Headliners, p.18
Headliners, page 18
Nick began checking ingredients for the cooking demonstration, tasting soy sauce, oil, and spices, looking inside containers and making sure seals hadn’t been broken.
Sabrina was also inspecting plastic seals and holding bottles up to the light. “I’m admitting defeat on this one.” Her voice carried across the room, which was slightly eerie in its emptiness. “I don’t know what half this stuff is. We’ll just have to hope that any resultant explosions are intended.”
“Kitchen seems clear.” Nick joined her at the science table and cast an eye over the array of coloured bottles and towering glass tubes. “If our mystery foe has any sense of occasion, they’ll go for this one. Standards are slipping since the possessed Wibblet. Projectile foam would be more interesting than moving a few props around.”
They both heard it, then, a door opening quietly from the staff corridor, still too early for most of the crew. As if they’d rehearsed it—on the set of a bad film—they ducked down behind the video monitors, and the whole thing suddenly caught at Nick’s sense of humour. A jolt of amusement went through him, and Sabrina leaned her head against a panel sprouting wires and tried to muffle a giggle.
“This is serious,” he said severely under his breath, and grinned when she put her hand over her mouth, her eyes bright with laughter. She made another suppressed sound when he edged over to look around the bank of monitors.
“Well?” she mouthed, when he’d spotted the intruder.
A vacuum cleaner turned on.
“Are there times,” Sabrina asked, her voice just audible over the maintenance staffer’s hoovering, “when you take stock of where you are and what you’re doing, and wonder how the fuck this happened?”
Daily. Never more so than now, as he crouched on the floor of the ugliest studio in the network, unshaven, in need of a shower and coffee, hiding in wait for a meddler whose Scooby-Doo antics were plausibly threatening what remained of his job security.
He ought to be fed up to the back teeth, but right at this moment, he was very aware of the lightness in his chest.
Without overthinking it, he leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers. The resigned humour in her expression fading, she looked into his eyes as she bit her lower lip.
“Last night.” His voice was slightly raspy. “It was—”
“Good.” A flush came into her cheeks, and Nick felt the lines at the corners of his eyes and that warmth around his heart deepen.
“Good?” he teased, and she rolled her eyes, a tiny smile curving as she touched her fingertips to his chest.
Catching him momentarily off guard, she tightened her fist in the fabric of his shirt, pulled him closer, and kissed him hard.
Every time—overwhelming, hot arousal, and blurry sensation. She went straight to his head like whisky. Warmth, and bite, and a golden glow. He loved the shape of her mouth, the feel of her soft lower lip as he caught it between his.
Her breath coming quickly, she drew back and looked down at where her hands held his forearms. With her thumb, she rubbed over the scar winding out under his sleeve. “How did you get hurt?” The words were as husky as his had been.
Diverting into safer territory. She was cautious. An inconvenient, mutual physical attraction was one thing. This was rapidly moving well beyond that, and he could see something in her eyes balk when the walls of her comfort zone rattled.
Considering her past, and particularly considering their past, he got it.
Fuck, he shared it.
And, so far, she was wary—but she was still moving forward, towards him.
With him.
“It’s two scars joined together.” Nick pushed his sleeve up farther and turned his arm. “The bigger one is from a school cricket match when I was about fourteen. I was playing in the championship, and I got distracted.” He hadn’t thought about that incident for a long time. “My father was supposed to be coming.” Which would have been a first. He remembered trying to play it cool, and how many times he’d looked over into the family stands. “I thought I saw him arriving. Collided with a teammate. There was a piece of glass in the grass.”
Sabrina curled her long legs to one side, resting her hand on her ankle. “Did he turn up?”
“No.” He ran his hand over the scar, feeling the ghost of an itch. “It was forever ago. That wasn’t meant to be a pathetic Little Boy Lost story.”
“It’s not pathetic,” she said quietly. Reaching over, she touched the second, darker scar that hooked into the old one. “And this?”
It wasn’t a wraith of emotion this time; it was a sharp stab. “A falling brick.” He met her gaze unflinchingly, but couldn’t help the locking of his muscles. “At Highbrook a few years ago. Griff and I spent a weekend doing our best attempt at DIY on one of the outbuildings.”
It had been a much-needed break from work. He’d been stressed to the point it had been affecting his health. Funny how much he’d ignored that, blocked that out. His gut twisted. He suspected it wasn’t a coincidence that Griff, not one to ask for help in any circumstances, had suddenly required Nick’s presence in the country then.
Sabrina’s future brother-in-law was a self-sufficient misanthrope most of the time. He was also fiercely protective of people he cared about. Nick had once been privileged to come into that category, before he’d ripped things to shreds in one night.
As the vacuum cleaner clicked off and Nick became vaguely aware of other bustling noises behind their makeshift fort, Sabrina asked, “Have you tried speaking to Griff again?”
He moved his head, a short, negative gesture. It had been like talking to a stranger the last time he’d tried—the stone-faced Griff that most acquaintances saw, not the man with an unexpectedly wicked sense of humour and an acerbic way of managing other people’s welfare.
