Andrei (Quintessence Book 7) Page 3

  As a result, the book had won yet more awards, and the trilogy had been picked up for a movie with a major production company in the States.

  “Of course, I’d love to. It should be a good day. They’re taking us to the Holly.”

  Sascha cocked a brow. “Expensive.”

  “And on their dime, too. Even better.”

  Snorting, because the six of them combined probably had more than the production company earned in a year, she murmured, “Who doesn’t love a bargain?” When he winked at her, she had to laugh.

  The sound had the kitchen freezing, though. And she saw Sean and Sawyer almost trip down the stairs as they hurried toward her. Their eyes were glued on her face, and the tableau seemed to be in a stasis as her laughter died off at how weird they were acting.

  She frowned at them. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Kurt reached for her, and he encompassed her fingers in the warmth of his large paw-like hand. “Your laugh is beautiful, Sascha,” he told her huskily, saying without uttering a word in front of Tin, that that was. . . .

  It couldn’t have been the first time they’d heard her laugh since—

  No.

  She usually laughed when she joined Tin and Andrei in the bathroom, and she’d watched a funny movie last week, but. … Did this laughter sound different? From the way they were looking at her, she guessed she had her answer.

  Why were they reacting like this?

  Sascha gnawed at her bottom lip, then turned away from them to round the station. “What do you guys want for breakfast?” she rasped.

  “The usual,” they both said.

  But Sean was the one who murmured, “Do you need a hand in the kitchen?”

  “No. I’m fine. Take a seat,” she whispered and forced herself to focus on the dishes she needed to prepare for the morning meal.

  It was better to think about that than contemplate the truth.

  That her laughter could have been the first truly joyous sound she’d made in six weeks, disturbed her on a base level, mostly because she feared her depression had affected Tin. But, equally, that fear warred with the terror she felt at the notion of moving on. The baby was. … Did her laughing mean she was forgetting—?

  Swallowing, she switched off her brain and focused on Sawyer’s porridge—she always made extra because he usually encouraged Tin to have some—and getting Sean’s granola out of the oven.

  Those mundane tasks were, quite frankly, all she was capable of.

  It made her feel like a boor, but the restaurant wasn’t her favorite. It was one of those places where money talked and only the number of Michelin stars counted. It didn’t matter if a plate consisted of cauliflower jizz and sautéed, baked, sous-vided and cremated duck breast—it was in vogue, and little else mattered.

  Mostly she was hangry. After that weirdness this morning at breakfast, she’d put off having anything to eat, thinking she’d be having something nice here, but she’d had a brain fart and forgotten that most eateries in the capital were serving shit like this.

  There were four sections to the restaurant, and each one had their own hydroponic garden in play. One side grew basil, and from a distance, she recognized the other three sections grew rosemary, mint, and oregano. It made the room smell nice, she’d give it that, even if the clinical edge to the restaurant put her back up. Everything was white, gleaming white, which made the bright green herbs’ color pop even more.

  It was pretentious, as pretentious as the company they were keeping.

  Making a mental note to have Kurt take her to her favorite café, Rossi’s, for some coffee and cake after this meeting—she intended on eating something nice today—she watched as Jennifer Houghton flirted with her man.

  At first, it had been amusing.

  Kurt had introduced Sascha as his partner.

  They were always careful to introduce her as such. It could be interpreted in many ways, after all, and that was how they kept under the radar. By being circumspect.

  In their position, the fact that they lived in a poly household with a child could, and would, feature in the gossip rags the instant it came to any dick with a camera’s attention. Her men were too infamous and famous, and she hadn’t exactly stayed out of the news with her past emerging in a big way and the small matter of her inheritance.

  When her sister-in-law’s case had gone to trial, and the details of the way Elizabeth Jacobie had murdered Sascha’s birth parents had come to light, the press’s interest was renewed with a vigor that had Sascha hiding and becoming reclusive for quite a while.

  Coming to the media’s attention again wasn’t something she wanted.

  None of them did.

