Romy Sommer - To Catch a Star

“It’s been a whirlwind,” Tessa explained. “I wanted a spring wedding, but Stefan’s so busy and the only break he has is over the St Valentine’s weekend. It’s all terribly last-minute, but my biggest challenge has been finding Valentine’s themed decor that isn’t a cliché.”

Kenzie grinned. “If it’s spring you want, you’ve come to the right place. Ask Lee to tell you sometime how he decorated a St Pancras station platform with fresh frangipanis in October for Rik.”

They exchanged a look. “I didn’t do it for Rik,” he said, then he turned to Tessa. “I’ve never done a wedding scene before. Could be fun.”

“Just promise me no pink hearts. I fired my wedding-planner because she insisted on hearts and cupids.”

Lee grinned. “No pink hearts. Cross my heart. Are you and your fiancé free for dinner tonight so we can thrash out ideas?” He pulled his mouth down. “I’ve got nothing planned since my best friend’s ditched me for a better offer.”

Kenzie smacked his shoulder. “It’s Rik’s farewell dinner with his family. I told you.”

Tessa ignored the pang in her chest. She’d once been a part of that family. “Stefan’s out of town on business, but my assistant and I are available for dinner.”

Lee pulled her in against his free side and gave her a squeeze. “It’s a date.”

She tried hard not to flinch at the touch, and extricated herself as quickly as she could without being rude. “So when do I get to meet Mr Taylor?”

Kenzie smiled, mistaking her question for enthusiasm. “Right now.”

In the adjacent building, they passed a warren of dressing rooms, props workshops and store rooms before they reached the costume department.

Feeling very much like that lamb being led into the lion’s den, Tessa followed Kenzie through a set of wide double doors into a bright space lined with rail upon rail of period clothing. To one side, beneath the light of the tall windows, seamstresses beavered away behind clattering sewing machines. Straight ahead, in a cleared open space, stood a couple of battered sofas and a table with a tray of coffees. Tessa could smell the fresh coffee clear across the room.

Her stomach flipped. She’d skipped lunch too in the hurry to get here.

Beyond the sofas, reflected half a dozen times in the bank of mirrors behind him, stood Christian Taylor.

He wore full eighteenth-century costume, complete with ruffled cuffs and pantaloons. There weren’t a lot of men who could look masculine in an outfit like that. Christian did.

He laughed at the stylist, who unknotted the cravat around his neck. His laugh travelled clear down Tessa’s spine. Even the bones in her heels vibrated at the sound. If a sound could personify sex, then Christian’s laugh was that sound.

“Okay, try the next one,” the stylist said, waving Christian towards the cubicle with louvered doors which stood open to reveal more costumes hanging ready.

Christian turned towards the cubicle and as he turned he caught sight of Tessa in the mirror. Their gazes locked. Recognition dawned. Her heart skipped a beat or three.

Thank you, merciful fate! Christian didn’t believe in God, but if he did he’d be on his knees and saying ‘Amen’. Since he’d stormed into the hotel last night without a backward glance, he’d thought of a few choice things he’d like to say to Miss High and Mighty. Top of the list was that she should take a look in a mirror sometime.

And now fate had delivered her here. He’d get that chance to vent after all and hopefully exorcise the demons that had kept him awake all night. The fact that she’d hit on a sore spot, on something that had been nagging at him for months, hadn’t helped.

Whatever she wanted here, she wasn’t going to get it. This was his chance to turn the tables and send her packing.

“This is a private area,” the Wardrobe Supervisor said, hurrying to intervene.

“They’re not fans.” Gerry, the UPM, pushed through the doors behind the two newcomers. “Sorry I’m late, just putting out fires.” He waved at the redhead. “This is Kenzie, our Los Pajaros liaison.” She was pretty, perhaps older than she looked. At least Christian hoped she was older, or she’d be a serious case of jail-bait.

Then Gerry gestured to Miss High and Mighty. “And this is her friend, Teresa Adler. Christian, meet your new PA.”

Like hell. He’d already told the producers he didn’t want an assistant. And this was who they’d hired? Just how small was this country?

He set his hands on his hips. “Over my dead body.”

Gerry ran distracted hands through his hair so it stood up at all angles. “We’ve already had this argument once today.” He turned to the delicate redhead beside Teresa. “There’s a genuine fire on Tortuga. No one’s hurt and they’ve got it under control, but we’ve lost a large portion of the set. We’re going to need to bring in more labour if we’re going to get the build done on time. You need to speak to the mayor and ask him to give us some local labourers. We just don’t have the budget to bring in more people from Florida.”

Christian’s eyes narrowed as he followed the conversation. “Good luck with that. You won’t get a single islander to set foot on Tortuga. Not now that you’ve triggered the curse.”

Every face in the room turned to him. Gerry’s expression was one of annoyed disbelief. The redhead looked intrigued. The Wardrobe Supervisor and his stylist both simply looked lost. His friend Dominic, who’d been dozing on the couch beneath an upside-down newspaper, sat up. Only Miss High and Mighty showed no emotion whatsoever.

“You’ve heard of the curse?” the redhead asked.

“Of course. Every child on Los Pajaros knows the legend. Until the pirate and his princess return to Isla Tortuga, any person who steps foot on the island is doomed to life-long grief and heartache.”

“The pirate and his princess died several hundred years ago. They won’t be coming back.” The redhead looked almost sad. “So you’re from Los Pajaros?”

He ignored the question. His past wasn’t open for discussion. He faced Gerry. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“She’s not a babysitter, she’s your assistant. And your publicist insisted.”

Screw his publicist. Or perhaps that was the problem. He already had. This was no doubt her revenge for the fact that he’d slipped out in the middle of the night without saying goodbye. But what had she expected? She’d done enough damage control on his reputation to know what he was.

“If you don’t want her, I’ll take her.” Dominic’s voice drifted up from the sofa. He grinned at Teresa, looking her up and down. “You can assist me any time.”

Christian glared at him. “I’d like a moment alone with Teresa.” He used his most imperious tone and it worked. Everyone in the room, including the stylist, backed away. Even Dominic, though Christian had to send him another glare before he dragged himself off the sofa and followed the others, unread newspaper still in hand.

Teresa remained unmoved. He circled her, checking her out. She was as pretty as he remembered, in that Scandinavian supermodel way. An Ice Princess out of legend, with her white-blonde hair swept up into a knot at the back of her head, not a strand out of place. In the bright light of day, her complexion was pure peaches and cream, her eyebrows perfectly sculpted, her make-up professional but subtle.

She wore an elegant pants suit that hid those long legs he remembered so well, and a conservative white blouse buttoned up to the neck that was no doubt intended to conceal the swell of her breasts. It failed utterly.

What kind of a PA dressed in Ralph Lauren anyway?