Читать книгу Falling for the Bridesmaid - Sophie Pembroke, Sophie Pembroke - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

TOM PUSHED HIS way to the counter, dragging his suitcase behind him like a weapon. A coffee shop. What the hell kind of use to him was that, especially at this time of night? He needed a drink—a proper one. But that was arrivals for you—never as good as the departures lounge. After so many years travelling the world, you’d think he’d remember that. Except he was usually being collected straight off a plane these days, and got whisked through arrivals to some hotel or another without even clocking his surroundings.

He’d just have to hope that whoever the ditsy woman Rose had assigned to pick him up was would check her phone and see his text telling her to meet him here instead.

Staring at the menu above the counter with bleary eyes, Tom tried to figure out his best option. He’d already consumed so much caffeine in the last two weeks that his muscles appeared to be permanently twitching. Add that to the distinct lack of sleep, and he wasn’t sure another shot of the black stuff was quite what he needed. Of course, what he needed was a big bed with cool sheets, a blackout blind and about twenty-four hours’ solid rest.

None of which was a remote possibility until his ride pitched up.

Ordering a decaf something-or-other, Tom tossed his jacket and laptop into the nearest bucket chair and hovered impatiently between it and the counter while he waited for his drink. If he’d flown first class, or even business, he could have had as many free drinks as he liked on the plane. But old habits died hard and, since this job was entirely on spec and therefore on his own dime, he’d been paying for his own flight. Something inside him still baulked at shelling out that much cash just for a better seat, even though money wasn’t really an object any more. Certainly not the way it had been growing up.

His music journalism career had taken off enough in the past few years that he could rely on his contacts for a good life and a better income. He’d come a long way from his first big, explosive story, almost ten years ago.

So yeah, he could have afforded the upgrade, easily, and without tapping those savings. And if he’d remembered about the free booze aspect of things, he probably would have done. As it was...

Snatching his coffee from the girl behind the counter, he settled at his table and prepared to hang around a while. God only knew how long it would take his ride to get there from wherever she was, but he might as well get some work done while he waited. Even if he felt as if his eyes might jump right out of his head if he didn’t close them soon.

At least the work was worth travelling all the way from New York for. A story like this, a break this big...it could make him, permanently. He’d be the go-to person for anything to do with The Screaming Lemons, and that was serious currency in the industry. It would give him access, and opportunities with the newer bands coming through. He’d have the pick of jobs.

He’d already made a pretty good name for himself with the bigger music magazines, websites and even the colour supplements. But this trip, these interviews, this was something more—it was a book in the making. That was what Rick Cross had promised him. And Tom was going to make sure the old man made good on his word.

He was annoyed to have missed all the upheaval in the Huntingdon-Cross family over the past two months, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d already been committed to another project at home in the States and, anyway, who could have predicted that one of Rick and Sherry’s famously blonde and beautiful daughters would get married and knocked up all within the space of eight weeks? And who knew what was going on with Rose now? She’d been in the press recently herself, he remembered, pictured with the famous Runaway Groom—who he’d thought was famously her sister Violet’s best friend. Maybe something had happened there—and he’d missed it, again. All he’d had was a text message when he turned his phone back on after the flight, with a contact number and the information that, due to unforeseen but brilliant circumstances, someone else would be collecting him.

Or not, as the case might be.

Tom sighed. He’d just have to make sure he got good interviews with them all when he could. And, wherever Rose might be, at least one daughter was still living at home—probably the most famous one, if you counted notorious Internet celebrity, which Tom did.

Opening his laptop, he pulled up his notes on the family. He was staying at the family home, Huntingdon Hall, so he needed to be prepared from the get-go. He’d spent weeks compiling old interviews, articles and photos of the whole family, and felt he had it pretty much down. And after speaking with Rose in New York and on the phone while planning the trip, he’d thought he had at least one ally there—until she’d decided to swan off and abandon him with no notice.

Presumably she’d got an offer too good to refuse, no matter how much it inconvenienced anyone else. Celebrity kids—always the centre of their own world, however nice and normal Rose had seemed when they met. He needed to remember that.

He’d only had one conversation with the man he was really there to see, though—Rick Cross himself. Rock star, family man, reformed wide boy. The interviews Tom had on file dated back almost thirty years, back to when The Screaming Lemons were the next big thing on the rock scene. Nowadays, they were the old standards—and they had to try harder to shock or surprise.

With his plans for a tell-all book about the band and his family’s history, it looked as if Rick had plans to do both.

Tom had asked him, ‘Why now?’ It couldn’t be money—the band still sold enough greatest hits records and got more than enough airplay that it didn’t matter if their latest album tanked. But all Rick would say was that it was time.

Scrolling through his family crib sheet, Tom reminded himself of all the most pertinent facts.

Most people in Britain and the States could pick Rick Cross out of a line-up and tell you his story. Same for his wife, the beautiful and rich mostly ex-model and now English society stalwart, Sherry Huntingdon. With his fame and her family, they made quite the impact.

Then there were the girls. The youngest, Daisy, was the newest Lady Holgate, which seemed pretty much par for the course for celebrity kids, Tom decided. After all, if you already had money and fame, surely a title was the only thing left to go for? Especially in the UK.

