Managed: a VIP novel Page 5

  But now everything is upside down and sideways. I will be seeing him in England. He works with Brian Jameson, which he informs me is actually a false name for Brenna James, who runs the PR department for his organization.

  Why Brenna James needed to give me a fake name is beyond me, but definitely piques my interest.

  Gabriel spares no time extracting himself from my hold and putting as much space between us as possible. The turbulence has died, so there isn’t an excuse to linger anyway. We spend the rest of the flight in awkward silence.

  Right before we arrive in London, I try to get him to talk about the job, about Brenna. But he refuses, telling me he’ll let her explain everything.

  The only good thing to come out of my nagging is that he’s too busy bickering with me to notice the landing.

  “I’ll have my driver drop you at your hotel,” he says as we make our way out of the gate and into Heathrow’s terminal.

  Since it’s late at night, and I’m in a foreign country, I’m not inclined to argue. In fact, I’m grateful and more than a little shocked by his offer. “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”

  He gives me a look as if I’m being ridiculous, but nods in acknowledgment. “I assume you have luggage?

  “Of course,” I tell him, looking around at the closed-up shops that line the way. “Don’t you? Or I guess you live in London.”

  “My main residence is in New York now. But I keep a wardrobe here in my London home.”

  Pondering a life where I jet around the world and have wardrobes and homes waiting for me, I almost miss the escalator to baggage claim. Graceful as ever.

  Gabriel, however, walks exactly as I’d expected him to: like a man accustomed to people getting out of his way. His stride is smooth, brisk, and confident.

  Here on terra firma, I can appreciate the full effect he has on others. People actually do edge out of his path. It’s fascinating—they simply part like the proverbial Red Sea and gape at him as he passes.

  While Gabriel’s masculine beauty is truly breathtaking, the force of him is earthier, almost brutal. Most charismatic people make you want to be a part of their inner circle, make you feel special. With Gabriel the message is much different: here is a man with whom you do not fuck.

  He doesn’t talk to me while we walk but focuses his attention on his phone. Apparently he has a million and one emails to answer. His texting-while-walking skills are impressive, though I guess it helps when you don’t have to worry about running into anyone.

  We halt at the baggage carousel.

  “Do you see your bags?” he asks, nose deep in his phone.

  Along with my carry-on, which holds my camera and equipment—there was no way I was losing sight of my babies—I have two large suitcases. I usually pack lighter, but “Brian” had suggested I pack for an extended stay should I get the job.

  “Not yet.”

  “Color?”

  “Red.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts. “Not surprising.”

  “Let me guess,” I ask as he taps away at his phone. “Had you the need for luggage, it would be as black as your immortal soul.”

  He tucks his phone in his pocket and gives me a level look. Amusement lightens his expression. “As it happens, my luggage is dark brown alligator leather.”

  “I don’t know why I bother teasing you,” I mutter.

  Again that hint of a smile flirts with the edges of his lips. “You are persistent. I’ll give you that.”

  I spot my bags, but before I can grab them, he has a porter attending to us and we’re off again. It’s ten at night, which is unsettling since we’ve already spent an entire night on the plane. Taxies are thin, and the majority of people are being greeted by loved ones.

  Travel loneliness claws at my belly. I hate landing in new places at night. It always feels as if I might be left behind and end up sleeping on an airport bench.

  Not so tonight. And another swell of gratitude fills me when Gabriel guides me to the black Rolls Royce Phantom waiting at the curb, the driver already opening the door.

  Gabriel gestures for me to enter. But then frowns. “You’re not going to bounce on the seats and cry who-eee, are you?”

  I glare at him. “I’m not completely uncouth, you know.”

  Okay, I might have done so had he not mentioned it.

  “I’ve been in a plane with you for seven hours,” he reminds me as he follows me into the car.

  I have to grit my teeth, because, who-fucking-eee!, the car is fine. I want to rub my cheeks against the butter soft leather and play with the array of buttons so badly my fingers twitch.

