Rekindling Love (British Billionaires Series) Page 4

  “What were you after? You seemed to be searching for something.”

  That question is friendly, but detached. Is he pretending not to know me? Playing Mr. Cool? Maybe he has absolutely no idea who I am, she thought.

  “What were you searching for?” he repeated.

  “Oh yes, the men's changing rooms.”

  “The men's changing rooms?” Rupert emphasized the gender of the changing room she had stated.

  How did that pop out of my mouth? He must think I'm a pre-op transsexual now, she winced.

  “Yes. I dropped my cell phone somewhere here and the last time I had it was passing the men's dressing rooms.” She congratulated herself internally. Off stage or on stage, no one improvises like Susan-Marie Thompson.

  “I thought for a moment,” he grinned at her. “It doesn't matter.”

  “I know what you thought.”

  “You don't. I thought whoever did your surgery did a fantastic job.”

  She laughed hysterically. Don't go overboard Susan, she berated. You're laughing as if he's a top comedian that has told you the funniest joke ever told. Now the laugh is sounding fake. Stop it. Ceasing laughing, she realized they were by the men's dressing rooms.

  “Do you need a hand to look?”

  “That'd be nice.”

  Susan let Rupert run around as if playing hide and seek with her non-existent missing cell phone. Directing and recalling imaginary places where she had it filled her with mirth.

  Oh he's sweet and trying so hard. I need to stop being mean now, she decided. Although that cute little tush bending over is fine entertainment. I'll leave it a minute or two longer.

  Giving it five minutes, Susan was picking obscure places forcing Rupert to reach up so his vest would raise, giving her a glimpse of his six-pack stomach. The frisson was exciting. It took the sting from his not knowing her.

  “You know what Rupert, it's fine. I'm due for a phone upgrade soon. I have a spare I can use when the company sends me a replacement sim card.”

  “Problem is, it stops me asking for your number.”

  “No it doesn't. It merely means you'll have to wait to call,” she said tartly.

  “I could give you mine and you could call me,” he challenged.

  “I fear you'd be disappointed. In cat and mouse games I like to play the mouse.”

  “Let me get a pen then.”

  Susan nearly passed out at the prospect of a date with Rupert. It had only taken fifteen years and building a career in musical theater to attract his attention. Dressed in a black bike shorts and an aged, baggy, over-sized black t-shirt with a peeling Nike logo on it, Susan's hair was tied in a pony tail. It was bewildering to figure out what he saw in her dressed this way.

  Returning with the pen, Rupert was offering the underside of his bare forearm for Susan to scribble her number on. As her left hand caught his right wrist to steady it for her to draw on, her body jolted with electricity. Wobbling, in large numerals she wrote the number on his tanned forearm.

  '“No name,” he observed. “How long will it take to get a new sim?”

  “I think between three or five days by post. I can't cope that long without a phone, so I'll go in-store and pick one up before then.”

  “I'll call soon. Perhaps we could grab a drink or coffee.”

  “Won't the girl on the treadmill mind?”

  Casting a glance above her head, Rupert clocked Jasmine. “Jasmine? No she's a friend.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes!”

  “You appeared close, that's all.”

  “You were checking me out from the bicycles.”

  “You were checking me out on the bicycles to notice me checking you out,” retorted Susan mischievously.

  “I may have,” Rupert paused. “Do I know you?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You called me Rupert.”

  “So I did.”

  “How did you know my name?”

  Establishing she'd been checking him out, Susan could have lied to say Jasmine or a member of staff told her. “People don't forget Rupert Locke-Smythe. I'm not unique. I'm like other people. Call me if you want, Rupert.”

  Dashing to the women's changing room, Susan showered and dressed. When she saw no further sign of Rupert, she fled the building.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I didn't think this was your kind of scene,” said Liz, taking in the Manhattan gallery's newest exhibition.

  “It's not,” confirmed Rupert. “We're here for my sister.”

  Liz smiled. She often wondered if she'd ever get to meet Rupert's infamous sister. Tonight she would. Perhaps things were finally progressing between them.

  Rupert caught sight of his sister. Her arm looped with a well dressed, American who reminded him of the comic character “The Hulk”.

  “She's over there,” whispered Rupert in Liz's ear. “I've no clue who she's carted here but let's dissect our opinion of him later.”

  Bedding and breakfasting with Rupert the following morning was something for her to enjoy tomorrow.

  “Sister,” he greeted, with a kiss on the cheek.

  “You must be Elizabeth, or can I call you Liz?” said Imogen to the woman.

  “Liz is fine.”

  She was the opposite of her older brother, similar in color (no one ever guessed Imogen was adopted), but bursting with the energy of an atom. Tiny, petite and delicate, her fine features were enviable. Dressed in bright, bold colors, Imogen was stylish and elegant. Her dress was above the knee with fringe hanging from the skirt hem and along the bust The shoe-string straps were perfect to flaunt her golden color without being overtly sexual or common.

