the truth he needed. “And thank you, but no. It would be rude, and my mum would have my head, cap and all.”
The librarian smiled, relaxing into the conversation. “Which book do you need?”
“Partners in Time.”
“Follow me.”
She walked away and he hurried to catch up. Her steps were so quiet and quick, he wondered if she was floating. Hell, if she rounded a corner he might never find her.
“Here you are,” she said as she stopped at a row of shelves crowded with hardcovers and paperbacks, all cracked and weathered by hundreds of hands, and all blaring the name E.G. Donnelley.
“Eight of them?” he whispered.
“The ninth is due out soon, it’s late considering his schedule up to now. We already have demand for it, so you’d better get your name in the queue.”
His?
“Do you have a library card?”