  And so, they introduced her as ‘partner’ and she just had to accept it if she wanted to maintain their under-the-radar relationship. In turn, this meant enduring women purposely misinterpreting the label and ignoring the obvious intimacy between Sascha and the man she was with.

  Watching Jennifer fawn over Kurt swiftly grew tedious. She kept putting her hand on his knee and Kurt kept reaching for it, pressing it to the white linen tablecloth and patting it in a ‘there, there’ motion. It would have been hysterical if. …

  Well, okay, it wasn’t.

  Not at all.

  She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to bitch slap her, or just blow out a breath and wait for this meal to be over.

  It didn’t help that Matthew Dreyford, yup, the Dreyford, had taken a liking to her, too. Although, she wasn’t sure if that was more his fascination with her money or the fact that she had a pretty face. She’d lost a ton of weight since her fall, had even dropped lower than her pre-Tin weight. She didn’t particularly feel sexy. She felt, if anything, washed out, but it seemed like the men at the table were interested in her.

  Which was, Sascha thought, one of the reasons why Jennifer was flirting with Kurt. She wasn’t accustomed to sharing the limelight, even if Sascha didn’t want anything to do with the limelight, period!

  “You live in Kensington, don’t you, Sascha?” Dreyford asked, as he speared up some kind of pumpkin mousse with crème fraiche that reminded her of Tin’s baby puke.

  “I do. Yes.” She gave him a tight smile—how the hell did he know that?

  “You’ll have to show me the sights. Everyone knows how famous Harrods is.”

  “I doubt it’s your first visit to London,” she countered coolly, not in the mood for any of his bullshit. Kurt had to be nice. She didn’t. She just had to be polite, even in the face of his leers and flirtatious comments—even though Kurt was right goddamn beside her.

  And then, she felt like a shit. Because, hadn’t she, just this morning, preached about being respectful? Devon was totally right. The bastard. Some people just didn’t deserve respect.

  God, she hated it when he was right, and she was trying to teach Tin an important lesson about not alienating the world. Tin was going to be the heir to a fortune that would make Bill Gates’ kids weep. If they didn’t make sure he wasn’t an asshole now, then there was no hope.

  They needed to start this shit young before it was too late!

  Still, knowing she had to be polite even though the guy was a douche, she smiled at Dreyford in faint apology for her cool tone.

  He grinned back, seeming to take the smile as something it most definitely wasn’t: encouragement. “It isn’t, but it’s the first visit I’ll have any time on my hands.” His eyes lit up as they glanced over her, seeming to suggest he’d like to get his hands on other things.

  Her mouth curled with distaste as his gaze went on a road trip, taking in her bright auburn hair that bobbed in large waves around her shoulders, the emerald blouse that pinched in at her waist, thanks to a high-waist pencil skirt, and managed to make her boobs look ‘da bomb.’ She had a pair of stacked heels on too, mostly to put her at the same height as Kurt—she was a shortass in comparison to him.

  Still, this outfit wasn’t for Kurt. It was for herself. She’d wanted to wear somethin
g pretty, so she’d dressed up. The skirt was black and fit her curves to perfection, but it was a rich velvet that felt lovely against her hands when she rested them on her lap. The gauzy blouse was more like gossamer, and she’d worn a bustier underneath it to dress it up—it wasn’t too showy for a meeting of this nature, but it was a tad sexier than she’d grown used to of late. If it wasn’t for Kurt, it sure as well wasn’t for this prick, either.

  The last time she’d felt sexy was the night Devon and Sawyer had taken her to that tango club in Glasgow. The ache to be back then, to that time, created a physical response that made her stomach rebel the fancy duck confit she’d just forced on herself.

  With a false smile, she murmured, “I’m sure you’ll find someone who’d like to be your tour guide.”

  Of course, the dick didn’t want to hear her rejection. “But I don’t just want a ‘someone.’ It would be nice to see the capital from an American’s perspective. I’m sure you know some haunts that most people don’t.”

