Managed: A VIP Novel Part 11

My room is so cute, I'm still half-convinced I'm dreaming. Cream, white-paneled walls, earthy sisal rugs, a four-poster spindle bed. There's even a clawfoot Victorian tub opposite the bed. It's too romantic, really. The kind of setup where I'd be bathing in a seductive manner while my man reclined on the bed to watch until he couldn't stand the torture any longer and crawled in to join me. We'd make a mess of the floor, spilling water, laughing while we f.u.c.ked.

A nice picture.

Only I'm alone in the dark beneath crisp linens, utterly awake and watching the lights of pa.s.sing cars below trail across the ceiling. I should be sleeping, but jet lag has snuck upon me with a terrible vengeance. I'm so freaking awake, my body hums with the need to get up. Bad idea. Sleep is needed.

I'm concentrating so hard on trying to fall asleep, the ping of my phone startles me. Fumbling, I reach for it on my nightstand. I'm not even sure who I expected to be texting me at 2 am. But I certainly didn't consider him.

Suns.h.i.+ne: If you don't sleep now, you're setting yourself up for even worse jet lag.

I immediately bite back a ridiculous grin, as if he'll see me through the phone.

Me: If you're so worried about my sleep, you shouldn't text me in the middle of the night.

He pings back an answer.

Suns.h.i.+ne: Small chance of waking you. I knew you'd be up.

Me: Oh? You psychic?

Suns.h.i.+ne: No. Just awake as well. And remembering your inability to calm down.

Me: False! I can do calm!!!!!

Suns.h.i.+ne: As exhibited by your subtle use of exclamation points.

I laugh in the dark of the room, drawing my knees up to my chest. My heartbeat has accelerated. I'm giddy like a d.a.m.n schoolgirl. And isn't that a b.i.t.c.h?

He'd stuck me firmly in employee land, then he brought me a sandwich. I'm not even sure he trusts me, and yet here he is, texting me in the middle of the night. Maybe he's lonely. Or maybe he's looking for a hookup. He's nothing like the men I've been with before, so I can't be sure. But I can't pretend I don't enjoy flirting with him, even if it ends up leading nowhere.

Me: Your sarcasm smells of slain interns' blood and the souls of missing record execs.

Suns.h.i.+ne: False. That is what I eat for breakfast. Keep up, Darling.

I laugh, though he can't hear me. I can almost see his expression, always deadpan but with that hint of crinkle at the corners of his eyes and full lips. That infinitesimal twitch of a smile most people clearly miss. The world fascinates Gabriel Scott, but he does a h.e.l.l of a job pretending it doesn't. That much I know already.

Me: Aw...terms of endearment already?

Suns.h.i.+ne: It's your name.

Me: A convenient excuse.

Suns.h.i.+ne: A legitimate answer Me: I've never had anyone call me by my last name. Should I call you by yours? Call you Scottie like the others do?

Suns.h.i.+ne: No.

I'm half teasing, because I don't want to call him Scottie. That's not his name to me. That's a stranger's name. But the emphatic force of his reply makes me wonder why he doesn't want me to use it, when everyone in his circle does. My thumb shakes a little as I tap out a reply, adopting a more serious tone, because really, what the h.e.l.l am I doing flirting with the big boss?

Me: Well, you caught me. I can't sleep for s.h.i.+t. I'll have to live with the consequences.

Little dots form at the bottom of my phone screen. They disappear, then start up again. I wonder what the h.e.l.l he's trying to write and if he's erasing his text.

I almost send him a message just to prod his a.s.s into whatever it is he's trying to say, when his message finally pops up. And I gape. And gape. My heart stops and then picks up pounding. I'm not seeing things; it's there, clear as day: Suns.h.i.+ne: Would you like to come over?

What. The. h.e.l.l?

I'm clearly stuck in shock mode too long because he texts in a barrage of tense explanations.

Suns.h.i.+ne: For tea.

Suns.h.i.+ne: To help you sleep.

Suns.h.i.+ne: I make good tea.

He makes tea? Gabriel I've-no-time-for-mere-mortals Scott actually makes tea? And drinks it? Shut the front door and call me Mama.

He's still texting.

Suns.h.i.+ne: h.e.l.l. Clearly sleep deprived.

Suns.h.i.+ne: Ignore request.

I type fast, putting the poor guy out of his misery.

Me: Where are you?

Me: Your house, I mean. Where is it?

He pauses. I know he's frowning at the phone. Probably has been for some time now. I bite back another smile.

Suns.h.i.+ne: A few blocks away. I could send a car.

Me: No. I'll walk.

Suns.h.i.+ne: You will not. I'll meet you.

My grin actually hurts my cheeks. I'm already out of the bed and scrambling for my jeans.

Me: Okay. Where?

Suns.h.i.+ne: In front of your hotel. Ten minutes.

"This is crazy. This is crazy," I mutter as I haul on my jeans and root around in my suitcase for a bra and top. I don't bother with the light as if it might kick-start my common sense and I'd text Gabriel back to say forget it. Because what the h.e.l.l am I doing?

Does he really want to make me tea?

Yes. I know he does. Gabriel says what he means. He'll make me tea. But does he want more? Why invite me over?

"Stop thinking." Talking to myself can't be good. I slip on a loose, cream-colored long-sleeve top and toe into my Chucks.

