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“Hello, Megan,” he said. In all the years she’d known him, he’d never learned to say her name as Americans did. His pronunciation was more like “May-gan.” Megan loved it. It made her sound more exotic than she was. As though she came from anything other than generations of WASPs who’d been in Boston since the Mayflower.
“What—what’s going on?”
Her nervousness wasn’t helped by the googling she’d done the day before, which had told her all she’d missed over New Year’s. Alessandro and Nicola Kulik had been at a party on New Year’s night at one of the largest clubs in LA. A club big enough for any photographer or journalist to get in, right alongside the celebrities. Opinion pieces asserted that celebrities knew this and went to Perfection to be seen. But something had happened in there, something that had led to either Nicola or Alessandro or both of them punching a guy. And the club owner, presumably knowing that a) his club would get even more notorious, b) no publicity was bad publicity, and c) he needed to keep those paps coming, had called the police.
Alessandro and Nicola had been photographed outside the club, Nicola still fighting, Alessandro possibly trying to calm her down before the police put cuffs on them both, until they disappeared into the cruiser. The next day, the gossip sites had been full of shots of Alessandro and Nicola leaving the precinct building separately and looking a lot less like their glammed-up selves.
Alessandro’s image usually didn’t make him out to be a bad boy. Those who swooned over his Getty images got the idea that he was too bored with reality to give it his attention. He usually glowered at photographers, and candid shots of him revealed little else. People who asked for his autograph reported that he was quiet and polite, but not overly friendly.
From Nicola’s pictures of her trip back to Poland, Megan could tell she was an altogether different kind of celebrity. One who didn’t seem to be able to stay off her Instagram. Alessandro, on the other hand, had gone black-ops silent on social media since his arrest.
When Megan had seen him yesterday, Alessandro had looked little better than the shots of him outside the police station, but today, his hair was combed back and the dark stubble was already growing into a short beard. That only drew her attention to those beautiful gray eyes of his, so surprising against his dark-olive skin and black hair.
“I did not want the others to have to deal with my presence in the store,” he said, twisting his mouth. “I might have made Sophia pull a muscle, jumping in front of me like that yesterday.”
“She was happy to. They all were,” she said, because that was obvious. “You’re part of the family here.”
“I did not want to assume that. Thank you for letting them be… cloak-and-dagger with you.”
Megan smiled at that, though she tried to cover it. She’d sometimes joined in the crew’s attempts to teach Alessandro American idioms. He’d clearly been keeping up with his homework.
“Very good,” she said. “So whyarewe being so cloak-and-dagger?”
Seriously. Why thehellwould this man ask to see her somewhere no one else would see? Megan’s early-morning brain, coupled with the unreality of seeing Alessandro in the flesh, couldn’t come to a conclusion. Sure, his mere glance could flay the clothes right off her skin. But only she felt that, surely?
“I wanted to ask for your help,” he said. “Roman said we can use his office. Would you?”
The other thing he did was to be extra polite. Far too polite for Boston. Maybe Mary Poppins had taught him English back in Italy.
“Sure.”
They went into a room that looked like a hurricane had taken up residence there just a few minutes before. Roman’s inability to corral paperwork stood in stark contrast to the clean and shiny store beyond the corridor. Somehow, two chairs had been spared the tornado, though she and Alessandro had to sit almost knee to knee to fit in the unoccupied space.
He immediately leaned forward. Now Megan caught his scent, and she had to hold herself still not to sigh. Ofcoursehe smelled as good as he looked. Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille, she’d bet. She knew these things. The same way she knew that his black leather jacket was an Armani from three seasons ago. Nothing wrong with three seasons ago. If her clothes fit her the way that jacket fit him, she’d never stop wearing it.
Actually, her clothesdidfit her well. Controlling her image was very important to Megan. She stopped gazing at the jacket and straightened up, arranging her maxi skirt over her knee.
“I’m involved with an acting school called the Studio, in Allston,” he said. “Do you know it?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.” Where was this going?
“Here’s your coffee, Megan,” Grace said. Megan hadn’t even heard the woman walk into the room. So much for not obsessing over Alessandro.
“Thanks.” Yeah. Coffee. That would help clear her mind.
“You two look cozy,” Grace commented.
Maybe the coffee was hot, but Megan felt her cheeks flame.
“Anyway!” Grace said breezily. “’Sandro, you sure I can’t give you a refill?”
“Not right now, thank you,” he said, somehow sounding polite while obviously saying,Go away. Grace waved at them and disappeared.
“Does she know what you’re doing here?” Megan said.
“Yes.” Alessandro blew gently into his coffee cup. Megan didnotwatch his lips purse. “And they think it is a good idea. But you do not have to do it if you are not—”
In his last movie,The Drummer, Alessandro had had to relay a gamut of emotions from fury to despair. But Megan didn’t think she’d ever seen him play anyone this uncomfortable with the task at hand.
