unconcerned, dawdled lazily on the corners of the desk. Augustus grabbed her so hard that he heard the breath rush out of her lungs in a whoosh.
“All right,” croaked Emma. “That’s one way.”
She was laughing. Augustus had never seen anything so wonderful as that laughter.
“Hush, you,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss her. “Don’t you know mockery isn’t conducive to passion?”
Emma wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his. “Really?” she said, and the bit of Augustus’s brain that could still comprehend language vaguely registered the word.
“Mmm,” said Augustus, into her neck. “I might be wrong.”
She made a little mewing noise. Augustus reclaimed her lips as they staggered unevenly in the direction of the bed. There wasn’t far to stagger.
“Bed?” he murmured.
“Bed,” she agreed, and dropped down onto the coverlet, pulling him with her.
Something crinkled. And crinkled again.
Oh, hell.
Augustus froze as Emma rolled over and said curiously but without any of the alarm that was steadily mounting in his own chest, “Is there something under here?”
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, and reached for her, but it was too late. Emma drew down the coverlet and pulled out Fulton’s plans.
She looked up at him with confusion. “But aren’t these… ?”
Chapter 28
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Dempster.
Oh, didn’t he? “My papers,” I said, as much for Colin as Dempster. “Someone’s been going through them. And my e-mail.”
“I don’t know why anyone would want to read your e-mail,” said Joan, joining us on the stairs. I should have known she couldn’t stay away. Her long skirt whispered against the stair treads. She smiled at Colin over my head. “It must be the strain of the academic life. Scholars are such…special people.”
Delusional, that smile seemed to say. Americans. What can one expect of them?
I’d show her special.
“Ask your boyfriend,” I said, my voice cold and hard. “Ask him what he’s looking for. Ask him why he used you to get in here.”
Just as he had used Serena before.
“Colin!” exclaimed Joan. “Tell her—”
“I warned you,” Colin said to Dempster. “Not again.”
“The film—” Dempster began, just as his girlfriend said something that included the phrase “obviously disturbed,” before both were drowned out by a clangorous knell that echoed in my ears and made me catch at Colin’s arm for balance. It was a horrible, metallic sound, and it seemed to go on and on, catching the guests in the hall in shimmering waves of sound.
In the corner of the hall, Cate, sans clipboard, was wielding a mallet against a brass gong with considerable vigor and more than a little relish. The tinkle of a fork against a glass would never have been heard in that din. The gong swept everyone away in its wake. The guests stopped gossiping, the waiters stopped circling. Even Joan shut her mouth, although she shot me a look that promised retribution later—and another one, at Dempster, that made me think that the extra-connubial bed wasn’t going to be all that cozy that night.
An expectant hush settled on the room, broken only by the swish of fabric against the floor as someone shifted weight, the click of a glass against someone’s ring, and then even those sounds ceased.
Dinner?
No. It was Micah Stone.
The film star sauntered into the room. The hiss and whisper of conversation faded to nothing beneath the click of his cowboy boots against the marble of the entryway. I was reminded, for no discernible reason, of Charles II making his way between bowing courtiers at Whitehall. Micah Stone had that same sort of lanky grace, that same indefinable saunter, the saunter of a man confident enough to lope rather than stride.
Stone was taller in real life than he appeared on screen. I’d thought it was usually the other way around. Maybe it was just that they paired him with particularly leggy leading ladies. Either way, he made Jeremy, clinging to his left elbow, seem short, stocky, and overdressed, even though Jeremy was a reasonably tall, reasonably fit man, dressed up by dressing down in dark slacks and sport coat. No sport coats for Stone. He was wearing jeans— acid washed—and a T-shirt. It was, appropriately enough, a DreamStone T-shirt, emblazoned with the company’s logo of a large rock. A dreaming rock, presumably.
“Hey!” he said, and everyone in the hallway gazed at him with rapt attention, as though that casual “hey” were the modern answer to “Friends, Romans, countrymen.” His voice was low and deep and very generically American, neither the surfer drawl of the West Coast or the pseudo-English affectations of certain portions of the East. “I see a lot of familiar faces here. Thanks for making it out here—”
“To the ass end of nowhere,” I heard someone whisper.
“—to historic Selwick Hall.” Micah Stone grinned self-deprecatingly, to show he was being silly. Strangely, I felt myself grinning along. Maybe this was what they called charisma? “Where we’ll be filming
“Very!” Jeremy assured him enthusiastically.
What a douche bag.
With a nicely calculated head tilt that indicated Jeremy without acknowledging him, Micah Stone said, in that same relaxed, carrying voice, “I’d particularly like to thank the Selwick family, who opened their home for all of us. We all know that having a bunch of film people around is no picnic”—polite titters, some simpers—“but the Selwicks have been nothing but generous.”
Generous? That was a debatable term. The Selwicks were, in fact, being paid a hefty fee for the use of the hall, somewhat less impressive by being divided three ways, a fact I found massively unfair, given that Colin was the only one put out by it. Colin’s share was being plowed back into the hall; Serena’s to purchase a partnership in the gallery at which she worked; and Jeremy’s—well, let’s just say I didn’t know what Jeremy did with his money and I didn’t particularly want to know, although I’d be willing to bet a lot of it went to designer clothing and first- class airfare.
“I’d especially like to thank—”
Micah Stone paused, conducting a leisurely survey of the crowd. Jeremy drew himself up, pre-preening.
“I’d especially like to thank Colin Selwick, for taking us all in and doing it so graciously. Colin? Where are you, Colin?”
Wishing himself anywhere but here, if I knew my Colin.
Colin raised an unenthusiastic hand. He said flatly, “Think nothing of it.”
Fifty-odd pairs of eyes lifted in our direction. But soft, what movie star from yonder hallway beckoned? We were only a modest five steps up, but it was enough to create a potentially unflattering angle. I resisted the urge to pull my skirt closer to my legs. Next to me, Joan lifted a hand to her perfectly coiffed hair, putting her best profile forward, sidling closer to Colin. Trollop.
Micah grinned up at the landing. “What are you doing all the way up there? Come on down so we can all give you a hand.”
I made to step back, but Colin clamped my arm in his, leaving me with no choice but to come along with him. His grip was like a vise. Okay, I got it. He wasn’t doing this alone. As we made our way down the stairs, I resisted the urge to do a QE II wave. Royalty might be trained to wave and walk at the same time, but I didn’t trust my own