  Gabriel eyes me for a long moment as the driver shuts the door with a soft thud. “Go on,” he says in a cajoling voice. “Give it a little bounce. You know you’re dying for it.”

  With his heavy-lidded stare and deep rumbling tone, he makes this sound illicit. I cross my legs, and his eyes track the movement. His lids lower just a bit more, and a shimmer of unwanted heat licks under my shirt.

  “I’m good,” I tell him with false lightness.

  He grunts in response. The car pulls away from the curb, all smoothness and power, and I sit back in my plush seat with a sigh. Whatever happens from here on out, I’ll have this small moment of complete comfort.

  We sit in silence as the car heads toward London. I can’t look out the windows without being disoriented; it’s just wrong to be driving on the left side of the road. I keep expecting to crash into an oncoming car.

  Gabriel is already back on his phone. This time he’s talking to someone named Jules, peppering him or her with questions—is his house ready, have certain contracts arrived, and so on. The cool-yet-even tone of his voice soothes me in the cozy quiet of the car.

  I lean my head back and let my eyes close—until I hear his last line of questioning: Is the hotel room ready and sufficiently prepared for Ms. Darling?

  Hearing him discuss my lodging arrangement drives home the fact that I’m truly interviewing for his company. And I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or excited. Perhaps a bit of both.

  “You’re not going to try to talk Ms. James out of hiring me, are you?” I ask when he hangs up with Jules.

  “Because we spent time together on the plane, you mean?” His brow lifts as his lips flatten. “I’d be a right prat if I did.”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “Are you saying you think I’m a prat?” He appears so honestly offended, even a bit hurt, that I instantly feel tiny and petty.

  “No, no. I’m sorry. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.” I wave a hand because I can’t stay still. “I’m flustered. It’s not every day you antagonize your prospective employer for hours on end.”

  A small smile creeps up along the outer corners of his eyes. “Yes, well, technically I’m not your employer. Brenna and I are partners of a sort. But I’ll take note of your remorse.”

  “Remorse implies I did something wrong. This is more awkward embarrassment.”

  The smile moves to his mouth, pulling at it. But he won’t let it unfurl. I wonder if I’ll ever see this man smile with ease. I wonder how long I’ll even know him. My chances of landing a job in a business that he’s a part of feels slim. I’m not the button-down type.

  “You’re still not going to tell me what you do?” I ask.

  “You could Google my name or Brenna’s at any time.” He gestures toward my handbag with a tilt of his arrogant, stubborn chin. “So go on then. Pull out your phone and check.”

  Oh, I’m tempted. So very tempted. But it feels like cheating somehow. “Maybe I want you to trust me enough to tell me.”

  A soft scoffing noise escapes him. “It isn’t a matter of trust. I hardly consider this a secret since you’re going to find out soon enough. It is a matter of respecting Brenna’s somewhat overzealous but apparently adamant desire to keep you uninformed until the time of the interview.”

  I flop back against the leather seat with a huff. “
You’re right. I’ll respect her wishes too. But this just means I’ll have to use my imagination.”

  “No doubt you’ll have me pegged as an international spy by the time we arrive,” he deadpans, though amusement glints in his eyes.

  “Hey, I only thought that once.”

  The corner of his lip twitches, and then his phone chimes. He glances down at it before tapping out a message.

  “Is that Brenna?”

  “Chatty and nosey.” He doesn’t look up from his phone. “A winning combination.”

  “You love it,” I counter with false bravado. Nerves are starting to make me jumpy. And I’m seriously considering poking him right now just to get an answer—something I think he knows because he glances my way, and that stern expression of his returns.

  “Yes, that was Brenna. I informed her I had the package on board and ready for delivery.”

  “Har.”

  He turns toward me in his seat, leaning against the corner, his big body sprawled like some Armani ad come to life. All that harsh male beauty focuses on me; it’s like being under stage lights—exposing, blinding, hot.

  I try not to squirm. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to look at him without being rendered breathless and mushy-brained.

