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Hot Vampire Guy. Damn it!

      He was desperate to let go of that image, show people the real Alex Wells. But he’d been living with the character for so long he wasn’t sure who the “real” Alex was. He frowned at his script, read some more, straightening out the torment in his head. Playing Hamlet would be a dream come true and he was going to crash and burn. He couldn’t shake off Jago. Every move, every look, every step across the stage, every word was Jago. He stared past his cold reflection in the glass. The moon was a couple of slivers short of a round cheese in the black sky. When he stepped onto the London stage the audience was going to see the cheesy vampire guy. He threw the script across the room. Maggie let out a yelp and caught it in midair before it took out the hydrangeas.

      “Sorry, Maggie. I wasn’t aiming at you.”

      “What’s up?”

      He’d spent meaningless nights with quite a few women for whom that question would have begged a suggestive quip. Not Maggie. The tension from his knock-back bristled between them.

      “I’m murdering Hamlet. Every time I open my mouth, I hear Jago.”

      “You are a bit mid-Atlantic.” Maggie shrugged. “But hey, you can fix that. It’s what you trained to do.”

      An English education, followed by years based in LA had turned his accent into a hybrid. But he wasn’t talking about received pronunciation, he had a voice coach for that. The problem with Jago lay deeper.

      He folded himself onto the sofa next to her. “My accent is exceeeeedingly mid-Atlantic.”

      Maggie laughed at the extra dose of British oomph he added to his words, easing the atmosphere.

      “It wasn’t a hindrance in Mercy,” he mused. “The reverse; it kinda helped.”

      “I don’t see the problem.”

      “What if I walk on stage and all anyone sees is Jago?”

      “Jago in a doublet and hose. Isn’t that part of the appeal? The production’s unique selling point?”

      “You mean I just have to work with it.”

      “I doubt make-up will be up for giving Hamlet vampire fangs, but I don’t think your audiences will complain if you bring a smidge of Jago to the role, do you?”

      Alex laughed. He pulled Maggie into his arms and hugged her. “You’re a genius.”

      Awkward, his arms sprang back, letting her go like a failed turn on an arcade candy grabber.

      “I can help with your lines.” She opened the script. “Okay. Let me see. It’s Act One, Scene Two, and we’re in the council chamber in the castle. There’s a flourish of trumpets.” She made a trumpety ta-da-da-da-da noise. “Enter blah, blah, blah and last of all you, Prince HAMLET. You’re dressed in black, with downcast eyes.”

      Alex suppressed a chortle. Her am-dram approach was too funny.

      He ran a hand over his newly stubbling jaw. “Just give me the cue, please, Maggie, or we’ll be here from now until Christmas.”

      They rattled through Alex’s scene, then moved on and did the bit where Hamlet sees his father’s ghost. By the end of Act Two, Maggie was flagging and yawning. It was very late. She passed Alex the book. He paced, reading aloud, while she curled up on the sofa and plumped a cushion under her head. Concentrating on the play, he ploughed a hand into his hair. “I’m ready for Act Three. You’re Ophelia.” He held out the script to Maggie, but she was fast asleep.

      The place where he was supposed to have a heart lurched. Maggie was right. Jago was a marketing ploy. He could see past it, thanks to her. Make it work. To get to Hamlet, he’d need to dig inside himself. He’d stored up a deep well of hurt. He should put it to use and channel the confusion he’d felt growing up in the drama of his parents’ real-life soap, into Hamlet’s angst. The stone in his chest knocked against his ribcage.

      His mother’s television career had sky-rocketed about a year after he and Nick were born. A highbrow British actor, Drake Wells, landed a couple of great roles in LA. He won a prestigious award and for a while he got to write his own ticket. He was frequently away on location, but when he came home every day was like Christmas. Smarting from having to deal with her husband’s doesn’t-count-on-location attitude to his marriage, their mother didn’t share their euphoria. Much too little to know about the infidelities and the crushingly public humiliation that he inflicted on Cassandra, the twins lapped up his over-the-top attention, a hail of toys and trips to theme parks. When he left for good the fun stopped, and worse, she went completely off the rails. She’d been admitted to rehab and they’d been cared for by relatives. Rejected by their father and separated from their mother, Alex had felt it was his job to protect Nick. Later, when their mother was out of rehab and back in their life, every time things got tough in the media glare, he felt responsible.

      Perhaps because she still craved Drake’s approval, Cassandra had decided to send them to a British boarding school. Mostly, at sports days and rugby matches, there were gaps where the Wells parents should have been. When he graced the school plays with his presence, Drake would sit looking dour in the audience, and sneer disapprovingly afterwards, belittling his sons and pointing out everything about the production he considered wrong.

      Cassandra’s visits had always been scheduled to coincide with press tours in Europe. It was during an alcohol-fuelled outburst when they were thirteen that the truth about Drake had come out. She’d flown in from somewhere, having arranged for a taxi to pick them up from school and deliver them to the airport. While she’d been waiting she’d fallen off the wagon. That’s how they’d learned that the man whose name was on their birth certificates did not share their genes – in an inebriated ramble in Departures at Heathrow. “Drake’s not your real dad.” Alex got chills thinking about that day. “He might claim that you’re his sons, but he can go take a running jump off a high cliff.” She cracked some lame joke about denim genes and spilled the contents of her handbag on the concourse floor. In the scramble to wrangle lipsticks, crumpled till receipts and small change, the revelation had been brushed aside, but it was out there. Everything slid out of perspective for Alex because suddenly his father’s rejection made total sense.

      He knelt down next to the sleeping Maggie and touched her shoulder. “Maggie,” he whispered. Out for the count, she didn’t stir. Deciding against leaving her to spend the night on the sofa, he got to his feet and carefully scooped her into his arms. She moaned softly and her scent hit his senses. He steeled himself against his attraction. Shouldering open the door to her room, he carried her in and placed her gently on the turned-back bed. He covered her with the marshmallow-light duvet and for a moment he ached to take back his rejection, drop the mask of indifference. Touching two fingers to his lips he blew Maggie a kiss and closed the door quietly.

      Shut away from her, he let out a disgruntled breath. He had to admire her confidence in starting a family on her own. He didn’t want kids. He wouldn’t know how to be a dad, although surely he couldn’t be as diabolical as Drake. His heart squeezed thinking about Maggie’s pregnancy. He needn’t worry about her. She wouldn’t go to pieces the way his mother did. No matter what life threw at her, she’d stay strong.

      Being at a red-carpet event had felt miles better with Maggie. Even before she got sick he’d cared more about her than he did about the paps and the outside world. She’d given him a fresh take on making Jago work alongside Hamlet. He’d have to be careful. Maggie helping him channel Hamlet’s pain was one thing, but he couldn’t let her into his heart. Turning her down had been hard, but he’d done the right thing. Alone in his own room, he stripped off his I Heart NY tee and threw it into a corner. It landed on a chair, the red heart glaring at him.

       Chapter Twelve

      Alex knocked on the door of

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