Читать книгу Falling For The Rebel Princess - Ellie Darkins - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

CHARLIE ADJUSTED THE strap on her spike heels and straightened the seam of her leather leggings. As soon as the car door opened, she knew there would be a tsunami of flashes from the assembled press hordes. She was considered fair game at the best of times, and if news of the wedding had got out by now, the scrum would be worse than usual.

These shots needed to be perfect. She wasn’t having her big moment hijacked by a red circle of shame.

It was funny, she thought, that neither she nor Joe had called his manager, or her boss yet, and told them about what had happened. Not the best start to a publicity campaign, which was, after all, what they had agreed this marriage was. It was more natural, this way, she thought. If there was a big announcement, it would look too fake. Much better for them to let the story grow organically.

As the limo pulled up outside the club she realised that no announcement was necessary anyway. Word had obviously got around. The hotel had arranged for them to be picked up from a discreet back door, an old habit, so she hadn’t been sure whether there had been photographers waiting for her there. If there had, they’d taken a shortcut to beat them here. There were definitely more press here than a simple album launch warranted. The story was out, then.

Without thinking, she slipped her hand into Joe’s, sliding her fingers between his. The sight of so many photographers still made her nervous. It didn’t matter how many times she had faced them. It reminded her of those times in her childhood when she’d been pulled from the protective privacy of her family home and paraded in front of the world’s press, all looking for that perfect picture of the perfect Princess. As a child she had smiled until her cheeks had ached, dressed in her prettiest pink dress, turning this way and that as her name was shouted. It had been a small price to pay, her parents had explained, to make sure that the rest of their lives were private. But as she’d got older she’d resented those days more and more, and her childish rictus grin had turned into a sullen teen grimace.

And then, when she was nineteen, and had realised that she would never be the Princess that her family and her country wanted her to be, she’d stopped smiling altogether. She remembered sitting in the doctor’s office as he explained what he’d found: inflammation, scar tissue, her ovaries affected. Possible problems conceiving.

She might never have a baby, no chubby little princes or princesses to parade in front of an adoring public, and no hope of making the sort of dynastic match that would make her parents happy.

Her most important duty as a royal female was to continue her family’s line. It had been drummed into her from school history lessons to formal state occasions from as far back as she could remember. Queens who had done their duty and provided little princes and princesses to continue the family line.

And things hadn’t changed as much as we would all like to think, she knew. The country had liked her mother when she was a shining twenty-something. But it was when she’d given the country three beautiful royal children that they’d really fallen in love with her, when she had won their loyalty. And that was something that Charlie might never be able to do. She might never feel the delicious weight of her child in her arms. Never breathe in the smell of a new baby knowing that it was all hers.

What if she never made her parents grandparents, and saw the pride and love in their eyes that she knew they were reserving for that occasion?

And as soon as she’d realised that, she had realised that she could never make them truly proud of her, somehow the weight of responsibility had fallen from her shoulders and she’d decided that she was never going back. If she wanted to roll out of a nightclub drunk—okay. If she wanted to disappear for three days, without letting anyone know where she was going—fine. If she wanted to skip a family event to go and listen to a new band—who cared?

Her mother insisted on a security detail, and Charlie had given up arguing that one. Her only demand was that they were invisible—she never looked for the smartly dressed man she knew must be on the row behind her on the plane, and so she never saw him. And the officers didn’t report back to her mother. If she thought for a second that they would, she would have pulled the plug on the whole arrangement. That was why they’d not intervened last night: they knew she had a zero-tolerance approach to them interfering with anything that didn’t affect her physical safety.

She was never going to be the perfect Princess, so why build her family’s hopes up? She could let them down now, get it out of the way, in her own way, and not have to worry with blindsiding them with disappointment later.

Except it hurt to disappoint them, and it didn’t seem to matter how many times that she did it. Every time, the look on their faces was as bad as the time before.

What would they say this time, she wondered, when they realised that she had married someone she had just met—so obviously to scupper the sensible match that they were trying to make for her? And she had married a rock star at that, someone who couldn’t be further from the nice reliable boys that they enjoyed steering her towards at private family functions. What was the point of going along with that? she’d always thought. Entertaining the Lord Sebastians and Duc Philippes and Count Henris who were probably distant cousins, and who all—to a man—would run a mile as soon as they found out that they might not be needing that place at Eton or Charterhouse, or wherever they’d put their future son’s name down for school before they had even bagged the ultimate trophy wife.

Joe leaned past her to look out of the window, and then gave her a pointed look. ‘I guess our happy news is out.’

‘Looks that way,’ she said, with a hesitant smile. ‘Ready to face the hordes?’