“Ahem.”
They both jumped at the dry interjection, and Nick turned. Jess was standing there, looking down at them. Her purple nails drummed on the clipboard she had tucked over her arm. One dark brow arched.
Silence.
She examined them, from dishevelled heads to wrinkled clothes, and shook her head. “I know you’re struggling with the early starts. But you don’t need to actually sleep in the studio.” She cleared her throat pointedly. “Frank Gough’s people have been in touch and His Majesty requires an earlier appointment, so we’re bumping him up the schedule. When he arrives for the meet-and-greet, should we bring him to the green room as usual, or just tell him to plant his arse on the floor?”
Sabrina stretched. “Incoming wanker.”
As Nick stood, he reached down a hand to help her up. “Makes a change it’s not me, doesn’t it?”
* * *
Frank Gough was a tall man who’d kept a relatively muscular build into his sixties, although he was starting to look a bit corpulent about the jaw, and his nose was a telltale red. Too much money and too much drink. Apparently, he had his fingers in all sorts of financial pies these days.
As long as he kept his hands away from anything else. And everyone else.
Strong lecher vibes, from the get-go.
Gritting her teeth, she extended her hand. “Mr. Gough. Good morning. Thank you for coming in today. We’re very much looking forward to discussing your book.”
The businessman swept her with a look that started at her hair, lingered at her breasts, and travelled up and down her legs. It only lasted a few seconds, but left her feeling like she could do with another shower.
Gough kept hold of her hand as he smiled at her. It was a spidery sort of smile; the predator sitting in his web, waiting to reel in his lunch. “Rupert Carlton’s girl,” he said, and she frowned slightly. She wouldn’t have picked Gough as one of her father’s theatre crowd. “Wonderful to meet you.”
His proffered handshake to Nick was less enthusiastic. “And Markus Davenport’s son. Taken a bit of a fall from grace lately, I understand.” His laugh was not attractive. “Poor old Grimes. Still, you’re obviously not afraid to speak your mind, which is a quality I admire—” Nick looked definitely unflattered “—and you clearly have an ear for the truth.” Gough’s smile was cold now. “Not a chip off the old block in that respect.”
Nick’s cheek twanged, but his professional composure didn’t crack.
Gough turned to Sabrina. “Have you read my book?”
“Yes, I have.” She detested the man, and had no interest whatever in his likely dodgy business advice, but she also had professional standards and she did her prep. “Fascinating.”
“I’m quite happy to offer a little of my time, if you want to put any of my suggestions into practice.” Gough was using his politician’s voice, persuasive and polite; but he was still doing the X-ray look, mentally stripping off her clothes with his pupils.
“How kind.”
“I hope that your contributions to this interview will encourage other women to read the book. My agent tells me that sales have skewed significantly towards men; but ladies can, of course, also benefit from the course I recommend.” He gave another tight chuckle. “Although I must admit the fair sex have devised their own path to wealth admirably. The joys of settlements and alimony!”
What a treat of a human being.
Shocking that he was currently negotiating his fourth divorce.
Gough didn’t improve under the scrutiny of the cameras. He cut off questions before they’d finished speaking, tossed in as many endorsements for his personal financial concerns as possible, and bragged about his life achievements for almost ten solid minutes.
“I don’t care if the man has the bank vaults of Scrooge McDuck,” Fenella said into Sabrina’s earpiece. “Ninety percent of our viewers are now in a coma. Wrap this up.”
“Your eldest son contributed several chapters to the book,” Sabrina cut in smoothly, moving straight to the final talking point on their cue cards. “You must be proud he’s following in your footsteps.”
Not too closely, she hoped. The world did not need a Gough 2.0.
She’d pegged Gough as the variety of egoist who’d want a bunch of Mini-Me offspring, and his smile gained a bit more smarm wattage. “He’s a bright kid,” he said patronisingly about a thirty-year-old man. “He’s always had ambition. Too many young people these days just sit around, expecting things to come to them. You have to go after what you want. And of course, it’s important to set the right example. So many sons follow in the footsteps of unworthy fathers.”
That last, with a tiny sneer, and a very direct look at Nick.
Sabrina felt her hackles rise. The surge of protectiveness took her by surprise in its intensity. Fortunately, since she wasn’t sure she’d have kept her feelings out of her voice, Nick wound up the interview, completely cool and expressionless.
When Gough had been ushered off the set—and good riddance; it could have kicked off far worse, but the man was a dickhead—Sabrina touched Nick’s elbow during the ad break.
“The only thing he’s demonstrating to his kids is how to be a complete shit, in one easy step.”
Nick finished adjusting the volume on his earpiece. Briefly, he touched his thumb to the line of her jaw. “My feelings about my father have always been conflicted, and used to change weekly, but I’m fully aware of his faults,” he said in a low voice. “However, I’d rather have had Darth Vader for a dad than Gough.”
