Heiress vs Rockstar (Love in Illyria Book 4) Page 11

  He wanted to call Vy and go into the studio with her. He wanted to make Vy sing for him and let the music erase everything else from my mind. But Vy was at the wedding. Andrew King was probably at the wedding, too. He might lose her for good this time.

  And as much as he didn't want that to happen... it wasn't Vy on his mind.

  Not good. He wasn't even thinking of Vy. He was consumed by the little monster.

  He should try to patch things up with Isabella. He didn't love her and he didn't think she loved me any more. If she ever had. He couldn't even offer her the life she thought she wanted. But they could be friends. They were parents, and they should be friends.

  "You're the last person I expected to show up," Isabella said.

  "I'm sorry. I was a jerk to you."

  "Did I hear that right? Are you apologizing?"

  "Yes. And I'd like to show you that I mean it. I'm not a nice guy, and before you showed up, I had given up the illusion I might feel something for someone else."

  A muscle twitched on her face. He didn't mean to hurt her.

  "I mean it. I know what you said about pretending to be someone else, but it wasn't just your acting. I did feel something for you. The real you. And I was selfish enough not to make sure to look too much into it. I grabbed the chance to be in love without thinking you might get hurt."

  "What brought this up?"

  He took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I don't know. Many things."

  He shook his head. The bitterness at the back of his throat was choking him. The last real feeling he'd had was hating someone, and now he didn't have even that.

  "I want to be a better father than the one I had."

  She stepped aside and held the door open for him.

  "Come in."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tim

  When the semester started, he made his first visit to Salona. It was going to be the first time they saw each other after their night in Larissa.

  He parked his car in front of the building where Alice had her last class. The Medieval Literature 205 ended at 4pm and she had to be at Drama Club at 4.15. Students left the building in groups or in pairs. Alice was among the last, and she was alone. What had isolated her? His antics in the media? Her background? Her personality? No, not that. Alice could be fun to be around when she wanted. People were drawn to wealth and fame, and she had both of them. If she was alone, it was her choice.

  Judging by how slowly she walked, she must have forgotten about Drama Club. Or maybe she had run out of energy. Her fringe had grown again, covering her eyes. A crisp white shirt peeked form underneath the winter coat. He expected her to light up a cigarette, but she didn't.

  "Long day?" he asked when Alice got close.

  The change was immediate and distressing. High alert replaced her absent-minded posture.

  "Where are the paparazzi?" she asked looking around.

  "No idea," he lied. He opened the car door for her. "Get in, I'll take you there."

  "Where?"

  "Drama Club. You have to get their costumes ready for the dress rehearsal tomorrow, don't you?"

  She looked into his eyes for a moment.

  "Oh," she said and got in the car.

  He drove in silence. She seemed exhausted, but she got out of the car as soon as he cut the engine. He considered leaving her alone for once.

  She stood like a statue, waiting for him to accompany her inside. Her poise belonged on the red carpet or on photo sessions for magazine covers. She took to that lifestyle even better than Vy had. Better than Isabella. She was up there in Alba's league. He would never stop feeling guilty for how he had treated poor Alba. He shook himself.

  Alice was at the same time better and worse than Alba. Same grace, but instead of Alba's kindness, Alice had turned into a true ice queen. The last time she'd seemed alive had been in his bed. Where he left her.

  She smiled when he joined her. A perfect little smile. It would have fooled anyone. She took his arm companionably. He felt the heat draining out of him at her touch. She fooled the eye, but not the body. Her apparent friendliness was a veil. He had frozen her completely.

  "You can stay in the audience and watch the rehearsal," she said. "If they know you're watching tonight will make tomorrow less stressful."

  "Unless I'll be in the audience for the premiere, too."

  She quirked an eyebrow when she looked at him.

  "They would appreciate it," she said.

  "And you?"

  "Andrew is flying back today and he wants us in the studio tomorrow evening."

  Andrew. King's name sounded natural on her lips. His own never did. Even her eyes twinkled from beneath her annoyingly long fringe. She loved Andrew King in a way she would never love him.

  "Would your band appreciate if I attend that session?"

  Her small throaty laugh was almost perfect. Almost mirthful. Almost but not quite real.

  "You and Andrew in the same studio? Come on, we're not the new Waves or Wanderlust to have the two of you overseeing our recording."

  "I always liked Bryce's voice. And I am a little curious to hear the improvements on the other Cesara."

  "Sebastian would be thrilled to hear you calling him that."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  She sighed theatrically.

  "Yes, of course the band would be excited if you show up."

  "And you?"

  "I don't mind," she said.

  "You don't, do you?"

  She shook her head.

  "We are where you want us to be. I told you I'm not going to fight you."

  "Even if I walk away."

  "If only."

  Her words stung. Of course she wanted to be rid of him, but she had become so much a part of his life, it was hard to imagine his life without the purpose of hurting her.

  She unlocked the door and they entered the large room that held all the costumes. She took Hamlet's shirt off the rack, laid it down on the table and ran her hands over the fabric. She turned it on the other side and repeated the process. She took one of the sleeves in her hand and peered more attentively at an imperfection in the stitching.

