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Only she wasn’t so cool deep down, because she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands either, and nervously pleated the loose folds of her peasant skirt.
His eyes swept upwards over her clinging purple shirt and then into eyes almost the same shade. ‘I’m sure you weren’t,’ he mocked.
‘Only because I was going to cancel my attendance—not because I didn’t want you to know about it.’
Cancel it? He doubted that very much. She’d set up her attendance long before now, and while she might be feeling apprehensive about her drug bust he doubted she seriously wanted to miss an opportunity in the limelight. She’d chosen that life, after all.
‘Oh, you can’t cancel!’ Kate cried, trying very hard not to appear starstruck. ‘The premiere was delayed until today so you could make it, and there are people who have camped out in the cold night to see you. They’ll be so disappointed. Look.’
She pointed to the computer screen, but Tristan’s eyes stayed locked on Lily’s face.
Just as they did later that night, when he found himself in the back of his limousine being whisked through central London on his way to Leicester Square.
It wasn’t quite sunset, but the sky was filled with leaden clouds that blocked the setting sun from view and made it darker than it otherwise would be. Light rain splattered the windows, and Tristan wondered if Lily looked so nervous because she was worried that the rain would ruin the look she and Jordana had come up with in his bathroom or something else.
Because she certainly looked nervous.
Her chest was rising and falling with each deep, almost meditative breath she took. Her hands were locked together in her lap, and with her eyes closed she looked like Marie Antoinette must have before being dragged to the guillotine. But he didn’t think Marie Antoinette could have looked anywhere near as beautiful as Lily Wild did at this minute. As she did every damned minute.
Then the car rounded the final bend and he suspected he knew why she might be nervous.
The car pulled up kerbside, and the door was immediately opened by a burly security guard wearing a glow-in-the-dark red-and-yellow bomber jacket. A wide red carpet extended in front of them for miles, dividing the screaming mass of fans barely constrained behind waist-high barricades.
Men and women in suits trawled the carpet, and the fans went from wild to berserk, waving books and posters around like flags, as Lily alighted from the car into a pool of spotlights.
The stage lighting on nearby buildings and trees was no match for the sea of camera flashes that blinded Lily, and then himself, on both sides as Tristan followed Lily out of the car.
An official photographer rushed up and started snapping Lily from every angle, while a woman in a dark suit and clipboard motioned her along the carpet to sign autographs for the waiting fans.
Tristan felt as if he’d stepped into an alternative universe, and wasn’t wholly comfortable when Lily approached one of the barricades and the fans surged forward as one, making the beefy security guards who could have moonlighted as linebackers for the New Zealand All Blacks square off menacingly.
Tristan felt sure the fans were about to break through the barricades, and his own muscles bunched in readiness to grab Lily and haul her behind him if that should happen.
In the surrounding sea of multiple colours and broad black um
brellas held aloft to ward off the fine rain falling from the sky Lily stood out with her cream-coloured dress, lightly golden skin and upswept silvery-blond hair.
When he had first seen her in the dress Jordana had produced earlier—a knee-length clinging sheath with a high neck—he’d known he was in trouble. Then she had turned to reveal that it had no back, and he’d nearly told her to go back and put on her blouse and peasant skirt. But then he’d have had to explain why, and he didn’t like admitting why to himself let alone anyone else.
Now he could appreciate that Jordana had wrought a small miracle, and had made Lily look like a golden angel amid a sea of darkness.
Which, aesthetically, was wonderful, but was not so great for his personal comfort level—nor, he could safely say, that of any other man who happened to look upon her that night!
He watched her now, doing her thing with the fans, and thought back over the interminable day.
All day she had been a paragon of virtue. She’d done exactly as he wanted—sat on the white sofa in his office and acted as if she wasn’t there. Which should have made it easier to ignore her but hadn’t. Because while she had immersed herself in a script with all the verve of someone preparing to sit a final exam he had struggled to find one case that held his attention long enough for him to forget she was in the room.
When he’d tried to engage her in a conversation about what had happened the night of Jo’s eighteenth birthday party she had clammed up, and he had to wonder why. Jordana had implied that he’d been wrong about Lily’s involvement, but if so why would Lily remain tight-lipped and only throw him that phony smile of hers when he broached the topic?
A roar from the crowd snapped his head around as a tall, buff Latino heart-throb dressed in torn jeans and a crumpled shirt swaggered towards Lily, raising both hands to wave at the near-hysterical crowd as he went. Lily turned and swatted the man with her million-dollar smile and Tristan felt his insides clench. That smile was like the midday sun coming out from behind heavy clouds—bright and instantly warming. Seductive and impossible to ignore. And so genuine it made his jaw harden. She had yet to turn it his way again, and he realised that he wanted her to. Badly.
The heart-throb draped his arm around Lily’s waist and leaned in to kiss her, smiling at her like some long-lost lover.
They looked good together, his dark hair a perfect foil for her blondeness, and Tristan’s eyes narrowed as he watched them work the crowd. His initial instinct to leap forward and rip the actor’s arm from its socket slowly abated as he calmed his senses and realised that the actor’s light touches here and there were too tentative to be that of a lover.
If the guy had known her intimately he wouldn’t be just placing his hand on her hip now and then for a photo. He’d be subtly spreading his fingers wide over the small of her back, which Tristan already knew was sensitive to a man’s touch. He’d let his fingers trail the naked baby-soft skin there and smile into her eyes when she delicately shuddered in response. Maybe he’d even press lightly on her flesh to have her arch ever so slightly towards him. Maybe exert just enough pressure so that he could hear that soft hitch in her breath as her mouth parted—
Hell.