‘As I’ll ever be.’ He looked confident, though, and relaxed. As if he’d been born to a life in front of the cameras, whereas she, who had attended her first photo call at a little under a day old, still came out in a sweat at the sight of a paparazzo.

But she stuck on what she’d come to think of as her Princess Scowl, in the style of a London supermodel, and pressed her knees and ankles together. It was second nature, after so many hours of etiquette lessons. Even in skin-tight leather, where there was no chance of an accidental underwear flash. She ran a hand through her hair, messing up the backcombed waves and dragging it over to one side in her trademark style. A glance in the rear-view mirror told her that her red lip stain was still good to go, managing to look just bitten and just kissed. She took a deep breath and reached for the door handle.

Joe stopped her with the touch of his fingertips on her knee. ‘Wait.’

It was as if the leather melted away and those fingertips were burning straight into her skin. Wait? For ever, if she had to.

But before she could say, or do, anything, they were gone, as was Joe. Out of the door and into the bear pit. Then her door was wrenched open and his hand was there, waiting to pull her out into the bright desert sunshine. She gripped his hand as he helped her from the car, and the flashbulbs were going off before she was even on her feet.

Shouts reached her from every direction.

‘When was the wedding?’

‘Was Elvis there?’

‘Were you drunk?’

And then there it was, the question that she’d never anticipated but that she realised now had been inevitable from the first.

‘Are you pregnant?’

She stumbled, and it was only Joe’s arm clamping round her waist and pulling her tight that stopped her falling on her face in front of the world’s press. And then she was falling anyway, because Joe’s lips were on hers, and her heart was racing and her legs were jelly and her lips...her lips were on fire. One of his hands had bunched in her hair, and she realised that this, this look, this feeling, was what she’d been cultivating in front of the mirror for more years than she cared to think about. Just been kissed, just been ravished. Just had Joe’s tongue in her mouth and hands on her body. Just had images of hot and sweaty and naked racing through her mind. He broke away and gave her a conspiratorial smile. She bit her lip, her mouth still just an inch from his, wondering how she was meant to resist going back for more.

And then the shouts broke back into her consciousness. ‘Go on—one more, Charlie!’

And the spell was broken. She wasn’t going to give them what they wanted. She turned to them, scowl back in place, though there was a glow now in the middle of her chest, something that they couldn’t see, something that they couldn’t try and own, to sell for profit.

She grabbed Joe’s hand and pulled him towards the door of the venue, ignoring the shouts from the photographers.

She dragged him through the door and into a quiet corner.

‘So I guess we survived our first photo call.’

She had hoped the relative seclusion of this dark corner would give her a chance to settle her nerves, for her heartbeat to slow and her hands to stop shaking. But as Joe took another step closer to her and blocked everything else from her vision, she felt anything but relaxed.

‘Are you okay? You look kind of flushed,’ he asked.

‘I’m fine. I just hate...never mind.’ Her voice dropped away as her gaze fixed on his lips and she couldn’t break it away. This wasn’t the time to think about what she hated, not when she was so fixed on what she loved, what she couldn’t get enough of. Like the feeling of his lips on hers.

‘Joe, I thought I saw you come in. And the new missus!’

Ricky, the drummer from Joe’s band, Charlie recognised with a jolt.

More flashbacks of the night before: the band laughing with them in the taxi cab to the courthouse, joking about how they were going to have to sign with her now she’d done this. She had to convince them that they’d been mistaken last night. That she’d married Joe for love at first sight, before they started talking to journalists. If it wasn’t already too late.

She reached for Joe’s hand and gripped it tightly in hers, hoping that it communicated everything that she needed it to.

‘Hi, Ricky,’ she said, plastering on a smile that she hoped broadcast newly wedded bliss and contentment.

‘So your first day as husband and wife, eh. How’s it working out for you?’

She tried to read into his smile what he was really saying. If only she could fake a blush, or a morning-after glow. But in the absence of that, she’d have to go on the offensive.

‘Pretty bloody amazingly, actually,’ she said, leaning into Joe and hoping that he’d run with this, with her.

‘Really?’

Ricky gave Joe a pointed look, and it told Charlie everything that she needed to know. He had thought last night that this was all a publicity stunt, and nothing that he had seen yet had changed his mind.

‘Well, I’m just glad that you both decided to take one for the team.’ He grinned. ‘It was a brilliant idea. I wish I’d thought of it first.’

She opened her mouth to speak, but Joe got there first.

‘I’m not sure what you mean, Ricky. We’re not doing this for the team. I admit it was a bit hasty, but we really meant it last night. We wanted to get married.’

‘Because you’re both so madly in love?’