  Thankfully, our stare-off is broken when the car pulls up before a small hotel with an unassuming front. The door is Victorian style with glossy green paint, cut-glass windows, and a simple black awning to protect visitors from rainfall. It looks clean and cute but not like a place I imagine Gabriel Scott, with his perfectly tailored clothes and crisp mannerisms, would stay. There isn’t even a doorman. Gabriel is definitely the doorman-needing type.

  Even so, we’re here. I smooth my hands down my plain black yoga pants. Christ, I should have dressed up for the plane ride. I can’t even remember what interview outfit I brought. Will it work? Will Brenna be waiting for us now that Gabriel’s alerted her? I thought I had until tomorrow morning before I’d meet her.

  “Sophie,” Gabriel says, his deep voice even and low. “You’re fretting over nothing.”

  “I’m not fretting.”

  One eyebrow lifts, challenging me.

  I pluck at the edge of my shirt. “Okay, maybe a little worrying is occurring.”

  “You’ll fit in fine. Perfectly, actually.” He frowns as if this bothers him.

  Or maybe he’s placating me. “If she’s at all like you—”

  “She’s not.” He straightens and adjusts his cuffs. It’s a tick. But I don’t know what he has to be nervous about. “None of them are like me. You’ll love them.”

  I want to ask who “they” are. But I don’t like the implication he’s made about himself. “I like you fine,” I tell him.

  “Well, good.” He knocks on the window. The driver opens the door, clearly having been waiting for Gabriel’s signal. “If all goes well, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me.”

  He does not make it sound like a reward.

  * * *

  Last night, after Gabriel made certain I’d been properly checked in—he refused to leave me at the curb and was affronted that I’d assumed he would—I was so tired, I stumbled into my room and crawled under the covers.

  I didn’t sleep a wink, which was annoying, but it was dark, and the sounds of traffic coming through the massive, old windows reminded me of home, so I was content just to lie there.

  Now, in the light of day, I’m dressed in my favorite ’60s-style teal sheath dress with three-quarter-length sleeves. Black buttons run down one thigh and a flirty little black ruffle dances along the hem. I’m wearing black kitten heels and my hair is in a chignon.

  I could have gone for something more conservative, but that would be a lie. I’m not conservative and never will be. And really, if Brenna James hires me to run her social media campaign and be a photographer, I’ll be in my jeans more than anything else.

  I dither in front of the mirror for as long as I dare, then make my way down to the lounge. The hotel is an old, Victorian, four-story townhouse. The staircase is narrow with worn wood risers that creak under my feet. There’s a tiny claustrophobic elevator that I used last night when the porter brought my bags up.

  I’m on the fourth floor, and the lounge is on the second. It’s done up like a classic gentleman’s club with various leather arm chairs set around small wooden tables. Emerald silk wallpaper meets white wainscoting, and subdued conversation rises from small groups having their breakfast.

  I’m supposed to meet Brenna in an hour. And though I’m not hungry, I manage to order coffee after asking the waitress to decipher the menu. Apparently, I need a flat white, since I’m not in the mood for a frothy cappuccino.

  “Why does it say no pictures at the bottom of the menu?” I ask the waitress as she sets down my coffee.

  “This is a private club,” she says in a thickly Eastern European accent, “for entertainment professionals. The members want to feel comfortable eating without the threat of someone taking their picture.”

  I glance around with wide eyes and spot a woman who I swear is an up-and-coming singer. She’s eating with a man; they’re snuggled up and laughing quietly. I can’t see his face, but there’s something familiar about the way he holds himself. Or I just might be spinning castles now.

  “A club? Really?”

  “Mostly music, stage, and screen,” the waitress tells me blandly. “And some footballers, I think.”

  After that, I can’t concentrate. I drink my creamy coffee and hear snatches of conversation around me: a documentary producer lamenting his inability to find a proper narrator, a record exec mentioning heading to the studio to work on a new album, a television reporter whining to his agent about his contract.

  I have to wonder (again) who it is I’m interviewing to work with. An actor? Is Gabriel an agent too? I could see him doing that with ease. Or maybe he works for a movie studio.

