she complained, clearly uncomfortable with the subject matter. ‘Most people think of it as that, but in my case it’s a fear of crowds and being trapped in a situation I can’t control.’
‘That’s what the therapy was about?’ he said.
She glanced at him sharply. ‘How do you know…? Oh, your special investigator’s report. Well, it’s nice to know he got some things right.’
‘How do you know it was a he?’
‘Because from the little I know of what’s in it he’s made snap judgements on very little evidence at all—just like a man.’
Tristan bit back a response and refocused. ‘How bad is your phobia?’
Lily sighed. ‘It’s not bad at all. Jordi Mantuso and I swapped stories on set and he was just being kind.’
Tristan was shocked by her revelation. ‘And are you okay? Right now?’
She looked taken aback by the question and he gritted his teeth, realising that his behaviour towards her had given her a very negative impression of who he was.
‘Y-yes. I’m okay. It’s not like I can’t go out in a crowd—it’s more a fear of being trapped by them.’
‘Like when you were a child and surrounded with your parents’ crowds of fans?’
The softness that had come over her face at his concern disappeared, and she looked away before glancing back. ‘Yes. They think that’s where it started. But I haven’t had an attack in years.’
One of the female minders approached, to find out what was delaying them, and Tristan watched Lily paste on a smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she walked towards the rows of paparazzi.
She answered questions and posed for photographs like the professional she was, and he couldn’t help respecting the adversity she had learned to overcome in order to work in her chosen profession.
He could see her making moves to finish up, and then her body stiffened. Something was wrong. Was she having a panic attack?
‘I don’t do theatre,’ she was saying firmly.
‘But why not, Lily? You’ve been offered the role of a lifetime, playing your mum. Are you not even considering it?’
‘No.’ Polite, but definite.
‘What’s wrong with the U.K., Lily? Don’t you like us?’
‘Of course.’ Another pretty smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘My schedule hasn’t allowed me to return to England before now.’
‘The roles you choose…’ an oily voice spoke up from the rear and paused for effect ‘…they’re very different women from your mother. Is that a deliberate decision on your part? Is that why you won’t take the West End gig?’
Lily felt Tristan step closer, and the warmth from his body momentarily distracted her from the reporter’s question. She hated this part of the proceedings. And she wouldn’t take the part playing her mother if it was the last known acting role on the planet.
‘I choose my roles according to what interests me. My current film, Carried Away, is a romantic comedy, and…I like happy endings…what else can I say?’ Lily smiled and turned to answer another question about location, before the same reporter who had been taking potshots at her from the get-go piped up again.
‘Do you ever worry about being thought of as like your mother?’
‘No.’ Lily’s smile felt as if it was made of cardboard and she thought about making an exit.
‘What’s it like kissing Jordi Mantuso?’
‘Divine.’ Lily’s smile was genuine, and the fans who had caught her words whooped.
But the oily guy was back. ‘Miss Wild, I’m still not clear about the West End gig. We’ve heard the director is holding off signing another female lead, so is the reason you won’t do it because you’re worried about the theatre aspect or…something else?’
Oh, this guy was good. He was a top-of-the-line paparazzo with a nose for a juicy story, and Lily could feel some of that old panic from years ago—the panic she had just told Tristan was firmly under control—well up inside her.
It was being back in London that was doing it. The whole stigma of who her parents had been. And the paps here were relentless. She rarely had to face such insolence in other parts of the world.
The reporter’s question had become jumbled in her head and she was struggling to swallow when she felt Tristan’s hand snake around her lower back and rest possessively over her hipbone; his fingers spread wide, almost stroking her through her the delicate fabric of her dress.
She felt a flush heat her face as her stomach muscles trembled, and fervently hoped he wouldn’t notice either response.
She tried to turn and silently berate him, but his fingers held her in place. His breath stirred the wisps of hair coiling around her temple as he leaned in closer and stole the breath from her lungs.
‘You’ve forgotten he’s a slimeball and you’re taking his question seriously. Just look up at me as if I’ve said something incredibly funny and ignore him.’
He let her half turn in the circle of his arms, but she couldn’t force the response he’d suggested.
Her hand automatically came up between them and flattened against the black designer shirt Jordana had provided him with. Her fingers curled into the fabric. She didn’t know if she was trying to hold him back or draw him closer, because her brain had frozen at the open hunger banked in his direct gaze.
The noise of the crowd, the cameras, the lights…everything faded as Lily felt suffused with warmth and a sexual need that was as debilitating as it was exciting.
She felt his swift indrawn breath as she held his gaze, and was powerless to look away when his eyes dropped to her mouth.
Dimly she became aware of the crowd chanting, ‘Kiss! Kiss!’ and as if in slow motion a soft smile curved Tristan’s firm mouth.
He leaned in and gently touched his lips to hers. The soft contact was fleeting, but still her lips clung, and as he pulled back and looked at her she knew he’d felt her unbidden response. He stared at her as if he wanted more—and if he didn’t the screaming fans certainly did.
Lily’s fingernails flexed, and somehow she found the wherewithal to pull back, once again becoming aware of the whistles and wild catcalls of ‘Who is he?’ and ‘Is that Lord Garrett?’ from the press.
The camera flashes were relentless, and Lily knew that while Tristan’s actions had been motivated purely to help her out of an awkward moment, hers had not.
And wishing it was otherwise wouldn’t make it so.
‘I
