Romy Sommer - To Catch a Star

The shirt had been hand-crafted in Milan.

He swore again.

The only thing he could rectify was the skew bow-tie. He removed it and stuck it in his pocket, then climbed into the passenger seat beside her. She gasped, as if about to scream again.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not a…” he struggled for the word in her language “… hijacker.”

She glanced at him, long enough this time to be able to recognise him. Her eyes, Arctic blue, rounded with awareness, recognising him, struggling to place how she knew him. It would only be a matter of time. He relaxed.

But she didn’t. The white knuckles tightened their grip on the wheel and her gaze whipped back to the road. “I know your face… you were on television…” She choked. “Oh my God! You’re…” A single tear slid down her cheek.

He was used to women screaming, fainting, or losing the ability to speak when they recognised him, but that panicked tear was the most perplexing. Was she one of those crazies who believed actors really were the characters they played? Not that he’d played many villains. He was usually typecast as the charming rogue. The role fit him like a glove.

But she didn’t look crazy. She looked… terrified.

What was with this place? Fans who mauled him, women afraid of him…

His mother had told him a great deal about Westerwald. Sometimes, instead of bedtime stories, she’d reminisced about the place and its people. Bitter-sweet as her departure had been, she’d loved her time here and the people she’d met.

Right now he couldn’t figure out why. These Westerwaldians were mad.

The street grew busier around the car, a restaurant and a late-night corner-shop now amidst the residential buildings. He was worse than lost. He had no idea where the hell he was and had lost all sense of direction. Why had he said he’d walk to the damn party?

Because he’d wanted to see the city where he’d been conceived. Without an entourage.

Now he’d seen more than enough. Maybe he’d even agree to that local PA the producers kept trying to foist on him.

The woman was still driving way too fast.

“Slow down,” he instructed.

She nodded, a stiff movement, her gaze riveted ahead.

“What do you want from me?” She sounded calmer, but the ice was still there.

He opened his mouth to answer that he wanted nothing now he was safe, then the thought occurred that a lift to the party would be nice. He smiled with all the charm he could muster in his current sorry state.

The smile didn’t last long.

He slammed into the dashboard as the driver jammed on the brakes.

“Help!” she called. Without even cutting the engine, she leapt from the car. It stalled.

A man on the sidewalk turned at her voice. A uniformed police officer.

“I’m being abducted! This man jumped into my car… ”

The policeman stepped up to the car, leaning in to look at Christian. “You’re Christian Taylor!” He took in Christian’s dishevelled attire and frowned. “You weren’t really trying to abduct this young woman, were you?”

He sounded sceptical. At last – a rational-sounding local. And one who spoke English. Christian breathed a sigh of relief and winced, winded again.

“Of course not.” His voice sounded amazingly stable considering he felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. Twice. “I was attacked by a group of fans and this young lady unwittingly provided the getaway car.”

Saying it out loud made it seem even more bizarre than it was, but the policeman nodded, as if rabid fan attacks were an everyday occurrence in Westerwald.

Perhaps they were.

The policeman opened the passenger door and Christian stepped out gingerly, holding his bruised ribs.

“Oh, you’re hurt!” The young woman hadn’t gone far, though her stance screamed fight or flight.

The policeman’s eyes widened as he took in Christian’s state. “Do you need a hospital?”

Christian shook his head. “I’m fine.” Battered, shaken, but fine. He turned to his rescuer with another of his trademark smiles. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

He hadn’t noticed before, but she was a real stunner. Classically beautiful, with high cheekbones and blonde hair, almost white beneath the street lights, swept back into one of those elegant twist things. She was dressed in a short, dark swing coat, buttoned up to conceal whatever lay beneath.

Like a model, she was thinner and less curvy than he preferred, but her stockinged legs, revealed now she was out the car, were the clincher. Perfectly shaped legs that went on forever. Legs he could see bare and wrapped around him in his very near future.

He grinned. Maybe he was going to like Westerwald after all.

Her classy attire was in stark contrast with his own, however. He glanced down at his torn suit. There was no way he could arrive at the party like this. It was a charity banquet and there was sure to be a press presence, and he really wasn’t in the mood for lengthy explanations.

Not when there was a much more pleasant diversion available than speeches and shaking hands.

“A lift back to my hotel for a change of clothes would be much appreciated.” And once he got her back to his hotel room…

“I’ll take you,” the woman offered, in lightly accented English. Where she’d looked pale moments before, now she looked flushed. “It’s the least I could do for not giving you a chance to explain.”

The policeman beamed. “All’s well that ends well, then.” His eyes twinkled as he turned to the young woman and addressed her in dialect. “This is your lucky day. Do you have any idea how many women would like to be in your shoes right now?”

Christian flinched. He’d just found out the hard way how popular he was in this little country.

His getaway driver didn’t look as if she felt particularly lucky either, but she nodded and climbed back into the car. Christian followed suit, this time buckling himself in. His ribs couldn’t take any more abuse.

She took a shaky breath, as if pulling herself together, and re-started the engine.

“I’m Christian Taylor,” he said as she put the car in gear and pulled off.

“I gathered.” That touch of ice was still there. So knowing who he was hadn’t melted any of her stiff attitude. “I assume I should know who you are?”

“I’m an actor. And you are?” He smiled, warming up for a charm assault, but she didn’t even glance his way. If anything, she seemed to freeze up even more.

“Teresa.”

Sheesh. Glaciers were warmer.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue, Teresa.”

“Were you really attacked by fans, or were you just pulling some stunt?”

“You didn’t see them – the girls on the sidewalk?”

Her brow furrowed and she pursed her lips, troubled. “Which hotel are you staying at?”

“The Grand. It’s on… ”

“I know where it is.”

He’d never worked such a hard crowd. But there wasn’t a woman he couldn’t seduce when he set his mind to it. He upped the smoulder. “I thought you recognised me. Who did you think I was?”

“I don’t watch much television, but the story’s been all over the news lately… Two prisoners escaped from their transit van on the way to court. I thought you were one of them.”

Another punch to the gut – an emotional one this time. “You thought I was an escaped con? Why – because I’m black?”

“Of course not.” She turned her head to look at him, as if seeing him properly for the first time.

He was a little mollified she hadn’t judged him by the colour of his skin. Even in his adopted homeland, which had made him far more welcome than his own people ever had, that still happened all too frequently.