Feelings—warm, strong, nauseating feelings—were springing up all over the place, unfurling in his chest, his gut, his groin. Sinking in deep with their little hooks.
Her obvious pain had reached out and grabbed him around the throat. He’d wanted her in his arms. Would have settled for holding her hand. Then she’d kissed him—on the cheek, for God’s sake—and just about shocked his brain out of his skull. If he actually got her into bed, he might not survive the night. He looked up at the dull, overcast sky. Or late morning, as the slightly embarrassing case may be.
Bob’s half-cocked plan was proving unexpectedly dangerous.
It had been a sour reality check, catching sight of Farmer’s complacent grin over her shoulder. The digital photo frame on her bookshelf had been innocent enough until then, passing through a series of holiday snaps. Offering intriguing insights into Lainie’s choice of swimwear. She did fairly spectacular things to a halter-neck.
They had looked good together. Smiling and pretty, healthy and happy. For a feckless little shit who dipped his wick all over London, Farmer had looked pretty far gone. He wasn’t a good enough actor to fake it. Lainie’s chin had rested on his shoulder, her eyes laughing into the camera.
He remembered, suddenly, interrupting a kiss in a back hallway on opening night. She had pulled free of Farmer, blushing. Richard had barely registered the scene, had felt nothing beyond fleeting contempt. Another of Farmer’s brainless, easy conquests. That was all he’d seen.
He shook his head, a single, sharp movement, and left the narrow strip of lawn that functioned as a garden. Beeping the lock on the Maserati, he slid behind the wheel. He checked his watch. The panel beater was dropping off the Ferrari at one o’clock. His phone rang through the wireless system and he hit the answer button on the steering wheel.
“Troy.”
There was a burst of static, then a voice that sounded like someone doing a bad impression of the Prince of Wales. “Is it Mr. Richard Troy, the renowned actor, I’m speaking to?”
No. It’s Helen of Troy, the mythical homewrecker. Richard curbed his impatience with difficulty. “It is, but it won’t be for much longer if you use that description again.”
“Noted.” The speaker wasn’t flustered. “This is Anthony Sutcliffe from the London Arts Quarterly. We’re addressing the Grosvenor Initiative and its likely effects on cultural awareness, and I’d like to follow up on the views you expressed in your recent interview with Terry Gregson. Could we set up a time to meet? This week, for preference.”
“I do have an assistant who handles my interview schedule.” With Lainie’s voice stuck maddeningly in his head, he tried to remain polite. “May I ask how you got my private number?”
“I did contact your assistant, Mr. Troy, but I understand you prefer to personally handle questions concerning Sir Franklin.”
Richard had been reaching for his iPad to bring up his calendar, but now sat back. “I don’t believe I discussed my father with Gregson.”
“No.” Sutcliffe sounded amused. “It was very circumspect of him, wasn’t it? But I’m sure you’ll agree that your father’s legacy is relevant, to say the least. It’s clearly going to have an impact on your own political path, which is one of the things I’d like to talk about.”
Sutcliffe was correct. His father’s...legacy, for lack of a better word, was relevant to the subject at hand, and it would certainly haunt his steps in any kind of political arena. Richard was prepared for that. He had to maintain a strong public presence, so simple avoidance wasn’t feasible; however, the right application of insipid, meaningless diplomacy would disappoint anyone hoping for dirt. He’d encountered Sutcliffe’s work in the past, and the man wasn’t a threat. His self-confidence outstripped his actual ability.
He could—probably should—just agree to a meeting. The Arts Quarterly had a fairly minimal readership, but it was all useful networking. Unfortunately, the journalist had picked a bad time to make demands. He was in no mood to be cooperative.
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?” The tinge of complacent malice had disappeared from Sutcliffe’s voice. He was startled.
“No.” Richard contemplated the terrace house again. The windows were shadowed, offering no glimpse of its inhabitants. “I don’t particularly want to discuss my father, his political viewpoint, or anything else with you. If necessary, you can paraphrase the Radio 4 interview. I believe I made my position quite clear.”
“May I ask why you’re refusing?”
Journalists. They were like dogs at dinnertime—always hopeful of falling scraps.
He considered. “No. You may not. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
It wasn’t until he was stalled in busy Park Lane traffic that he let his mind release from its frozen trap. The hinges tended to slam shut at any drift into parental territory.
It was incredibly irritating that he was such a textbook cliché of dysfunctional wealth.