  “This is Hank. He plays football.”

  “Soccer?” clarified Rupert.

  “American football. Your sister warned me of this.”

  Rupert accepted the brutish hand to shake. “National pride. I apologize. Who'd you play for?”

  “Jets not Giants, I'm sorry to say.”

  “Don't be. I enjoy watching the sport, but I'm not an avid fan. If you're representing New York, that's good enough for me.”

  Laughing companionably, Rupert gave his sister a nod of approval.

  “What do you think of all the Radmacker business?” Rupert asked Hank directly.

  “I see a lot of weird sculptures and constructions, but I don't get any of it.”

  “Why did you agree to come?” asked Rupert baffled.

  “Because I want to impress your sister and if this is one of her main interests I'm going to have to get used to going to these functions, if I want to see more of her. Anyway, I'm hoping once the honeymoon period is over I'll get a reprieve and she'll revert to her girly friends to see this pretentious mess called art.”

  Howling with mirth, Rupert clapped Hank on the back. Hank was not the type of man he ever imagined his sister to date. He was monstrous in size, easily a foot taller than her. His hair was long and blonde, reminding Rupert of a Barbie doll. His jaw prominent and protruding, covered in sandy stubble to soften its angularity. The eyes were icy blue and narrow, like an eagle. His ears and nose were long and unmissable, particularly with his hair styled into a pony-tail. Dressed in an expensive suit, his fidgeting was a tell-tale sign that the venue and suit were not normally included in his extracurricular activities. There was nothing physically attractive about the man whatsoever, yet he was likable and seemed to genuinely have feelings for his sister. That was enough for Rupert.

  “Thank god for the bond of brothers. I was thinking the same myself. Show me a bar and a thumping beat and I'll not want the night to end.”

  “You love culture, Rupert,” said Liz trying to inveigle her way into the conversation.

  “Yes I do, but in small doses. This is like a twelve course meal of culture. I can't fully appreciate it in one sitting.”

  “I appreciate you coming and I appreciate finally getting to met Liz,” said Imogen.

  “You, little sister, always see the
best. That's what makes you special. Hank, remember that.” Rupert's voice was edgy in his veiled warning to Hank. Though taller and heavier than Rupert, Hank respectfully acknowledged the message.

  “I know and I will,” he assured the British billionaire.

  “Let's get this over and done with,” groaned Hank.

  Rupert felt the tugging at the sleeve of his tailored navy blazer, he turned to see Liz. “You okay? That wasn't too awkward was it?”

  “Not at all, your sister's lovely.”

  “If you like this we can take our time. I'll even let you lecture me.”

  “Why do I have a feeling that would sour any chance I had with you?” she mused, flicking her long blonde hair.

  Liz was the epitome of a porcelain doll stepping out of an English nursery rhyme. Pale blue eyes, blonde hair, a rosy flush to her translucent skin. Her eyes reflected uncertainty. She'd opted to come in a suit, not a dress. Black and knee-length, the skirt accentuated her pear-shaped figure, typical of British women. Daringly, the buttoned up suit jacket had no blouse or singlet top underneath. A bra was the only support for her small breasts. Classy and understated. She made Rupert proud to have on his arm.

  “Is something bothering you?” whispered Rupert discreetly.

  “I didn't know you were into American football. I wasn't aware you even had an interest in soccer, as they say out here.”

  Distinctly uncomfortable, Rupert's hand went to adjust the tie that he wasn't wearing. The white tailored shirt already had a few buttons exposed, to taunt the female population with a hint of what lay beneath.

  “I grew up playing sports. Rugby mainly, but I enjoy most sports.”

  “And clubbing too, it seems.”

  “Sure. Not excessively, but I do like to let my hair down and party.”

  This is precisely the reason I don't want my lady friends meeting my sister, fumed Rupert silently. It was as if Liz had thrown a collar and lead around his neck. The sensation of someone controlling him was not one he enjoyed. It wasn't Liz's fault. He should've taken Imogen up on her offer to go solo.

  “I thought I knew you better than that,” said Liz.

  Thank God she's British, thought Robert. At least she'll maintain her composure and not burst into tears on the spot, which is exactly what she's on the verge of doing.

  Flummoxed, Rupert did his best. Not known for public displays of affection, he gave her a peck on the cheek and compressed her hand briefly.

  “I thought women liked a man of mystery,” he said lightly. “I try to ensure the time we spend together is quality time—doing something we both enjoying. Sports and clubbing aren't your scene. I'm not likely to take you out somewhere you'll hate. That would defeat the purpose of enjoying your company.”

  Not a word he said was untrue. In Liz's eyes, Rupert knew she thought something was suspect. His heart wrenched at the mere possibility she might be hurt.

  “Liz I mean it.”

  “Excuse me, I need the bathroom.”

