“Mr Sandford?”
The breathy voice entered his ear, fluttering around, circling his eardrum like a moth seeking out a flickering flame. Distracted, the words burned up as effectively as an insect with a death wish. If hell existed on earth, Nick stood right in the blaze.
Then again, the stinging in his chest might simply be heartburn.
“Mr Sandford? Nicholas?”
So distracted was he, the call almost escaped his notice a second time, but the intimate use of his name drew his interest—that and a voice reminding him of Marilyn Monroe. Something about the woman’s blonde curls resembled the film star, too. Nick’s awareness of her penetrated his brain in time to prevent him from appearing a fool. If not a fool, he’d have looked like an arrogant bastard, though he doubted the young woman would have seen. One glance revealed adoration in her eyes. The breathy voice didn’t occur solely because she whispered; she stared at him as if gazing upon a succulent sweet.
As disagreeable as Nick invariably found this interest to be, at least she appeared awestruck. Maybe he managed to appear calm.
Maybe he was a better actor than he thought.
The woman’s white blouse and black skirt denoted her uniform. Her gaze tore away long enough to cast a wild scan over the room. One of the staff—no doubt she knew she shouldn’t bother him—she checked whether anyone was watching.
“May I have your autograph?” She asked in such a way as to remind him of lines spoken ‘aside’—actor’s lines supposedly not heard by others on stage, intended only for the audience.
Despite his nerves, Nicholas almost grinned. She struck him as sweet and amusing. What did she see when she looked at him? Did she notice anything other than the blond hair and blue eyes?
Don’t forget the smile.
Projecting said beam, Nick produced a pen and, taking a napkin from the table, scribbled on the folds. “Thank you for asking…” He paused, waiting for realisation to dawn.
“Linda,” she said, eyes wide.
He added her name to his message and said, “Pleased to meet you, Linda.” Keeping fans happy was the code, especially for an actor of his standing; he needed all the fans he could get.
Nick left the napkin as he turned away, aware she would snatch up the keepsake to tuck in the deepest recesses of her pockets. If she were afraid someone might steal it, maybe she’d hide it in her knickers. Maybe she would anyway.
He closed his eyes, but that did no good as his reason for being here sprang to mind: a clearly defined image of Alex Lasseter’s face, Alex’s noticeable build.
Gritting his teeth, Nick begrudgingly admitted Alex had the physique many actors—hell, men!—dreamed of. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and muscles. Sometimes, life just wasn’t fair. He didn’t want the type of action roles migrating in Alex’s direction, not regularly—occasionally, maybe, as long as he didn’t always have to be the tall, gangly, geeky intellectual.
Nick glanced around. Right now, Alex was most noticeable by his absence. Trust the man to keep him waiting.
The only good thing was their mutual agent, Alana Reynolds, wouldn’t be here. She of the overlong and straight blonde hair hanging like a curtain, swaying, seductive, invariably irritating Nick to hell.
Whenever she looked at Alex, gone was the unsettling stare Nick paid her so well to use while representing him. Nick saw nothing hard, cold, or business-like when she skimmed that large frame. He’d never known Alana to gawk at anyone with a less than analytical eye, and the realisation that she did otherwise left him torn between gratitude not to be the object of her scrutiny and belligerence because she paid Alex such close attention. Around Alex, her expression came close to an open display of desire. For some reason, Nick didn’t like it.
He didn’t want to know whether Alex had seduced Alana, or she him. He was doubtful the two were having sex; still, he disliked the possibility. He could imagine those perfect bodies locking together too easily, but he tried not to. Imagining Alana naked was one thing, but considering what an attractive couple they made struck him as disturbing. Women could look at other women to say they were appealing, even beautiful. Men didn’t do that. They called each other ‘fit,’ and it was too easy to gaze at Alex and see an extremely fit man, indeed. He didn’t feel comfortable admiring Alex; he never had, even though he had a case of justifiable envy. Those broad shoulders and muscular build, the square jaw and disarming grin…
Nick swallowed, wanting an antacid. He touched his tie, fingered his lapel, and looked around, wondering if they’d have such a thing on the premises. Probably against Health and Safety. He should have been even more gracious to the serving girl, who would have no doubt given him anything he wanted.