Talkin' the Talk, page 22
“Ian?” She forced her muscles to relax. Given how she’d overreacted the last few times she’d been startled, she couldn’t afford to have him asking any more questions.
“Who else did you think it was?” He was nestled between her legs, his hands tangling in her hair as he kissed down her neck.
“Mmm.” She turned her head to the side and yawned, focusing on what Ian was doing. She wouldn’t let this moment be ruined. “That’s nice.”
Her answer was a nip on her collarbone. “We never did get to my side of agreement.”
“Which agreement?” Sophie stretched her arms out on either side of her, allowing herself a tentative smile. The rain on the roof had slowed to a light sprinkle, and the coziness of the bed made her feel like she was in one big hug. This was nice. Safe.
Ian moved down her body, his breath hot against her skin. “The one where I get to fuck you senseless in exchange for telling you about my love of Italian cuisine.”
“Unfair exchange.” Sophie grinned when Ian growled against her.
“And I want to see you naked. You do realize I didn’t see you naked at all yesterday. I think it needs to be rectified.”
“Not happening. I’m sleeping now.” Trying to hide a flash of panic, she twisted underneath him, making sure to keep the shirt in place and feeling a twinge from her bruises. The momentary fear was overshadowed by a lighthearted rush of glee at Ian’s growl of frustration. She looked over her shoulder. “And you can stop prodding my backside with your man parts.”
“Like this?”
Sophie started belly-laughing. “Stop it!”
Ian changed tack, kissing along the base of her hairline. “You know, I think I like you like this.”
Sophie did a bit of a wiggle. Just because. “Really?”
“Hmm.”
“How much?”
“Why don’t I show you?”
“The shirt stays on.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
There was another deep chuckle. “I like a challenge.”
“Good. Get to work.”
* * *
The air was thick with post-rain humidity when Sophie finally made it out to the porch the next morning cradling the coffee Ian had left on the bedside table while she’d been in the shower.
She was going to have to face reality, and soon, but for now she pushed the curling in the pit of her belly aside and focused on the view before her. A faint mist still hung in the air above the pasture, and the vines in the distance looked magical. The sheep milling around in the foreground were just starting to wander out for their morning breakfast, mothers baaing to bleating lambs. One of Hank’s bulls bellowed in the distance, telling everyone around that he was boss.
This was her family’s land. They had lived here for generations. They had survived, and there was no way in hell she’d let anyone spoil her chance of being a part of that.
Ian walked up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and resting his chin on her head. She’d already decided she liked this tender side of him. A lot.
“Are you alright?” He stole her coffee and took a sip before handing it back.
“Yeah.”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
She looked at him in surprise. “You’re offering?”
“I think I can manage bacon and eggs in a frying pan. Unless you would like something else, in which case I’m afraid you’ll have to play chef.”
Sophie’s stomach rumbled, and she told herself she needed to eat before getting on with the rest of the day and confronting her problems. She didn’t want this to end just yet. “Bacon and eggs sounds great.”
“And after that, I’m afraid I have some work to do.”
“That’s alright. I have to go back home to check in with Dad about some wedding things, and I’ve got to do the rounds of the other cabins. How do you feel about helping me write out invitations?”
“How do you feel about keeping me company while I work and you write out invitations?” Ian stole her coffee again, finishing it off. “Want another coffee?”
“If it comes with breakfast.”
“You Texan lasses are a single-minded lot.”
“You didn’t mind that half an hour ago.”
“No . . . No, I didn’t.” Ian turned her around and Sophie raised her face for a startlingly gentle kiss. “Breakfast?”
“What?” She blinked. “Oh yeah, breakfast.”
39
Ian stood on the porch, arms crossed, as he watched Sophie drive away. With her characteristic enthusiasm, she honked her horn and waved out the window until she was nearly out of sight.
He hadn’t wanted her to go. He’d almost suggested that he accompany her home, but common sense had prevailed. Firstly, there was a good chance she wouldn’t get anything done if he accompanied her, and secondly, he’d realized with no small amount of panic that he hadn’t checked his messages or social media for nearly twenty-four hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this disconnected, and that worried him. In light of the snake pit he was currently tightrope-walking over, one where Fairclough and Crebs had yet to be taken care of, it was tantamount to pure idiocy.
While Ian would be the first to call someone an idiot for being so caught up in a woman that he jeopardized his career, he had listened to the sound of Sophie’s truck disappear in the distance before he turned and walked back to the cabin. If he was grinning like an idiot the entire time, at least he was blessedly alone with no one to see.
Ian’s good mood lasted all of two seconds once he picked up his phone. Eighteen missed calls from Claire, his London Voice PA before Nigel and the only other person with this number. There was also a curt message from Sean Walker.
Call me immediately.
Ian prioritized Sean, knowing that anything from his friend that wasn’t glib or sarcastic was inevitably serious.
Ian’s first word was a return to his usual form. “What?”
“It’s nice to talk to you too.”
“You told me you wanted an immediate call. I would assume this is urgent.”
