“Is that what you’re going to do?” she asked.
Eamonn grinned, thoughtful and slightly mischievous. “I don’t know.”
They disembarked from the courtesy cart at the escalator and rode down two stories to the ground-floor concourse, carrying their bags this time, with a uniformed security officer ahead of them and another behind. They could see that Pam’s described “cluster” of people with cameras and microphones, gathered around the foot of the escalator, had attracted curious bystanders and grown into something of a crowd.
“Take my hand,” Eamonn said into Nell’s ear. “And don’t let go ’til we get to the car.”
She shook her head. “I need both hands free, just in case.”
“We have two airport security people with us. Just trust me on this.”
Recognizing that she wasn’t an expert on the current situation, she conceded the point and reached out to grip his hand. At least I’m on the right side.
“Smile for the cameras,” he reminded her, and they stepped off the escalator, into the crowd.
The security officers kept anyone from getting too near, but the core knot of media followed closely as they moved toward the exit to the car service pickup area, some holding out microphones, others holding up cameras. Their shouted questions seemed to jumble into each other, but Nell heard “confront” and “revenge” and “make trouble” — looking for dirt, indeed. Eamonn kept on smiling, walking in silence, until they reached the sliding glass doors beyond which a limousine waited for them.
There, he let go of Nell’s hand and turned to face the crowd, gesturing for silence. The security officers looked surprised — everyone looked surprised — and a hush came over all of them, waiting for him to speak. “I’m here because I owe someone an apology,” Eamonn said, his voice firm and clear. “I hope he accepts it.” More quietly, he added, “Thank you very much,” to the security officers, then wrapped an arm around Nell’s waist and swept her through the doors, away from the rising clamor of requests for more detail, more comments, more. The security officers blocked anyone from following them through the doors, and they handed their bags to the chauffeur and got into the waiting limousine without incident.
“That was unexpected,” Nell blurted out.
Eamonn nodded slowly. “I didn’t exactly plan it. I just — hearing them shout about confrontation and revenge, they were so wrong, and…”
She reached out and laid a reassuring hand on his thigh. “It was good. Honest. Makes me proud of you.”
He blinked away something that could have been a mote in his eye, or moisture. “Well, I don’t know if we’ve got a chance of getting to Blade before some reporter does, but it’s worth a shot. I’m going to ask the driver to find us a Starbucks drive-thru before we hit the freeway, though. Chai latte?”
“Please.”
Even with a stop for coffee, the drive into the Napa Valley didn’t take much over an hour. Glorious blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon, only broken by a few tiny clouds like shreds of cotton candy, and the powerful black car ate up the miles as its occupants sipped from their to-go cups in air-conditioned comfort.
Eamonn wasn’t saying much, mostly playing with his phone or looking out the window, a rather grim expression on his face. Nell could see he didn’t want to be prodded or talked at.
Eventually, the limousine turned off the highway onto a side road, and shortly thereafter turned again down a long driveway, passing under an arch covered with climbing roses to approach a building with creamy stucco walls and terracotta roof tiles. A glossy wooden sign welcomed them to Rancho Rosal Inn.
“Are we staying here?” she asked.
“They’re staying here. Smidge booked the whole place. There’s a good chance I’ll be thrown out on my ass, but I expect they’ll be nice to you.”
The driveway curved up to a u-shaped drop-off area in front of the hotel. Double French doors had Reception etched into frosted glass panes, and a hand-lettered sign taped to the glass read sorry, no rooms available. A few feet to the right, an archway with a wrought-iron gate gave a glimpse of a courtyard and pool. A fit man in a black Smidge crew t-shirt sat on a folding chair just inside the gate — he turned to look at the limousine pulling up but didn't leave his seat.
The vehicle stopped. The driver’s door opened and closed; he’d be coming around to open the door for Eamonn and Nell at any moment. Behind the tinted windows, they looked at each other. He seemed anxious, doubtful.
“You’ve got this,” she said, reaching out to give his thigh a reassuring stroke.
“Kiss me for luck,” he rasped, his voice gone dry. So she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. He kissed her back with desperation, transmitting his tension, then it melted into something sweeter, better. He tasted of coffee.
They broke apart when the driver opened their door. Eamonn gestured for Nell to get out ahead of him. Ladies first, she could imagine him thinking. Or maybe he just wanted to delay the inevitable for a few more seconds.
The man at the gate didn’t seem fazed when Nell emerged from the limo — perhaps it wasn’t unusual for random females to turn up wherever the band was staying — but as soon as he recognized Eamonn behind her, he tensed and his face went professionally blank. “Easy. No one told me you were coming. They expecting you?”
“Hey, Ramón. No, I thought I’d surprise them if I could get here before the gossip reporters did.” Eamonn strolled casually toward the gate, gripping Nell’s hand with a firmness that told her his laid-back body language was faked.
Ramón looked wary. “Maybe you should have called first, find out if they want to see you. Not all surprises are good ones.”
“I’m not here to cause trouble, man. Trust me.