  I’m so engrossed in shameless eavesdropping and speculating about Gabriel that I don’t notice the stylish woman until she’s at my table, pulling out a free chair.

  “Hey,” she says. “I’m Brenna. Or Brian.” She laughs. “Scottie told me the jig was up with my secret identity.”

  Brenna James is tall, thin, and severely pretty with honey-red hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She’s dressed in a gorgeous copper-colored suit and sky-high turquoise heels.

  “God, that’s a cute dress.” She plops down in the chair opposite me. “Is it wrong to want to hire you based on that dress alone?”

  “I wouldn’t complain,” I say, shaking her hand. “But feel free to ask me more questions if you must.”

  “I know we’re supposed to meet in thirty minutes, but I saw you sitting here and thought it’d be rude not to come over.” She gives me a wide smile that makes her appear impish. “Forgive me for intruding?”

  “It’s no problem at all.” I signal the waitress before asking Brenna, “You said Scottie. Do you mean Gabriel?”

  Her mouth falls open as if I’ve slapped her. “Um…yes. Gabriel Scott. Everyone calls him Scottie.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize.”

  She leans in, her eyes wide and curious. “He, ah, gave you his first name?”

  Is it some kind of dire secret? I’m veering back toward them being international spies. And I’m only half-joking. “Well, getting him to give me his name was like pulling teeth, but yes.”

  This seems to placate her because she relaxes in her seat and, after ordering a pot of coffee, black, surveys me with a discerning eye.

  “Would you like to view my portfolio?” I ask, handing over the thick leather case I brought along with me.

  But she waves me off. “No need. I viewed your work before asking you here.”

  “Of course.” Heat flushes my cheeks. “Sorry, I’m a bit nervous.”

  She touches my hand. “Don’t be. You survived the trip sitting next to Scottie. That’s the biggest trial by fire.”

  I eye her warily. “Did you put me in that seat?
I thought I’d been bumped, but now I’m not so sure.”

  The waitress arrives with her coffee, and Brenna is quick to pour herself a cup.

  “Of course I did.” She takes a sip and sighs with appreciation before turning her sharp gaze on me. “As an enticement to working for us. Not so you’d have to deal with him. I’m not cruel.”

  “I didn’t realize it would be a cruelty.”

  “Well, most people wouldn’t, until he opens his mouth and eviscerates a poor soul with a few words.”

  I have to smile at that. “I don’t know if he even has to speak. That glare of his would probably do the trick.”

  “But you survived,” she says again, staring at me as if I’m a rare bird.

  A weird sort of protectiveness rises up in me. Not that Gabriel needs it, but I can’t stop myself from defending him. “I had fun.”

  Her red brow wings up at that. “Fun?”

  There’s so much skepticism in her voice, she’s practically choking on it.

  “It was a lovely flight,” I assure. “Thank you for putting me in first class. I’ll never forget it.”

  She clears her throat. “Yes, well, that’s…good. I’m glad. Ah, anyway, I figured Scottie would have that divider panel up before his fine ass hit the leather.”

  I don’t mention the broken panel.

  Brenna glances at her phone. “The guys are ready. Shall we head to the interview now?”

  Nerves flutter to life in my belly. “Guys? There’s a group interviewing me?”

  “More or less.” She gives me a small smile. “You’ll see. Come on. We have a private room set up.”

  “Okay.” My legs are suddenly wobbly as I stand. “Is Gabriel going to be there as well?”

  A small part of me doesn’t want him to witness this. I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate under his laser gaze. But the needier, base part of me wants to see him again. He’s familiar. And oddly, I feel confident when he’s around.

  Brenna halts a step. “Yes, Gabriel will be there.” We walk a few paces before she glances at me from under her lashes. “Though, maybe call him Scottie from now on.”

  “Why?” I don’t get the nickname or why someone like Gabriel would allow it. Scottie doesn’t fit him at all. Scottie is a dude who yells, “We need more time, Captain!” Not an impeccably dressed man who looks like a male model and speaks like an ornery duke.