One woman tearing your clothes off was fun. Five at once? Not so much.
“Please, ladies…” Christian was only half laughing now.
Rip. There went an Armani sleeve. He shrugged away from the grasp, but there were still other hands pulling at him, tugging at him.
He’d known adoring fans before, but they seldom pawed him. And this had gone way beyond pawing.
“I’ll sign autographs, but you really don’t need to take souvenirs.” He had to raise his voice over their squeals. This was definitely not fun. In fact, it was getting downright scary. The crowd surrounding him pressed in tighter. There seemed to be more of them now too.
Another rip. This time his shirt. The excited squeals increased in volume.
“He’s mine!” shouted one over-eager fan.
“Mine!” the others echoed.
“Well, actually, ladies…” He belonged to no one. But in the grip of mob mentality, they neither heard nor cared.
He had to get out of here.
With another rip, this time the rear seam of his evening jacket, he pulled away from the knot of admirers. One young woman tumbled to her knees with the impetus. Fighting every instinct to be a gentleman, he didn’t pause. He ran.
The sound of their pursuit spurred him on. He ran blindly. Now he knew how it felt to be the fox in a fox hunt.
A block or two further and the number of feet behind him seemed to diminish, but he still didn’t look back. He only hoped no one had been trampled in the ruckus. Though if one or two of the fanatics broke a heel in the process, justice would be served.
He reached an intersection and looked both ways. This foreign city had turned into a maze and he had absolutely no idea where he was. Back where he’d been accosted, the streets teemed with life. He paused. He stood now in a deserted residential street, a terrace of imposing townhouses lined with trees stark against the night sky.
And no way out.
Cul-de-sac either side and a dead-end straight ahead.
Damn.
He looked back over his shoulder. There were only three women left in the race, but they were gaining.
A car pulled out of a driveway within the cul-de-sac to his left, picking up speed as it approached his street corner. An open-topped sports car with only one occupant. Blonde was all he had time to register. Drawing on a lifetime’s worth of instinct, he took a running leap and landed face-first in the rear seat, just as the roof began to unfold and close over them.
The driver screamed, more ear-splitting even than the fans who, thwarted of their quarry, howled as the car sped past.
Christian sprawled on the back seat until the adrenalin rush waned enough that he became aware of aches and pains. He was winded too. He struggled upright.
The convertible roof clicked into place, sealing them in. Mercifully, the scream stopped as the driver drew in a fresh breath. He braced himself against another, but it didn’t come.
While the white knuckles grasping the steering wheel still revealed her terror, the driver seemed to have composed herself remarkably well. Her chin lifted and her shoulders straightened.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked in local dialect, her voice icy, betrayed by the barest tremor. She turned her head to look at him in the rear-view mirror and he glimpsed an intriguing profile, beautifully arched eyebrows, long eyelashes, full lips, and a pert nose.
“Keep driving,” he urged, glancing out the back window at the group of young women receding into the distance. He looked down at his clothing. Great. The jacket sleeve fluttered loose and his shirt had been torn and gaped open across his chest, enough to reveal dark skin through the crisp white broadcloth.
The shirt had been hand-crafted in Milan.
He swore again.
The only thing he could rectify was the skew bow-tie. He removed it and stuck it in his pocket, then climbed into the passenger seat beside her. She gasped, as if about to scream again.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not a…” he struggled for the word in her language “… hijacker.”
She glanced at him, long enough this time to be able to recognise him. Her eyes, Arctic blue, rounded with awareness, recognising him, struggling to place how she knew him. It would only be a matter of time. He relaxed.
But she didn’t. The white knuckles tightened their grip on the wheel and her gaze whipped back to the road. “I know your face… you were on television…” She choked. “Oh my God! You’re…” A single tear slid down her cheek.
He was used to women screaming, fainting, or losing the ability to speak when they recognised him, but that panicked tear was the most perplexing. Was she one of those crazies who believed actors really were the characters they played? Not that he’d played many villains. He was usually typecast as the charming rogue. The role fit him like a glove.
But she didn’t look crazy. She looked… terrified.
What was with this place? Fans who mauled him, women afraid of him…
His mother had told him a great deal about Westerwald. Sometimes, instead of bedtime stories, she’d reminisced about the place and its people. Bitter-sweet as her departure had been, she’d loved her time here and the people she’d met.
Right now he couldn’t figure out why. These Westerwaldians were mad.
The street grew busier around the car, a restaurant and a late-night corner-shop now amidst the residential buildings. He was worse than lost. He had no idea where the hell he was and had lost all sense of direction. Why had he said he’d walk to the damn party?
Because he’d wanted to see the city where he’d been conceived. Without an entourage.
Now he’d seen more than enough. Maybe