I'm in the lobby before I realize I forgot to put on makeup or brush my hair.

"s.h.i.+tb.a.l.l.s."

The night concierge glances as me as if I'm off my nut, and I give him a tight smile before hurrying past. There's no time to go back to my room, anyway; I might miss Gabriel. He might chicken out if he has to wait.

I love the weather in London. I don't care if I'm the only one in the world who does. It's crisp and cool, with enough damp to make the ends of my hair frizz. And d.a.m.n if there isn't an actual layer of fog creeping along the pavement. At two in the morning on a weekday, it's also fairly quiet, the streets abandoned.

My hands itch for my camera. That need grows when Gabriel walks out of the shadows, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his dark slacks. A gray cashmere sweater hugs his broad shoulders and big biceps. This man could sell boats to desert dwellers just by standing there, looking pretty.

He strolls toward me, his chin slightly down, peering at me from under those sweeping brows of his.

I almost swallow my tongue. "Hey, suns.h.i.+ne."

"Chatty girl."

He stops a few feet away, and we stare at each other. My heart is going like a metronome. His gaze flickers over me, then steadies on my face. I don't know what to say. Take me now, probably wouldn't be appropriate. Or smart.

His voice is low and aggravated. "I don't know why I'm here."

I should be offended. But since he's basically mirroring my own thoughts, I can't throw stones. I fight a smile instead; he's just so disgruntled.

"You texted, asked me to tea at two in the morning, then offered to pick me up."

His lips firm. "I don't...I don't socialize."

No s.h.i.+t. "Yet here we are."

Something sparks in his eyes. "Apparently so." He doesn't move. Another annoyed grunt tears from his throat. "I can't f.u.c.king sleep."

That he reached out to me because of it sends a rush of warmth through my chest. "So, let's go do something."

He obviously doesn't want to like that. His shoulders bunch beneath his sweater. "This isn't about s.e.x."

I laugh. "I hope not. It would be awkward to have to turn you down."

Liar, liar, your knickers are on fire.

His lips twitch. "Sorry. I'm s.h.i.+te at this."

"Stating the obvious, suns.h.i.+ne."

With a snort, he turns his head, but I see the smile flit over his lips before he hides it. Then he nods sharply as if coming to some decision.

"Shall we?" He gestures toward the way he came with a tip of his chin.

We walk together in silence, close enough that our shoulders brush every few steps. I don't mind the silence. It gives me a place to hide my racing thoughts.

"Just around the next corner," he tells me in a low, gruff voice.

"Are you really going to make me tea?"

"Haven't I said I would?" His gaze clashes with mine. "What's wrong with tea?"

"Nothing. It's just..." I search for the right word. "Grandmotherly."

He laughs at that, a short chuff of sound. "I'm English. Tea is the remedy for all our problems. Had a bad day? Have a cup of tea. Head hurt? Tea. Boss a w.a.n.ker? Tea."

"Ah," I say with triumph. "So I do have a reason to drink tea."

Gabriel's step stutters, and he peers at me. "Are we agreeing that I am your boss? Or does your head hurt?"

"Don't know. Are you going to agree that you can be a w.a.n.ker?" I smile so wide and fake my cheeks strain.

"A w.a.n.ker who brings you lunch and is going to make you tea," he points out mildly before nudging me with his elbow.

I'm about to nudge him back when a sharp crack rents the air. It's so loud that I squeak, nearly jumping out of my shoes. Gabriel's hand touches mine in an abortive move. I don't know if he meant to grab on to me or he just flinched in surprise as well. Our fingers brush as light flashes across the sky. And then it opens up. Rain falls so swiftly and so very cold that I lose my breath.

We stand there, gaping at each other as the deluge swamps us. And then I laugh. Hard. Because what else can I do? Rain falls into my eyes, my mouth. I might drown. I'm sure as s.h.i.+t being drenched.

Gabriel is a statue, utterly gorgeous when wet, his black hair plastered to his head and rainwater sluicing over the sharp planes of his face, s.h.i.+ning in the streetlight. He blinks, his long lashes spiky now.

"Of course," he says with a raspy huff of breath.

"You aren't going to blame this on me, are you?" I shout over the roar of the rain, still laughing.

"Everything from the plane trip on out is because of you, Sophie Darling." He grabs my hand. "Come along, chatty girl, before we drown."

We make a run for it, scampering across the slick pavers that make up the London sidewalk. I'm laughing, breathless. He glances over his shoulder at me. Everything is a blur but his features, which are somehow crystal clear in the moment, and my heart turns over in the cage of my ribs when I see glee in his eyes.

He gives my hand another tug, my fingers warmly wrapped up in his. We turn a corner, and then it all goes south. Gabriel skids, his shoes sliding in the wet. One of his arms windmills, his grip on me flexing. My mouth forms the word no! but it comes out in a squawk.

He's going down, all that hard-bodied ma.s.s toppling, taking me with him. In my mind, it happens in slow motion. In reality, it's so fast we're both just flailing limbs and falling bodies.

I land on him, and my hip jars against his. He expels a hard Oof! before strong arms wrap around me, locking me into place on top of him.

Rain splatters around us, and he blinks up at me.

I pant, trying to get my breath. "f.u.c.k."