She felt Joe’s hand twitch in hers and tried not to read too much into it.

‘Because it was the only thing we could do,’ he said. ‘I don’t care what we call it. Love at first sight. Or lust. Whatever. I just knew that once I had Charlie in my arms there was no way I was going to let her go. And if that meant marriage, then that’s what I wanted.’

Bloody hell, maybe he should have been an actor rather than a singer. He certainly gave that little speech more than a little authenticity. She leaned into him again, and this time he dropped her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She looked up at him, and there was something about the expression in his face that forced her up onto her tiptoes to kiss him gently on the lips.

‘Wow, okay,’ Ricky said as she broke away. ‘I guess I missed something last night. So, someone wants to chat with us about the new album, if you’ve got a minute.’

‘Okay,’ Joe replied, ‘but you do remember what we decided last night. We’re going to say yes to Charlie’s label. I’m not going back on my word.’

‘A bit early in the marriage for those sorts of ructions, is it?’ Ricky looked at them carefully, and Charlie knew that they hadn’t dispelled all of his doubts, regardless of how good an actor Joe was. ‘Either way, we still need to speak to them. Until this deal is signed, we schmooze everyone, as far as I’m concerned. I know the others feel the same.’

She had to call her boss. She couldn’t think why she hadn’t done it before now. She’d do it on the way to the plane. She glanced at her watch. They couldn’t stay long if they were going to make the flight. For a second she thought wistfully of her family’s private plane, and how much easier life had been when she’d been happy to go along with that lifestyle, to take what she didn’t feel she had earned. But it had got to the point where she simply couldn’t do it any more. If she was never going to be able to pay her parents back with the one thing that everyone wanted from her, she couldn’t use their money or their privilege any more.

She had some money left to her by her grandparents—despite her protestations, the lawyers had told her that it belonged to her and there was nothing that she could do about it—and her salary from the record label.

‘I’m sorry, do you mind if I talk to them?’ Joe asked, turning to her.

‘Of course not.’ She forced a smile, trying to live in the moment and forget all of the very good reasons she should be freaking out right now. ‘Go on.’

But Joe turned to Ricky. ‘You go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there in a second.’

‘You all right?’ he asked, when they were alone. ‘Still happy with everything? Because if you’re going to change your mind, now’s the time...’

She drew away from him and folded her arms. ‘Why would I have changed my mind?’

She didn’t understand what had happened to cause this change in mood. His shoulders were tense, she could see that.

Was it because he’d just reminded Ricky of their deal to sign with her the night before? The thought made her feel slightly sick, reminded her that whatever they might say to his band, whatever story they might spin for the papers, when it came down to it, this really was just a publicity stunt, or a business arrangement or...whatever. Whatever it was, she knew what it wasn’t. It hadn’t been love at first sight. It wasn’t a grand romance. It wasn’t a fairy tale, and there was going to be no happy ending for her. Well, fine, it wasn’t like she deserved one anyway.

But now that they were married, they had to make it work. They had to appear to be intoxicated with one another. Luckily, intoxicated was one of her fortes. She forced herself to unfold her arms and smile. ‘Of course I’m all right.’

Taking a deep breath, she stepped towards him, and with a questioning look in her eye snaked her arms around those tense shoulders. She placed another chaste peck on his lips, and smiled as she drew away. ‘See? Picture perfect. Everything’s as we agreed. Let’s go say hi to everyone.’

Under the pressure of her arms, she felt his shoulders relax and his face melted into a smile. ‘Well, we could give them something to talk about first.’

His arms wrapped around her waist, and she was reminded of the rush of adrenaline and hormones that she had felt outside when he had kissed her in front of the cameras. Her breath caught as her body softened into his hold. This time when his lips met hers, there was nothing chaste about it. Her arms tightened around him as he lifted her just ever so slightly, rubbing her hips against his as she slid up his body. His arms wrapped her completely, so that her ribs were bracketed with muscular forearms, and his hands met the indents of her waist. She was surrounded by him. Overwhelmed by the dominance of his body over hers.

His mouth dominated her too, demanding everything that she could give, and it was only with the touch of his tongue that she remembered where they were. She pushed both hands on his chest, forcing him to give her space, to unwind his arms from around her waist.

She smiled as she looked at him, both of them still dazed from the effect of the kiss. ‘Do you think they bought it?’ she asked, remembering that just a few moments ago they had been discussing the fact that this relationship was just a business deal—that the purpose of the kiss had been to keep up appearances. But Joe’s face fell, and she knew that she had said the wrong thing.

‘I think they bought it fine,’ he said. ‘It was a winning performance.’

Through the bite of his teeth, she knew that it wasn’t a compliment.