Sean sighed. It was loud and theatrical, no doubt designed to make Ian grind his teeth. “I’m afraid your life is about to get a lot more complicated, my friend. There’s a good chance your plan to wait out the storm will see you drown.”
“Cut the metaphor and get to the point.”
“Nigel. Your trusted friend and former PA.”
“And?”
“He was the one who went behind your back and helped Fairclough with the hack job. It wasn’t Crebs at all. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if he was involved somehow as well.”
Ian stared at the wall in front of him, momentarily dumbfounded. “How do you know all this? Is this common knowledge?”
“Claire. Remember how she worked for me before you talked her into movin’ back to London years ago? She’s been trying to call you, and when she couldn’t get you, she called me thinking you were staying here. She heard a rumor that Fairclough has some dirt on Nigel and talked him into not only doin’ the deed, but gettin’ you to sign off on it. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised it slipped past you, but you’ve always had a problem with trusting your friends way too much. Look at me, your bosom buddy since you saved my ass in that pub in London. And I wouldn’t trust myself to bank my own money.”
Ian felt Sean’s words like a slap to the face. Nigel? They’d been friends before they’d worked together. Ian attended Nigel’s children’s birthday parties, for Christ’s sake.
Ian’s mind raced as he tried to form a plan. “How many people know?”
“You know how this works. The rumor probably blew through half of London and New York before Claire got wind of it.”
Ian squeezed his eyes shut. How could he spin this? Nigel was as straight as they came. What would Fairclough have on him that would lead him to betray Ian? It would have to be significant. Why hadn’t Nigel told him that he was being blackmailed, if that’s what was happening? Surely he’d trust Ian enough to help him.
“As of yesterday, Claire said that The Independent was trying to pin Nigel down for an interview about you leaving, but they haven’t gotten him to agree yet. She didn’t say how much money they’re offering, but I’d guess it’s generous. If you’re lucky, you may have a chance to find him and shoot him before he throws you under the bus.”
Ian glowered. “Don’t even joke about it.”
“Apologies. As I was saying, my advice would be to get a hold of Nigel as soon as you can. From what Claire says, he’s in a pretty emotional state and it wouldn’t take much to crack him. I’ll stand by to vouch that you’re a passable human being whenever you say the word.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Planning another trip to Merry Old England?”
Ian scowled, feeling the happiness and contentment of the past few days evaporate. “Looks like I’ll have to.”
“Bring me back some single malt.”
Ian stared at the wall for five minutes debating on a plan of action before picking up his phone again. “Claire.”
“Ian!” His former PA’s voice was frantic. “I’ve been so worried about you. I’ve been trying to—”
Ian cut her off, needing information and needing it fast. “I know. Has The Independent gotten a hold of him yet?”
“Not that I know of. But it’s only a matter of time, Ian. That article The London Voice printed about you created some buzz and everyone’s still looking for dirt, especially since Fairclough is keeping the talk going. There are rumors flying around that you’ve taken the fall to cover up some cock-up of Ace’s, and he’ll want those squashed. Nigel’s the obvious choice for an interview, and with this rumor going around that he colluded to get you fired, the papers are throwing themselves at him. I debated contacting Nigel, but decided against it until I talked to you. I can’t imagine what Fairclough has over him that he’d do this to you.”
“Neither can I,” Ian said curtly, trying to recall if anything had seemed out of order. A brief conversation suddenly came back to him. Something about Nigel’s wife, April, something about money. It had been remarkable to Ian at the time because, until then, the man had seemed unflappable. Yes . . . maybe that had been it. He looked up at the ceiling, quickly putting a plan into place. He needed verification of his suspicions before he could act.
“Claire.”
“Yes.”
“You socialize with Nigel and his wife, don’t you?”
“Our children go to the same school, remember? I see April every day when I pick up the children. We chat at the school gate. You know, normal things.”
“His wife, there was something about her not too long ago—” Ian left the space open, knowing Claire well enough to wait for her to fill in the gap. She’d always had an impeccable memory. It’s why he’d initially lured her away from Walker.
“Yes. April’s always worried about funding. Something to do with the project she’s working on. The money comes from The Fairclough Trust—”
“Good enough for now. Thanks.”
“Don’t fly into Heathrow if you can help it, Ian. Joe Harkins is on permanent standby.”
Ian grimaced. Harkins was a bottom-feeding paparazzo who waited around Heathrow to take pictures of anyone even vaguely newsworthy. It was a good thing his last flight to settle business with his father had been direct to Glasgow. “Anyone at Gatwick as far as you know?” he asked, naming London’s second largest airport.
“I don’t think so. It would be helpful if you knew someone who could put the word out that they’ll be arriving at Heathrow around the same time as you. Jameson McKenzie would do. I know you’re friends with him. In fact, if you give me his number, I’ll call him myself.”
Despite the pressing dilemma, Ian couldn’t restrain a guffaw. Jameson was a two-time Oscar nominee and the current flavor of the month for panting British ladies who saw him as the second coming of Sean Connery. “You’re a hopeless case, Claire.”