On which note, they went over to blow things up at the science table. Fountains of frothing, bubbling pink and green foam almost hit the studio ceiling, but Sabrina assumed by the expert’s manner that every chemical reaction was intentional. Nothing turned into a noxious gas and forced a mass evacuation, so their saboteur had missed a golden opportunity.
Despite how it had begun, she was having fun as the morning progressed. She watched with amusement as Nick demonstrated each item in the Christmas gift guide with the skill of a shopping-channel veteran.
He was working the cameras, purposely lifting the mood after the slimy snoozefest of Gough. But his real, from-within grin was out as she tried to twist away from a hi-tech head massager that did something she couldn’t bear to her nerve endings. Every time it touched her, she flailed about like a lost octopus.
When she took up the guest’s offer of trialling a new variety of electric skateboard, however, he suddenly turned into a walking safety manual.
He insisted on checking the board before she used it, via a very believable series of questions and flattery to the young man who’d brought it in, having him just about deconstruct the engine on the studio floor. Fair enough. Given the track record of electronics on this show malfunctioning, she’d been going to casually manoeuver a look-over herself.
But, having flicked switches and revved things and peered at the internals, and found nothing to raise suspicion, Nick continued to do a dead impressive impersonation of Molly Weasley.
“You’re going to fall.” He stood with his hands slightly raised, as if she were literally about to catapult off and needed Superman over there to swoop in. She hadn’t even stepped onto the thing yet.
“No, I’m not,” she said cheerfully, bending to touch the controls the young man had explained with enthusiasm.
“It doesn’t look safe.”
“Oh no, it’s really easy to use,” her new friend assured Nick, who remained unimpressed. “And it’s on the lowest setting for an indoors demo. A toddler could play on it.” He helped Sabrina stand on the base. “Just, left foot there... Yes, awesome! You’re a natural.”
“You’re going to break your leg,” intoned the joy prophet, as she rode in a circle around his towering, glowering figure at the approximate speed of a slow-motion tortoise, and oh my God, had she ever questioned the friendship between Griff and Nick?
Right now—peas in a bloody pod.
“All right, Grandpa.” She circled him again. “You can stop twitching now. I’m getting off.” She handed it back to its owner, and asked, with great interest, “Are they legal to use on the street? It would be fun on Waterloo Bridge.”
Nick’s face did not disappoint.
After the show, Jess approached with printouts. “Here’s the schedule for the Murder Train broadcast. Are you still heading to King’s Cross to final up arrangements?”
Sabrina glanced at Nick, and he nodded.
“Good. Great job today, guys.” To a passing tech, she called out, “Hey, Murad, did we find out what happened with the teleprompt?”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “The teleprompt?”
“Yeah, good thing everyone was on tenterhooks about the Gough interview going smoothly. We checked it at the last minute, and a bunch of screens were lost. You’d have had to improvise half the introduction.”
They waited until they were in the corridor outside their dressing rooms before they spoke.
“Next step,” Nick said, “we’d better check back the CCTV footage.”
“I thought about it after the Wibblet, but we’d have to file an official request to see it. You can’t just swing by and demand to see the security footage for no reason.”
“I have a contact. I’ll sort it.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Sabrina unlocked her door and pushed it open. “And here I was thinking our helpful friend was either out sick or having a change of heart. We’re lucky he or she didn’t target the foam explosion or the gift guide. Those ran comparatively like clockwork.” She anticipated his rejoinder before he said it. “Oh my God. Those skateboards are safe.”
“Do you know how many people end up in A & E because of—”
Her ringing phone cut off the lecture. Unexpected new irritating side of Nick. A person fell in the Thames one time and they were marked as a walking hazard, unsafe to operate moving machinery. Dashing in to grab her phone before it stopped, she glanced at the screen and didn’t recognise the number. “Sabrina Carlton speaking.” She smiled as she recognised the voice at the other end. “Oh, hi, Arthur, how are you?”
The elderly owner of The Toy Chest in Paddington spoke in his kind, roundabout way, and after a second or two, Sabrina gestured quickly at Nick, still standing in the doorway. He came in, brows lifted, and closed the door.
“Thank you so much, Arthur,” Sabrina said after they’d chatted for a few minutes. “I’ll come in tonight and pick it up. You’re an absolute wonder.”
She ended the call. “The sweetest old man in the world has managed to find me a Wibblet for Lizzy, which I’ll collect tonight, and he has a friend with a toy store near York, which also still has one, that you can give to your brother for Pippi. The owner is holding it for us, so we can pick it up when we get off the Murder Train. We could just hire a car for an hour or two, then catch a normal afternoon train back to London. Two demonic creatures, two happy little girls, Father Christmas comes through. Sorted.”
Nick pushed back his jacket and propped his hands on his waist. “I clearly wasted my time worrying about you on the skateboard. It wouldn’t have dared bump you off.”
“It’s so nice we’re finally getting to know each other properly.”
Chapter Twelve
11 Days until Christmas Eve
The showgirl lay sprawled across the floor of the carriage, her face pale against the black bob of her hair, her lips as red as the stain creeping across the sequins on her gold dress.