  "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

  "Because they have to be ready tomorrow."

  He opened his mouth to clarify his question. She cocked her head and looked at him with a cold smile.

  "I'm good at it," she said. "And I promised I would do it."

  "Isn't it a waste of your Pellerin training to work on costumes for a students' play?"

  "You make it sound like I'm a brain surgeon who wastes their skill fillet-ing a steak," she said. "I learned to sow in the atelier. Although it's something of an art, doing it here or doing it for my grandmother isn't that much of a difference."

  "Who tied you to a chair?" he asked.

  "What?"

  She was getting very good at lying to him. The round eyes, the slightly raised eyebrows, the pitch of her voice, everything conveyed earnest surprise. He shouldn't have pushed her into improving her acting skills.

  "Tell me."

  She looked back down at the shirt.

  "This needs fixing," she said, reaching for the sewing kit. To his surprise, she spoke again. "It's not a very interesting story. We were on a site in Peru. I was at the base camp, it was my turn to cook, when some guys showed up. Treasure hunters. Very professional. They gagged me and tied me to a chair while they turned the place upside down. Fortunately, they found enough stuff so they didn't have to hurt me. That was lucky because I actually knew what my parents thought about the treasure. So, they left with some trinkets and a week later, we arrived to the temple."

  "How old were you?"

  "Sixteen," she said. "Summer holiday. Vy really hated that I skipped practice for three weeks that summer."

  Sixteen. He was busy falling in love and not daring to talk to girls at that age.

  "Was that the last time you went in expedition with your parents?"

&
nbsp; "No. Why would you think that?"

  "What did they say when they got back and found you like that?"

  "Oh, they fussed like you wouldn't believe! They foraged around for cacao nibs, and we tried to make chocolate. It was a fun night."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tim

  There were no paparazzi following him when he picked her up for the Remembrance Day Gala. Over the many years of his fame, he had become adept at losing them, but he kept up the pretense.

  It was easier to accept Alice's perfect behavior if he thought she did it for the cameras. Without that illusion, he'd have to accept that Clara Pellerin's words had come true. He had made Alice into something that scared him.

  With the proper make-up, she looked as beautiful as her mother. As classically, perfectly, boringly beautiful. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. She had looked truly beautiful when they had made love. She'd done it as a chess move, and it worked. He didn't hate her anymore.

  "I love Vy's album," she said. "It's going to be a classic. Is Ryann Ford shaking in his boots that your songs are more popular than his in any chart?"

  "It's Vy's merit."

  "No need to be modest. Vy is a star but the music is yours."

  The words reminded him of one of his favorite lines. No. He gave her too much credit. She couldn't have fashioned her speech after a two hundred years old play.

  "Isabella said you helped her with the audition," he said.

  She turned to look at him. Even that had changed. Whenever he had mentioned Isabella before, she tensed. Now she was immune even to that. He had to know. He quoted Roxane's part. The words sounded awkward, his voice suddenly thick with emotion.

  "The tears were your tears?"

  The reply came, in perfect French, but without a trace of emotion.

  "Ce sang était le sien."

  He needed to hear again her admission. She had loved him. Even if it was too late, he wanted to hear her say it again. As if hearing his thoughts, Alice granted his wish.

  "I was in love with you, and ashamed of it. It was easy to help her win your heart. You don't even realize how much of it you show to the world in your music. She is beautiful. Talented. You deserve to be with someone like her."

  How could she speak like that? As if her own feelings didn't matter.

  "You talk as if you don't love me anymore."

  The raised eyebrow and the smirk prepared him for the cold tone.

  "After what you did? You think you deserve a prize for forcing me to show my face to the world? That I should thank you for shoving me into a life of public service?"

  "Then why don't you walk away? You worked out any guilt about what you did the night you came to my bed."

  "Why didn't you walk away last year? You kept going through the motions, acting, singing, even being on Sing. You were bored out of your mind and fed up with the media's obsession with you."

  She had noticed that, of course. It was the first time she threw it in his face, but of course she had known about his funk.

  "We're not the same," he said. "We're nothing alike. I love music and I didn't want to quit. I never wanted to quit."

  "No, you just needed a muse. And as luck would have it, you got two."

  Vy in his studio and Isabella in his bed. There had been a time when he had thought exactly that. And he had thought himself happy to have them both. He still had Vy in his studio, and maybe Alice could occupy the other spot. The ice queen next to him wouldn't warm his bed though. He missed the other Alice.

  They walked arm in arm on the red carpet, and he performed as if he were on stage. He had been TC for long enough to play the part without effort. His mind whirred with the strain of unravelling his thoughts and feelings. He didn't hate her anymore. The Alice he had liked was not real. That privileged spoiled bookworm had been the mask under which she hid her scars. The Alice he met in the Sing House hadn't been tied to a chair in the Peruvian jungle. She hadn't been kidnapped by a military guerilla at the age of six. No, that Alice wasn't any more real than the one on his arm.