  Rupert was going to follow, when Imogen caught his arm.

  “You'll never dream who's here.”

  Catching sight of the white-blonde hair, Rupert knew immediately who it was.

  “Dylan,” he shook his hand firmly and familiarly. “I can't even remember when we last caught up.”

  “It's certainly been a while.”

  Rupert detected a distinct iciness in his voice.

  “Yes, Dylan, but look. Look who it is.”

  His sister was behaving like a puppy that hadn't seen its owner in two days. The only people with Dylan were a garish man in his mid-sixties enthralled by the various pieces of artwork, a bohemian man of a similar age giving a comprehensive analysis of the pieces, and the most stunning woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Typical man, he scanned her up and down. Divine in a black cocktail dress, it fit snugly over her perfect hourglass figure. The low neckline had her flawless bosoms almost spilling out. Offering strong support to the strapless number were her ample breasts. Stopping short at her knees, the pleated skirt had flowers decorating the bottom of the dress. Her body was to die for.

  For some reason, I feel I should know that face. It's not one I'd forget in a hurry. It's not one I'd ever forget. If I'd met a woman like this I would never have let her go, decided Rupert. The face could have graced the cover of Vogue. Her beauty was breath-taking.

  “You don't recognize me, do you?” spoke the woman.

  “Should I?”

  “No. I don't suppose you should Rupert Locke-Smythe.”

  “How can you not recognize Susan? You starred opposite her in Hairspray. We were doing our GCSE's and you were doing your A-levels.”

  “You starred in Hairspray?”

  Rupert turned to see Liz clinging to his side. The revelation of his active participation in high school dramatics clearly shook her universe.

  Feeling sorry for her, Susan stepped in. She knew how Rupert could hurt and if she could lend a hand to a fellow victim she would. “He did it for extra credit to help with his university entrance to Oxford.”

  “You're Susan-Marie Thompson,” declared Liz, pushing the growing realization that she knew nothing of Rupert to the back of her mind.

  “I am.”

  “I've seen you on Broadway before. Years ago in Hairspray and plenty more since then.”

  “I was fortunate enough to forge a career in musical theater. What did Rupert go on to do?”

  “He's a lawyer. He runs the New York branch of his family's international firm,” announced Liz competitively.

  “I remember. I remember him saying he was going to do that,” said Susan warmly. “How about you, Liz? You aren't from this neck of the woods?”

  “No, I'm English too.”

  “I gathered from the accent.”

  “I own a boutique book store. Antiques, first edition, limited runs, that kind of thing.”

  “That sounds wonderful. What a perfect way to spend the day,” said Susan, beaming at the idea.

  Could this get any worse? thought Rupert. How has this happened? Is karma on my trail? Why, why, why did I agree to this? Scowling at his sister, Rupert wanted out. He made a spectacle of checking his watch to convey time was a major issue for him.

  “You know, Liz and I were only passing through tonight. I've a reservation booked at a restaurant.”

  “Which one?” inquired Imogen angelically.

  He glowered at his sister.

  “It's a surprise. For Liz.”

  “Whisper it to me then.”

  If ever there was a time he wanted to throttle his baby sister it was there and then.

  “No, I don't want to spoil it.”

  “Must we go, Rupert?”

  Staring at Liz, he couldn't believe she was turning down dinner with him to stay here. “No, of course not. It was me implementing that quality-time element we were talking of earlier.”

  “It's only Susan's just introduced us to the artist, Jonathan Radmacker. He's friends with her producer, Callum McKinley. Given your love of musical theater, you'll surely be familiar with Mr. McKinley.”

  Rupert didn't miss Liz's snide comment. He surveyed the scene. The bohemian was Radmacker. Unable to take his eyes from the thick, chunky leather sandals, complete with white socks, Rupert suspected the tight, suede, flared brown trousers were probably purchased in the sixties— that he fit in them was indeed a reason to be proud. The flowing, cream painter’s smock was accessorized with an open brown-suede vest and a fawn-colored scarf draping from his neck. The layers of clothes, bead necklaces and trilby sitting on his balding head were joined by a pair of rose-colored spectacles resting on his nose (the frame made famous by John Lennon).

  The outrageously flamboyantly dressed friend was the producer Rupert was supposed to be familiar with. His outfit was as eye-watering as the artist's. A gray checked suit with a salmon shirt wasn't a hideously awful combination. Matched with a red bow tie and knee-high black Doc Martin kicker boots, however, did make the elder
ly gent a head turner for the wrong reasons.

  Accepting the two men, he returned to the three women. Was Liz joining forces with Susan and Imogen to come down hard on him, he contemplated? Had Susie ever mentioned the incident to his sister? Surely not. Imogen wasn't a renown secret-keeper; she loved gossip. If Imogen had found out, she'd have torn strips off Rupert back in high school and not waited until they were in their thirties.