  Kurt’s hand came to grab hers, probably because he was sensing the fact that she wanted to take her fork and stab Dreyford in the thigh with it.

  Which part of her refusal was the man not understanding?

  Even when she smiled out of politeness, it wasn’t enough for anyone to think it was a come on. Hell, not even a prisoner who’d just been released would consider her smiles the ‘green light.’

  “Sascha has a young child,” Kurt said gently. “Her days are busy.”

  She cocked a brow as he squeezed her fingers in silent warning. “Very busy.” She shot Dreyford another smile and was pleased to notice he just grimaced, his eyes on Kurt’s grip of her hand, as well as the way he’d slid his arm over the back of her chair.

  He looked away, and she saw Jonathan Reynolds’ smirk as he did. Cocking a brow at him in challenge, the executive producer just grinned at her and shrugged—he obviously didn’t like Dreyford, either.

  “So, Kurt, what do you think of the script I sent over last night?” that was David Masterson; the director and co-writer of the script based on Kurt’s book. Kurt was helping to produce the movie also.

  “I think it’s almost perfect.”

  Jennifer pouted. “I noticed you cut four of my scenes.”

  Sascha, having read the updated script, harrumphed under her breath. Kurt heard her, and she saw his lips curve faintly. “Well, the story isn’t really about Magdalena, Jennifer. It’s about the Brandeberg family and the situation they’re in.”

  Masterson rolled his eyes. “There are three sex scenes. That should keep the audience happy.”

  Jennifer narrowed her eyes. “We negotiated two.”

  “Originally. Bitch at your agent about that. He agreed with me, and you signed the damn contract.”

  “I wanted more lines,” she countered, outright glowering at him now. Sascha sensed she hadn’t read the contract and had taken her agent’s word on faith.

  Oops.

  “I know you did, but this movie doesn’t call for it. Maybe if we get the funding, the second one will allow us to develop your character more.” But if the faint sneer on his lips was anything to go by, Masterson shared Sascha’s disdain of Jennifer, even if he did like looking at her tits. This had her wondering if this particular casting had involved a couch and a blowjob.

  Ouch.

  Catty.

  Still, if it fit, it fit.

  Reaching for her wine glass, she took a deep sip and tried to pretend this hadn’t been an awkward meal. But pretending didn’t work, and it didn’t get better when Dreyford and Jennifer began sniping at one another, and Reynolds seemed to find it amusing to rile them up even more.

  Forty minutes later, her shoulders felt stiff as a board when Kurt wrapped her in her peacoat. It swirled around her ankles in a way that made her want to twist her hips from side to side to feel the faux fur lining tickle her calves.

  “Did I tell you that you look gorgeous?”

  She grinned at him, loving the taut, lustful expression on his face as he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her lips. She opened her eyes at the last moment as she pulled back from him and saw Jennifer glowering at her over his shoulder.

  Maybe it was stupid, but she smiled like a cat who’d gotten the cream as she turned away from the kiss. Then dismissing the bitch, she curled her arm through Kurt’s as he hauled her into his side.

  “I think, for your patience, you deserve some cake from Rossi’s,” he murmured under his breath as they walked down the silver-lined hallway—this restaurant felt like it was about to take off. Seriously. Could it be anymore sci-fi? The Starship Enterprise had more home comforts than Holly.

  She peered up at him. “Stop reading my mind.”

  He laughed even as he reached down to peck a kiss to her temple. “The minute I saw you looking down at your cauliflower foam, I knew Rossi’s was on the cards.”

  “Let’s say it how it is, Kurt. It was jizz. Vegetable jizz.”

  A snort escaped him as he nodded at the maître d’. The man beamed at him, obviously recognizing the pair of them as they headed toward the door. The minute they did, the bright flash of cameras hit her retina, making her jolt.

  Scanning the crowd in front of her, she wanted to groan with irritation. There were four paparazzi, something she should have expected considering Dreyford and Jennifer Houghton were having lunch with them.

