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Paparazzi shouting her name?
Check.
It was all familiar to Dani, even if the location was not.
The walk from their vehicle to the National Portrait Gallery took less than thirty seconds, yet Jameson’s grip on her hand telegraphed his unease and discomfort with the situation.
Dani was conflicted about her own feelings, and guilt burned like acid in the back of her throat. Jameson had been right; they’d agreed to keep their professional lives separate. And for her to go back on their understanding without telling him whyandin front of his friends...
“I can’t say no to you... Don’t cry, love. Please. It’s not worth it. Of course you can come with me.”
Her heart hurt at the knowledge that he’d been agitated thinking he’d upset her when it was actually her own shame that had brought tears to her eyes.
But what choice did she have?
You could tell him about Parcellum and ask for his help.
But what if he said no?
Everything was still so new and so good. She could see breaking up because they had different goals and values, or one of them was an asshole, or—God forbid—one of them cheated. But to risk it over something when there was another way? It made about as much sense as having Jameson be the face of Mela-Skin.
He glanced down at her, signs of stress and strain all over that gorgeous face. He was so worried about her, he couldn’t focus on what he needed to do. She hadn’t lost sight of the fact that the only reason he was here was to save his mother. Dani wouldn’t let him mess this up because of her. Releasing his hand, she reached up and smoothed her thumb over his brow, appreciating when the rigid muscles thawed beneath her touch.
“It’s going to be okay. Remember, you’ve got me. And I got you,”she said, recalling her earlier words to him on the movie premiere red carpet.
“I love you,” he murmured.
“I love you, too.”
The cameras clicked, catching the moment.
She smiled, elated that when they entered the building, his clasp had gentled and his smile was more natural.
She also knew that picture would end up all over the news and social media.
She was going to hell.
Inside, they stopped at the base of the staircase to chat with the brunette who’d introduced herself as Gillian Wickstead, the museum’s director.
“Your Royal Highness, Duchess. Thank you for being here,” she said. “We’re really excited about this exhibit. We’ve been working on it for three years.”
Curators had searched the globe and pulled together a top-notch collection celebrating the royal family for the opening of the House of Lloyd exhibit at the museum. Dani didn’t claim to be an art lover, but she knew what she liked and she appreciated pretty things. She was looking forward to seeing the pieces.
And it could’ve been worse. At least it wasn’t a hospital.
She hated hospitals!
“We’ve gathered oil paintings, photographs, and prints. The history of your family is spectacular. We learned so much. The queen had a private audience several days ago and she was shocked at some of the things we managed to unearth.”
Gillian gestured for them to precede her, and they did, ascending the stairs... to the waiting throng of more photographers. Dani made the mistake of looking up and catching a face full offlashes that blinded her for several seconds. She briefly lost her balance.
“Are you okay?” Jameson asked, his hold tight on her arm.
“I’m fine. Looked into the flash. Rookie error.”
“Bloody photographers,” he cursed, his expression becoming unyielding once again.
At the top of the steps, Gillian introduced them to the curator of the exhibit and several other museum employees and they all chatted briefly. With the angle of his body and his purposeful gaze, Jameson did his best to ignore the cameras. Dani placed her hand on his lower back, feeling the rigid muscles beneath the exquisitely tailored suit. Did attending these affairs always cause this level of agitation? Or was her presence making it worse?