  "Are you ok?" she asked softly when they were dancing.

  "I haven't said anything mean to you in five minutes and you're worried?"

  "It's been more like ten minutes. And I'm always worried about what you'll do next."

  He pulled her closer and her gasp lit a fuse inside him. He'd have to make a decision soon. Maybe that very night. Forgive her or simply cut her loose. He wasn't thinking straight while she was around. What was the point of keeping her around if he no longer hated her? He was rebuilding his relationship with Isabella on a healthy ground. His son had been an accident, but he filled his life with joy. Now that Isabella wasn't using Stephen as a pawn, there were no clouds surrounding that bright light.

  They walked hand in hand after the dance. Her cold dry palm rested comfortably in his. The energy was there, vibrating strongly between the two of them, but it filled him with darkness. What had he done?

  From the top of the stairs, Paul Cesara's gaze passed over them. He gave an imperceptible nod when Tim caught his eye. No smirk on the Kingmaker's thin lips. No threat in his cold eyes. If anything, he seemed content with the situation. And why wouldn't he? Alice Lewis was making the most of their supposed affair. She was unhappy, but misery looked good on her. Under the mask he had torn from her face, she had another mask, and the public was beginning to fall for the new mask as he had fallen for the old one.

  "I'm going out for a cigarette," she said, looking at him expectantly.

  "I will count the heartbeats until you return," he said and let go of her hand.

  She shook her head, but the exasperation on her face was muted. She was getting used to it. She became immune to his behavior. And he had no idea how he felt about that.

  The room was filled with people he disliked, distrusted or despised. What was the point of being there? To annoy a girl who had wronged him to help a friend? How many crappy things had he done to other people in his life?

  The far walls of the room seemed to be closing in on him. Why was he there? He should be in his music room, writing songs. Playing the guitar. He should call Vy and give her a new song to practice.

  "Are you ok?"

  He started at Isabella's voice. He hadn't even noticed her approach. For the first time in a long time, he was glad to see her. Her warm voice and the tension in her face conveyed earnest concern. He smiled fondly at the slight Orsino East accent. This was the real her. And he liked her.

  "No," he said. "I don't want to be here."

  She tilted her head, perhaps surprised of his honesty.

  "Then why are you?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "I don't know. The world doesn't make a lot of sense anymore."

  "I'm sorry."

  "How come you're nice to me?" he asked. "Not just tonight."

  Isabella looked into the distance. "Because you and Alice were right."

  Not Alice. Not bloody Alice again.

  "I would not have been happy if we stayed together for Stephen," she went on. "And he deserves two parents who love him, not two people who hate each other and poison his childhood. I wish your parents had understood that."

  "What?"

  "She came to talk to me. Before Christmas. I hate her but she's right. You both were. Cruel, but right."

  That's when they heard the explosion.

  In a few moments, thick smoke came through the windows.

  In years to come, people would ask where they were the day the war had started.

  At that moment, the dozens of people gathered to celebrate Remembrance Day in the Felician Palace panicked.

  He looked around for Alice. She had gone out to smoke, but where? Where the hell was the designated smoking place.

  "We have to get out of here," Isabella said.

  Christian Sinclair ran toward them.

  "Where's Alice?" Christian asked.

  "She went out for a smoke, but I don't know where," he said.

&nb
sp; He should have paid attention. How could he not know.

  "I'll get her," Christian said.

  Isabella grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the exit. He wanted to go after Alice, and he needed to know Isabella was safe.

  The room was filling up with smoke by the second.

  "Come on," Isabella screamed at him.

  They made it outside, along with everyone else and they finally saw what happened. An explosion had destroyed half the garrison where was stationed the troupes that protected the President of Illyria.

  The cold February didn't manage to put out the flames. The building was crumbling in front of their eyes.

  "They're still inside," Isabella said, covering her ears to stop hearing the screams of those trapped wreckage.

  "Stay safe," he said and ran into the building.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alice

  The thin jacket, sodden with rain, clung to her skin. The drops had turned to frost and they obliterated Didier's artful work on her hair. She tried to care about it, tried to think of ruining her beloved shoes and her pretty dress.

  She shouldn't be out there, waiting for him. She should do something useful, like attend to the wounded. All the injured people had been taken by ambulances. The emergency services had set up a perimeter and they put up a tent where the relatives of those still inside and the journalists could wait.

  He wouldn't want to see her when he got out of that hell.

  Right. He should be spared the sight of the person he most hated in the world when he got out of that place.

  She needed to see him out and safe. If she could keep her presence secret, all the better.

  She couldn't stand being there with everyone else. She found a spot under the gnarled trunk of a tree, to the left of the tent, at the very edge of the safety perimeter. It didn't provide any shelter from the blistering rain, but she could blend into its shape. She kept her eyes glued to the exit, and leaned back against the tree, desperate to keep standing as she watched people stumbling out, with their clothes scorched, gashes on their skin, barely able to breathe.

  What would that smoke do to his voice? What if he got out but would never sing again? What if he never got out?