The twins were a few years older at twenty-seven. Rose, he knew from personal meetings with her, had been living in New York for the last few years, although she had planned to be in England until the annual benefit concert at least.

And then there was Violet. Tom had enjoyed the hell out of researching her. The thought made him smile even as he rubbed at his gritty eyes.

A commotion at the counter made him look up, and he blinked at the sight of a tall blonde in a ridiculous dress and heels crashing past a table full of customers. Was that Rose? Or a sleep deprivation induced hallucination?

‘Sorry!’ the blonde yelped, and he decided that she was probably real. Hallucinations didn’t usually yelp, in his experience.

Shaking his head to try and wake up, Tom packed up his laptop. It looked as if his ride had made it after all. Any time now he could fall into that nice, peaceful, quiet bed and sleep for a week. Or at least until Rick Cross summoned him for his first interview.

From all the reports he’d read, Tom was pretty sure Rick wasn’t an early riser. That lie-in was practically in the bag.

‘Rose,’ he said, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder and reaching for the handle of his suitcase. ‘I thought you were going away? You didn’t have to come all the way out here just because the idiot you asked to pick me up forgot. I could have just caught a cab, you know.’

Rose looked up, eyes wide, her hands still gripping her skirt. ‘Oh, um, no, it’s fine. Thomas. It’s fine, Thomas.’

Why did she keep repeating his name? And why was she calling him Thomas instead of Tom all of a sudden? They’d spoken plenty of times before, and even had lunch once. It wasn’t as if she might have forgotten it all of a sudden.

Unless...

The smirk formed unbidden on his lips. ‘I’m sorry, Violet. I thought you were your sister for a moment. And it’s Tom.’

‘That’s okay. You’re not the only one to get confused.’ She pulled a frustrated face, and Thomas couldn’t help but laugh. It was just so familiar. And not from Rose.

‘What?’ Violet asked, obviously startled by his outburst. Maybe he should have had caffeinated coffee. Obviously the sleep deprivation was starting to affect him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he managed, trying to keep his smirk in check. ‘But for a moment you looked just like you did in the—’ Self-preservation kicked in as her face turned stony and he cut himself off.

‘No, really. Do continue.’ Her cut glass accent was sharp enough to wound, and any humour Tom had found in the situation ebbed away. ‘I believe you were about to finish that sentence with the words “leaked sex tape”, right?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Tom started, realising he’d apologised to this woman more in the first three minutes of meeting her than he’d normally need to in even a month of dating someone. But Violet interrupted before he could get to the part about sleep deprivation and inadequate impulse control.

‘That’s right,’ she said, a little louder than Tom thought was strictly necessary. ‘I’m the famous Huntingdon-Cross Sex Tape Twin. Not one of the two sisters who found true love and settled down. The one who men only want so they can film us together and put it on the Internet. Get your autographs here.’

The café was almost empty, but a couple of guys sitting at the table nearest the front definitely had their camera phones out. What kind of audacity did it take to stand up in public and admit to being the star of a ridiculously explicit sex tape watched by half the world? The sort only the rich and famous had.

‘And apparently, according to the frustrated and annoyed look on my face, it can’t even have been good sex. Personally, I don’t remember, but Mr Buckley here has obviously watched it often enough to be considered an expert. Do feel free to ask him questions, if you like. I’m not in a hurry. I mean, I’m only missing my parents’ marriage renewal ceremony to be here. Carry on.’

Waving an imperious hand towards him, Violet perched on the edge of a stool by the counter and waited. Feeling the heat of embarrassment in his cheeks, Tom grabbed the last of his things from the table and headed for the exit. Violet Huntingdon-Cross might be used to this sort of exposure, but he certainly wasn’t.

‘No questions? Oh, what a shame. I suppose we’d better be on our way, then.’ Violet hopped down and followed him out into the arrivals hall.

‘I suppose I deserved that,’ he muttered as she held the door of the terminal open for him. He had laughed first. But she’d been over an hour and a half late to collect him. So the sleep deprivation was at least partly her fault, right?

‘I suppose you did,’ she replied. ‘And I’m very sorry for being late to collect you. Rose gave me the wrong flight times.’

Damn. There went that argument.

‘This is where you apologise to me for humiliating me in front of a crowd of people,’ Violet prompted, and Tom raised his eyebrows.

‘Me? Trust me, sweetheart, you did the humiliating all by yourself.’ As if a performance of that sort was second nature to her. Which, judging by the sex tape, it might well be. He’d heard that Violet had calmed down in more recent years, but maybe the family had just got better at hiding her exploits from the media.

Her whole face flushed bright red at his words, and she pushed past him as they left the terminal. ‘I’m parked in the short stay car park,’ she called back over his shoulder.

He was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear her muttered words as she strode off towards the car, but he did. ‘Hopefully not as short as your stay with us, though.’

Tom allowed himself a smile. Violet Huntingdon-Cross was definitely a worthy interview subject. And if he could get some new or hidden scandals on the eldest family wild child to help sell his book proposal, well, he’d be an idiot not to. Right?