in would end. She was presently alone in a small featureless room that would make any director on a cop show proud.
Earlier today she had been equal parts nervous and excited at the prospect of returning to England, her home, for the first time in six years.
She had been lined up at border control for ages, and had just made it to the passport-check booth when the official behind the partition had directed her to a row of officers with sniffer dogs. She hadn’t been concerned as she’d seen she was just one of many being checked over. Instead her mind had been on Jordana, hoping she would like the wedding present she’d bought for her and Oliver in Thailand, and also on how much she was looking forward to her long-overdue break.
Then one of the attending officers had lifted a medium-sized plastic bag out of her tote and asked if it belonged to her. She honestly hadn’t been able to remember.
‘I don’t know,’ she’d answered.
‘Then you’ll have to step this way.’ He’d indicated a long, over-bright hallway and sweat had immediately prickled on her palms—like the heat rash she’d once developed while filming in Brazil.
Now, looking around the small featureless room, she wondered where the two customs officials had gone. Not that she missed them—particularly the smarmy younger one, who spoke almost exclusively to her chest and threatened to deport her to Thailand if she didn’t start co-operating.
Which was a laugh in itself, because all she had done since they’d detained her was co-operate!
Yes, the multicoloured tote bag was hers. No, she hadn’t left it unattended at any time. Yes, a friend had been in her hotel room the night she’d packed. No, she didn’t think he’d gone near her personal belongings. And doubly no, the small plastic vials filled with ecstasy and cocaine were not hers! She’d nearly had a heart attack at the question, sure they must have made a mistake.
‘No mistake, ma’am,’ the nicer of the two officials had said, and the prickle of sweat had made its way to her armpits and dripped down the back of her neck like a leaky tap.
They’d then questioned her for hours about her movements at Suvarnabhumi Airport and her reasons for being in Thailand until she was completely exhausted and couldn’t remember what she’d told them. They’d left after that. No doubt to confer with those watching behind the two-way mirror.
Lily knew they suspected Jonah Loft, one of the guys working on the film she had just wrapped, but only because he had been in her room just before she had left for the airport. She felt terrible for him.
She had met Jonah at the New York rehabilitation centre she volunteered at, and it wouldn’t take the authorities long to discover that he had once had a drug problem.
Fortunately he was over that now, but Lily knew from her work with addicts that if anything could set off a relapse it was people not believing in them. Which was why Lily had got him a job on the film in the first place. She had wanted to give him a second chance, but she supposed when they found out she had been the instigator of having him work on the film it would reflect badly on both of them.
And yet she knew he wouldn’t have done this to her. He’d been too grateful—and hopeful of staying clean.
Lily sighed. Four hours and twenty-eight minutes.
Her bottom was numb and she stretched in the chair, wondering if she was allowed to get up and walk around. So far she hadn’t, and her thigh muscles felt as if they had been petrified. She rubbed her temples to try and ease her aching head.
She hoped Jordana had been contacted so she wouldn’t be concerned about why she hadn’t made it through the arrival gate. Though, as to that, Jo would likely be more worried if she did know what was holding her up. Lily just prayed she didn’t contact her overbearing brother for help.
The last thing she needed was the deliciously gorgeous but painfully autocratic Tristan Garrett finding out about her predicament. She knew he was supposed to be one of the best lawyers alive, but Lily had only ever had acrimonious dealings with Tristan—apart from ten unbelievably magic minutes on a dance floor at Jordana’s eighteenth birthday party. Lily knew he hated the sight of her now.
He’d devastated her—first by kissing her in a way that had transported her to another world, and then by ignoring her for the rest of the night as if she hadn’t even existed. As if they hadn’t just kissed like soul mates…
And just when she’d thought her teenage heart couldn’t break any more he’d come across her in his father’s study trying to clean up a private party Jordana should never have been involved in, and jumped completely to the wrong conclusion.
He’d blamed Lily—and her ‘kind’—and thrown her out of his home. In hindsight she supposed she should have been thankful that he’d taken the time to organise his chauffer to drive her the two hours back to London, but she hadn’t been. She’d been crushed—and so had her stupid girlhood fantasy that he just might be the love of her life.
Looking back now, she couldn’t imagine what had possessed her even to think that in the first place. They were from different worlds and she knew he had never approved of her. Had always been as disgusted as she was herself at her being the only offspring of two notoriously drugged-out hippy celebrities who had died—in flagrante—of a drug overdose.
Not that she’d ever let him see that. She did have some pride—not to mention her late father’s wise words running through her head.
‘Never let ‘em know you care, Honeybee,’ he’d always said. Of course he’d been referring mostly to rock music reviews, but she had never forgotten. And it had held her in good stead when she’d had to face down more than her fair share of speculation and scandal, thanks to her parents and, sometimes, to her own actions.
The hard scrape of the metal door snapped Lily back to the present and she glanced up as the smarmy customs official swaggered back into the room, a condescending smile expanding his fleshy lips.
He sat opposite her and cocked an eyebrow. ‘You are one lucky lady, Miss Wild,’ he said in his heavy cockney brogue. ‘It seems you’re to be released.’
Lily stared at him impassively, blinking against the harsh fluorescent light and giving nothing away as to how she was feeling.
The official sprawled back in the chair and rhythmically tapped the table with what looked like a typed report, staring at her chest. Men like him—men who thought that because she was blonde and had a nice face and reasonable body shape she was easy—were a dime a dozen.
This guy was a marine wannabe, with a flat-top haircut that, instead of adding an air of menace, made him look as if he should be in the circus. But even if he’d had the polish of some latter-day Prince Charming, Lily wouldn’t have been interested. She might make movies about love and happy-ever-after but she wasn’t interested in the fairy tale for herself. Not after her mother’s experiences with Johnny Wild, and the humiliating sting of Tristan’s rejection of her all those years ago.
‘That’s right,’ Marine-man finally sneered when she remained silent. ‘You celebrities always seem to know someone who knows someone, and then it’s all peaches an’ cream again. Personally, I would ‘ave sent you back to Thailand to face the music. But lucky for you it ain’t up to me.’
And thank heavens for that, Lily thought, trying not to react to his leering scrutiny.