  She sighed and was grateful she’d tucked her face into the high collar of her peacoat as she headed out. It gave her some anonymity. Not much, granted, but enough to hide her features and expose only her eyes, as well as shield her from the bitter day outside—her original intent when she’d dipped her head under the collar’s line.

  Kurt just nodded at them, smiling at men armed with heavy-duty cameras even as his hand tightened about her hip as he guided her past them and out to the grim London day. The leers on their faces were almost sexual. But it wasn’t really. It was a different kind of lust—for money. Greed coated their features until it dripped off their chin like drool.

  Just being in their cameras’ crosshairs made her feel dirty. God, she hated the spotlight.

  Holly was in Mayfair. The exclusive address didn’t impress her. She’d had better food just off Petticoat Lane where the famous market was held. In fact, she’d eaten better street food than she’d had in that damn restaurant, and eating here should have prompted her to realize this could have been a potential outcome. The paps hovered in Mayfair, waiting on celebrities and reality TV stars to fill their pockets and the pages of whatever rag they worked for.

  The brick façades of the buildings were elegant here, rich. Their car was parked just around the corner—a minor miracle—and she was grateful to tuck herself into it because the paparazzi hadn’t stopped herding them—with every clip of her heel against the neat stone sidewalk, she heard them scurrying behind her, clattering as they took shot after shot. At least two of them were trailing at their heels, which made no sense as they would make more money lying in wait for Jennifer and Dreyford. They were the stars, after all.

  She did her best to ignore the press and murmured, “Don’t worry about the car door. Let’s just get out of here.”

  Kurt hummed his agreement, and as she peeked up at his face, she saw the ease on his features, the lack of strain, and realized how good his poker face was. The hand that gripped her own was tight, brimming with tension. But from the outside looking in, he was at ease.

  The fact she was hiding her face would cause comment, but she’d prefer that. Better to be a mystery guest than have her name in the rags. The color of her hair might cause some chatter, but she doubted it. Red was hardly rare now, and speculation was one thing. Confirmed gossip, another.

  Where she was concerned, the men were all gentlemen. No, she didn’t need them to open the car door for her, and no, she didn’t need them to open the door to a restaurant either, but she let them because she loved it. She loved that they thought about that shit, that they were preoccu
pied with her. But now Kurt knew not to waste time opening her car door, so she did it herself once he clicked the alarm on Sean’s Maserati and slipped into the vehicle. The tight confines of her pencil skirt squeaked as she bundled herself into the passenger seat, keeping her face averted just in case the paparazzi tried to get another shot.

  When he clicked the locks, he pressed the ignition button that fired up the engine. The throaty purr seemed to vibrate through the cab. It felt good, even if the chilly confines were anything but. It was cold and by the time they were swerving out of the parking space, the heat had permeated somewhat, the journalists had gone, and she could stop hiding her face.

  “Still want to go to Rossi’s?” Kurt asked, cutting her a look, his hands tightening on the wheel, and she looked at those spatulate hands, studying them a second before she nodded.

  “I don’t see why not. They leave us alone there.”

  “Good. I wanted to go, but wasn’t sure if you would. …”

  “Would what?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if you’d have the energy for it.”

  She frowned, thought about it. “If anything, that horrible meal made me want to go to Rossi’s even more!”

  “Why?” He shot her a quick look, so she could see how he’d cocked his brow.

  “Because it was all bullshit, and that’s not how we work.”

  “No,” he confirmed, and repeated, “That isn’t how we work.”

  “Plus, I deserve every damn calorie I’m about to gorge on.”

  She studied his strong hands as they gripped the wheel again, the fingers tightening with pressure while he drove them through the city. It wasn’t as congested as rush hour, but there were still plenty of cars—enough to make her grateful she wasn’t driving. She loved her Caddy, and took every opportunity to drive Baby, but, equally, it was great not having to have eyes in the back of her head.

  It was also nice having someone chauffeur her from place to place. She was able to relax, while they focused on the nutcases on the road, avoiding anything from angry cabbies to sleek sportscars that were driven by lunatics who thought that because they drove a Lamborghini, they owned the road.