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Cassandra’s partner descended like a bird of prey, “Darling, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” He whisked her away.
Maggie looked for a place to set her glass. She found a table crammed with glassware and rejected canapés. She put it there. Right above the table was an enormous poster of Alex in Elizabethan costume, angst-ridden, and still sexy as hell. Sexier maybe. Who’d have thought he’d carry off the doublet-and-hose look so well? No doubt she’d soon be seeing his face plastered all over digital advertising screens on the escalators in the Underground, a weird memento of their New York fling.
Tonight Alex was a rare species, glimpsed across a vast, crowded space.
Isolated from the chat and laughter, alone in the crowd, her head throbbed. Emptiness crashed through her like a wave pounding a Cornish beach out of a wintry sea. Suddenly she knew where she wanted to be. She had to get out of London. She turned to go and walked smack into the barrier of Alex’s rock-face chest.
“Woah!” His arms shot out as if to catch her, banded strongly around her and drew her into a hug. “How did you like the play?” The deep timbre of his voice speaking just to her made her wobbly. She did her best not to look in his electric-blue eyes.
“Fantastic. I kind of nearly nodded off once, during that bit with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in Act Two. I never get what they’re about. Spies, or students, or something, right? Otherwise, it was great.”
Alex laughed. “I’m glad you came.” He tore his eyes away from her face. “Guildenstern is over there with Cassandra. I’ll introduce you to him if you like. I’m sure he’d be happy to enlighten you.”
“No thanks.” She risked a full-on take of his gorgeousness. His traffic-stopping smile infected her with deep heat. In spite of herself, a smile grew from her heart and broke onto her face. “You were good, though.”
The room buzzed. Alex was still on an adrenaline high. People had been patting him on the back and telling him he was wonderful for the last hour. Weirdly, Maggie’s opinion was the one that counted most. She’d been there for him when he was Alex the wannabe. Her approval mattered above all others.
“How’ve you been?”
“Good.” The conversation stalled.
She looked stunning. Better even than he remembered.
“You look different.”
“Different good? Or different bad?”
“Different…” Accosted by a couple of luvvy types, he lost the chance to find the right word to tell her that the moment he’d set eyes on her that evening a lightning strike of desire had torn through him and he’d been aching to be alone with her ever since.
“Alex, you were fabulous.”
“Marvelous.”
“Your Hamlet’s wicked.” A third girl joined the group drawn to Alex like bees to a tree in blossom.
Maggie didn’t fade away. She stood her ground. Poised. Patient. She waited for the onslaught of hugs and kisses to subside.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here. I need to talk to you – alone.” He placed his hand low against her back. Sexual tension zapped him, like two planets colliding. He broke the connection and held the theater door open for her to step through, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t his attraction to Maggie making him high, it was the first-night buzz.
Outside they walked in silence until they reached the Millennium Bridge and stood looking at the lights reflected on the River Thames, watched over by the spectral white shape of St. Paul’s Cathedral dome lit up against the dark sky.
By heaven! I yearn to kiss her. It wasn’t first-night euphoria after all, but he really should get out of character. He ached to pull her into his arms and kiss her beautiful lips until the sun came up over London. Or take her back to his penthouse apartment and make crazy, stupid love to her. Was that so impossible? It was, if he was to stick to his decision.
“I’ve been thinking.” A chill October wind whistled across the bridge. He searched Maggie’s face. Her brows knitted.
“Alex, why didn’t you tell me you were donor-conceived?”
It was the barb that had lacerated his heart, the weapon his father used every time he’d threatened to disown his sons.
“Because I didn’t want to dump my hang-ups on you. I don’t know who my dad is.” He paused, wary of saying something to offend her. “It certainly isn’t Drake.”
“It takes more than an ejaculation to make a dad? You told me that.”
“And I meant it. Except it doesn’t apply where my father’s concerned. He gave up being a dad the day he walked out on my mother. He was playing a part. It’s as simple as that. We’re his embarrassing secret.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“No. It’s not that.” He’d been deliberately keeping it from her for good reason. “I didn’t want to pour cold water on your plan. My parents aren’t exactly great advertising for a sperm- donor family.” He hesitated, uncertain about hitting her with things that pained him. “Do you want to know how I found out that Drake isn’t my biological dad? You’d think sharing that information would be something parents planned out carefully, wouldn’t you?” Maggie nodded, watching him carefully. “Well, I found out in an airport. I was thirteen. My mother was half-cut. And out it came. No build-up. No warning.” Awkward silence hung in the air. Maggie opened her mouth to say something and no words came out. He’d thought having a broken-hearted mother and being rejected by a father who constantly put him down were his deepest scars. The bombshell of not being Drake’s biological son ran deeper. “You know. Who told you?”
“Cassandra let it slip.”
He was sorry he hadn’t told her but he didn’t want to talk about Drake and Cassandra. His years of trying to fix his mother’s heartbreak, protect his brother, prove himself to Drake were behind him.
“I need to talk about us.” He wanted her to be happy. He’d watch from the wings, celebrate her ups, be there for her downs. He didn’t know if he had it in him, but he planned to try. Maggie shivered. Her lovely face was tipped up, her eyes locked on his. “What I’m saying is … You can count on me. As a friend. Whatever you need, whenever you need it – help, money … Just call me and let me know, I’ll do whatever I can for you.” Until you find The One. How could he explain that he couldn’t promise to love her because he couldn’t risk hurting her? Them. “I don’t want to let you down,” he said simply. “But I’ll be there for you – and the babies.”
Maggie’s expression was cool, her eyes fixed on the glistening dark water of the Thames below. “That won’t work,” she whispered.
He reached out his arms and wrapped her in a hug. Her hair beneath his jaw felt soft, lovely. She smelt delicious, kind of zingy.
He wanted her. His Maggie. With him. On tour. In his arms. In his bed. He wanted fun, colorful, lovely Maggie. She’d turned his world inside out. The complexity of what he felt shattered him. He didn’t do complicated. He couldn’t have what he wanted. Worse, much worse than that, he couldn’t be what she needed. He was an actor. Make-believe was what he did best. He could pretend that Maggie’s babies were his. He’d do it in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t have to pretend. If only it were that simple. What he couldn’t stand was for them to pretend that he was their dad. There was too much potential for heartache in that scenario. They’d be living a lie. He’d turned it over and over in his mind. He couldn’t be a worse father than Drake. But what if he couldn’t do any better?