She shook her head, then reached up and pecked him one last time on the cheek. ‘Whatever it was, it blew my mind.’ She met his eyes, and she knew that he saw that she was genuine. Whatever else might be going on, there was no denying the chemistry between them. It would be stupid to even try.

But beyond that, beyond the crazy hormones that made her body ache to be near his, was there something else too? A reason that the disappointment in his eyes made some part of her body hurt? She slipped her fingers between his and they walked over to where Ricky was holding court with a woman that she recognised from another record label, her competition, and a music journalist.

‘So here’s the happy couple,’ the hack said with a smile, raising her glass to toast them. Charlie spotted a waiter passing with a tray of champagne and grabbed a flute for herself and one for Joe. She saw off half the glass with her first sip, until she felt she could stare down the journalist with impunity.

She watched Joe as they chatted, her hand trapped within his, and tried not to think about whether the warm glow of possessiveness she felt was because she’d bagged him as an artist, or a husband.

* * *

As they walked through Arrivals at Heathrow Airport, Joe felt suddenly hesitant at the thought of taking Charlie back to his apartment, definitely not something he was used to. It wasn’t as if he were a stranger to taking girls home. Though in fairness home was more usually a hotel room or their place. But now that he and Charlie were back on British soil, he realised how little they’d talked about how this was going to work.

‘So we said we’d stay at my place,’ he reminded her as they headed towards the end of another endlessly long corridor.

‘We did,’ she agreed, and he looked at her closely, trying to see if there was more he could glean from these two words. But he had forgotten that his new wife was a pro at hiding her feelings—she’d had a lifetime of practice. Charlie offered nothing else, so he pushed, wanting the matter settled before they had to face the press, who were no doubt waiting for them again at the exit of the airport. Airport security did what they could to push them back, but couldn’t keep them away completely. Not that he should want that, he reminded himself. They wanted the publicity. It was good for the band. It was the whole reason they were still married.

But even good publicity wasn’t as important as finishing a new album would be—that thought hadn’t been far from his mind the last few days. He couldn’t understand how he had thought that it was nearly finished. He’d played the demo tracks over and over on the plane, and somehow the songs that he’d fine-tuned and polished so carefully no longer worked when he listened to them. They didn’t make him feel. They had a veneer of artifice that seemed to get worse, rather than better, the more that he heard them.

His first album had come from the heart. He shuddered inwardly at the cliché. It was years’ worth of pent-up emotion and truths not said, filtered through his guitar and piano. It was honest. It was him. This latest attempt... It was okay. A half-dozen of the tracks he would happily listen to in the background of a bar. But it was clean and safe and careful, and lacking the winners. The grandstanding, show-stopping singles that took an album from good to legendary.

He was still writing. Still trying. But he was out of material and out of inspiration. His adolescent experiences, his adult life of running from them had fed his imagination and his muse for one bestselling album. But he couldn’t mine the same stuff for a second. It needed something new. So what was he meant to write about—how ten years on the road made relationships impossible? How his parents kept up with his news by reading whatever the tabloids had made up that week? That his only good friends had spent most of that time trapped with him in some mode of transport or another for the last decade? It was hardly rousing stuff.

‘Do you want to go back there now, then?’ he asked Charlie.

How was this so difficult? Was she making it that way on purpose?

She looked down at her carry-on bag. ‘This is all I have with me.’

‘We can send someone for your stuff.’

‘No.’ She didn’t want anyone riffling through her things. Occasionally she missed the discreet staff from her childhood home in the private apartments of the palace, who had disappeared the dirty clothes from her bedroom floor before it had had a chance to become a proper teenage dive, but she loved the freedom of her home being truly private. That the leather jacket that she dropped by the door when she got home would still be right there when she was heading out the next morning.

She stopped walking and looked up at him. ‘Okay, so we go back to yours tonight. Tomorrow we go to my place and pack some stuff. Does that work for you? Or I could go back to my place tonight. Sleep there, if we don’t want to rush into—’

‘You sleep with me.’

He couldn’t explain the shot of old-fashioned possessiveness that he had felt when she suggested that they sleep apart. Except... The bed share of the previous night. That was a one-off, wasn’t it? He supposed they’d find out later, when she realised that his apartment’s second bedroom had been converted to a recording studio. Leaving them with one king-sized bed and one very stylish but supremely uncomfortable couch to fight over. He was many things, but chivalrous about sleeping arrangements wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had slept eight hours in a bed that wasn’t hurtling along a motorway or through the clouds. So he could promise her a chivalrous pillow barrier if she absolutely insisted, but there was no way he was forgoing his bed. Not even for her.