She sighed. “I know. Be careful and get this resolved. They’ve had a big enough piece of you, and it’s been hard to watch. It’s time to unleash the hounds.”
“I plan on it.”
40
Ian calmly booked an overnight flight from Austin. He then called a number of friends, columnists, celebrities, and politicians, all of whom had expressed a desire to champion his cause. Afterwards, Ian felt satisfied that he had a defense suitably in place.
He’d been able to confirm that The Independent would be running an opinion column on his sacking this weekend, but that they had yet to get an interview with Nigel. It was imperative that he got to Nigel before that happened.
His final call was to Wolfgang Bickle, host of one of the highest-rated news programs in Britain. He’d known Wolfgang for years, and a short conversation resulted in Ian’s promise to give an exclusive interview when and if he wanted to talk.
He wasn’t quite ready yet. It was best to make sure the positive words his friends and colleagues were spreading had time to soak in. That was secondary, however.
He needed to talk to Nigel first.
* * *
“I’m back! No one was home, so I left a note for Dad. As usual, he left his cell charging in the kitchen.”
Sophie spoke with forced cheerfulness as she walked back through the door of Ian’s cabin, dropping the backpack that she’d loaded with all the wedding bits and pieces and a spare change of clothes.
Her heart was still beating overtime from searching Beau’s room. She had known the chance of finding his phone was small, but the disappointment and panic that had come with that confirmation had nearly overwhelmed her.
She felt her eyes well up and squeezed them shut, reminding herself that crying wouldn’t fix anything. Beau wouldn’t do anything unless he thought she was going to talk. She had time. She just needed a plan. In the meantime, she still had her dad’s wedding to take care of and Ian. Thank God the guests at her other cabins were low-maintenance for once.
“Ian?” She walked into the bedroom and found him scooping his things into a toiletries bag. She froze. “What are you doing?”
He turned, his features mapped with fierce lines. “I have to go to London again. I’m leaving in thirty minutes.”
“Oh.” Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. With Ian here with her she felt safe. Without him . . . Her throat suddenly felt tight. “Can you tell me why?”
“It’s too complicated for the time I’ve got left, but I can tell you it involves clearing my name.” Ian walked past her into the bedroom, opening the dresser and beginning to lay his clothes out on the bed.
“Will you . . . When will you be back?”
“Not sure. Do you have this cabin booked after I’m due to leave?”
“Yeah, I do. I have a honeymooning couple booked for a week. Why?”
He looked over his shoulder while retrieving his suitcase off the top of the wardrobe. “I want to extend my stay.”
“Why? If you’re not going to be here—”
“I want to be able to come back. Can you put whoever it is in another cabin?”
Sophie mentally pictured her calendar, feeling a spark of hope. He wanted to come back. She didn’t know what that meant, but it was better than nothing. “I can. How long are we talking here?”
“Three months for starters. If we’re on the same page. I assume we’re on the same page.”
She stared at him, mouth agape. Three months? She’d been expecting him to say weeks. Days even. Not months. “Excuse me?”
Ian looked at her, his expression showing a momentary uncertainty. “Do you want me to come back? I want to continue whatever is between us. Can I assume that you want the same?”
Sophie was reeling, with hope but also with a whole lot of confusion. Whatever they had was so turbulent, so new. “But that’s a lot of money—”
“Not an issue.”
Sophie’s mouth formed an O of surprise. The accountant in her did a happy dance at so much guaranteed income. “Does this mean what I think it does? Does this mean that you want something more serious? Because if you do, tell me now. I don’t want to be messed around with here, Ian, not after you’ve messed up once already. I’ve got a whole lot of stuff going on, and I know we’re different people in different situations and . . . I was expecting one more week, but—”
“Sophie, I know this is sudden, but I don’t have time that this discussion deserves. Just tell me, do you want me to come back?” Ian bridged the distance between them and grasped her shoulders, leaning down and giving her a hard kiss on the lips. Everything about him radiated an electrifying intensity. “Yes or no?”
She blinked, feeling a little dazed. “Well, yeah. At least I think I do. As long as you don’t turn into Ian the Beast again.”
Her answer was another hard, heated kiss.
Ian curved his hand around her hip. His brown eyes were serious as they looked into hers. “I should be back in a few days. I want to be back in a few days. Will you be here for me? That is, the beast-free me?”
Sophie nodded, taking in Ian’s damaged-handsome features. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Ian studied her for a couple of long, silent seconds. “I have to go.”
“Okay.” She pressed her lips together. “When?”
“Twenty minutes.”
She ran through all the reasons this might be a huge wish pinned on a cloud and then decided it was worth it. “That’s enough time.”
“For what?”
She slid her hands down to his backside and squeezed. “For you to do me against the kitchen counter again.”
Ian’s expression turned heated. “Turn around.”
41
Ian walked up the steps to Nigel’s home in North London while checking his watch. Six A.M. The streets around him were dead, with only one black cab and a die-hard runner thudding along the pavement on the opposite side of the road.
