does, doesn’t it?” She picked up a white card from the elaborately carved half-moon table in the hall. “‘Gavin Williams and Associates, Interior Design.’” She put the card aside and added, “Well, we know who to blame for this Victorian nightmare, then.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Devon mused. “I kind of like it. I wonder how many bedrooms in this place?”
“Five. Or was it six? Max told me, but I don’t remember.” Max Morecombe was the manager Christa shared with Dominic Heath, British rock singer and one of her closest friends.
She smiled coyly. “Why do you ask, Mr Matthews? Did you want to christen the bedrooms?”
He slid his arms around her waist. “Not just the bedrooms, love. Every room.”
Christa draped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “That can be arranged,” she said huskily, and kissed him again.
Devon dragged his mouth from hers a few minutes later and turned to pick up the suitcases. “I might as well take this stuff upstairs. I don’t know about you, but after that flight from London, I’m knackered. I could do with a few hours of sleep.”
“Thanks for coming along. I’m glad the CID let you have a couple of weeks off.”
“I think they were all glad to be rid of me for a bit, to be honest. And I know you’re more than a little nervous about this concert.”
“I am,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve performed in plenty of other places, but...Madison Square Garden is the biggest venue I’ve ever played.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said firmly. “You’ve played Glastonbury and the Royal Albert Hall, for crying out loud.”
“But this is huge,” Christa said. “And it’s my first U.S. concert. What if no one shows up?”
“The show’s sold out. It sold out within two hours.”
“What if I forget the song lyrics? Or bollocks up one of the dance routines? There’s a lot of choreography.”
“That’s what rehearsals are for,” Devon reminded her. “And you’ve got one first thing in the morning, don’t forget. Now, stop worrying. You’ve got this, babe.” He reached out and took her hand, then lifted it to his lips. “What you need is rest. You’re tired. Come on, let’s go upstairs and go to bed.”
“And get some sleep?”
“Yeah. That, too.”
“Listen to this,” Devon said the next morning as Christa joined him at the kitchen table for coffee and toast. He began to read out loud from the New York Daily News in his hand.
“’Manhattan’s elusive cat burglar struck again last night, robbing an undisclosed Park Place apartment and stealing an estimated $2 million in jewels.’” He lowered the paper. “The thief made off with a small fortune in stolen jewels, and not for the first time, apparently – yet no one saw a thing. ‘There are no suspects and no leads.’” He snorted. “Pathetic.”
Christa sipped her coffee. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not on duty, then, Detective Sergeant Matthews,” she pointed out tartly as she stood up. “So why not take your D.S. hat off and just enjoy your holiday?”
“It’s habit,” Devon said, and shrugged. “A good D.S. is never really off duty.”
“This one is.” She bent down to brush her lips against his. “Christa’s orders.”
He grabbed her around the waist and deepened the kiss. “Umm, I like it when you get bossy,” he murmured when he dragged his mouth from hers. “Fancy a quick shag?”
“Love to, but I can’t.” She laughed and slapped his hands away. “Stop it, Dev. I’ve got to get ready for rehearsals.”
“Ten minutes, that’s all I need. Five.”
Christa sighed and pushed him reluctantly away. “I wish, but I really don’t have time. Today promises to be a long day.”
“And one, and two, and three, and STOP!” the choreographer roared. His voice echoed in the cavernous rehearsal studio on West Fifty-Seventh Street.
As the dancers around Christa held themselves immobile in their positions, she let out a quiet breath of frustration. She just couldn’t seem to get this particular move down. She steeled herself for the bollocking that was sure to follow.
“Christa,” Wilhelm barked, “what is the problem, hein? You keep going left when everyone else is going right.”
“Sorry. I can’t seem to concentrate.”
“Well, my dear, you must try harder. We have a concert to choreograph and we have less than two weeks to do it! Let’s try it again, from the top, shall we? Jetzt!”
This time, through sheer force of will, Christa executed the move perfectly. As the pianist pounded out an accompaniment on the old upright and Wilhelm clapped his hands in time, she and the dancers finished the opening set choreography without a hitch. The rest of the rehearsal passed without incident.
But the seed of self-doubt, already planted in Christa, grew a little stronger.
How, she wondered as she showered and dressed in her street clothes, could she possibly do this? How could she remember all of those dance steps and memorize the lyrics to twenty songs in under two weeks, without screwing up in front of 18,000 people?
Christa didn’t know. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t rocketed to fame quite so quickly.
She wasn’t remotely ready for it. Any of it.
But it was too late now. The venue was booked, the rehearsal hall rented, the set list in place.
She was performing a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden...whether she was ready or not.
“Oh, Rhys – take me with you, please?”
Natalie stood behind her husband the next morning and slid her arms around his waist, peering over his shoulder as he stood before the mirror and tightened his tie into a Windsor knot.
“Not today, Natalie. I’ve got a million things to do and the store launch to deal with. Have you seen my silver cufflinks?” he asked as he turned away and began to look for them. “I’ve a meeting with Alastair and the staff in twenty minutes. You’re not bored already, are you?”
“Look in the enamel box on your dresser. And no, of course I’m not bored.”
Which wasn’t strictly true, exactly. But after lobbying Rhys to let her come along with him to Manhattan, she didn’t dare admit that after a month spent shopping, lunching, walking, and museum-going, she was...well, she was a tiny bit bored.
It wasn’t much fun to do things – anything – on your own. And Rhys worked such long
