The Best Man's Bride Page 7

  But from the look of the crowd, most were locals. The older ones had what he tended to think of as that English Country Squire Look – chinos and tattersall shirts. Even the women in their flowery summer frocks looked as if they were extras in those series his mother watched on PBS back home. The younger guys sported skinny jeans with either T-shirts and leather ankle boots or blowsy sorts of shirts that his sister Grace might wear. The girls were frothy or tailored, wore too much make-up or not enough. And they were all damn young. He barely glanced at them.

  The girls saw him, though.

  As soon as they did, he heard one squeal. Another audibly sucked in her breath.

  “It’s him,” a third said loud enough that others heard.

  A sudden stillness settled over the pub. Patrons paused. Looked around. Looked up. Looked at him.

  Jack was used to it, used to being spotted, used to smiling and charming fans. Ordinarily he reckoned that he owed them. They paid his salary, after all. He steeled himself for the onslaught, knowing it was his own damn fault for coming out in public. He should have gone to ground in his room with a bottle and his guitar.

  Then he heard, “Jack! Mate! Over here.”

  This time he dared hope that whoever was calling his name really was calling him. He turned at the sound of a man’s voice, a non-English accent. Something European, but he wasn’t sure what.

  He scanned the room, frowning at a couple dozen unfamiliar faces until at last he saw Jonas’s brother, Nico, at a table in the back of the pub, one hand raised slightly, beckoning to him. Jack started toward him and found his way blocked.

  “I love your music.” A girl was staring up at him, her voice breathless with devotion.

  Jack smiled at her. “Thanks.”

  “Would you – let us take a selfie? Me and my friends?” she asked, her fingers knotted together in front of her bosom as if she were in prayer. “Please?”

  Jack tossed a quick glance in Nico’s direction and nodded his head as if to say: Be right there. But first he dealt with the girl. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s do this. Then I’m meeting a friend.”

  That usually worked. Give his fans what they asked for, and indicate he had a life – and they let him go.

  He put his arms around all three of the girls, then he held out her phone and snapped a succession of pictures. They giggled and tittered, then babbled thank-yous, their cheeks rosy, their eyes alight. “We’ll be at your concert in London,” they promised, practically bouncing on their toes.

  “Great,” Jack said, then nodded and ducked past them, crossing the room to slide gratefully into the chair opposite Nico.

  “The joys of fame,” Nico said wryly and raised his half-empty glass in salute.

  He would know. Nico was the “playboy prince” of San Michele – not the duty-bound eldest brother Carlo or stubborn loner Jonas – but the man whose high-profile exploits, movie-star good looks and chorus line of girlfriends made royal-watchers the world over sit up and take notice.

  “He’s the anti-me,” Jonas had once told Jack, explaining the family dynamics in the royal household. “Carlo does what everyone wants him to. I do nothing anyone wants me to. And Nico does what none of the rest of us dares to do.”

  And the paparazzi noticed.

  Jack looked around again to see if he could spot any reporters hovering.

  Nico shook his head. “They’re preying on Jonas this week. As long as I keep my head down and promise to be boring, they’re leaving me alone. Do the same and they might leave you alone, too.” He shoved back his chair. “I’ll get you a pint.” He stood and paused. “Or do you want something stronger?”

  “A pint,” Jack said. To start.

  He was glad the noise level had picked back up. The patrons were, for the most part, deep in their own conversations again. There were still a couple of young women looking his way. But they were with dates, and Jack dared hope they would concentrate on the men they’d come with and leave him alone.

  “Here you go.” Nico cut back through the crowd and set a pint glass in front of him, then put another down for himself. “It’s warm,” he warned as he dropped into his chair. “Or at least not cold.”

  “I’m used to it.” At least half of the year for the past four years he’d been overseas. He could drink his beer any way it came now. He took a long draught and let it slide slowly down his throat, then he ran his tongue over his lips. “Yes.” It was a hiss of pleasure, a low buzz, something to soften the needle-sharp edge of his nerves.

  Nico smiled faintly, as if he understood, but he didn’t speak, just drank his own without comment. Not until they were on the next round did Nico say anything at all.

  Then he swirled the liquid in his glass, looked up and studied Jack over the top of it. “Thought you’d be at the house.”

  “No.”

  “Too many princesses?” Nico’s mouth twisted.

  “Princesses?” Jack shook his head, confused. He rubbed his thumb against the condensation on the glass.

  Nico thrust a hand through his hair. “Place is crawling with them,” he said roughly. His jaw tightened. “Courtesy of the lovely Anna.”

  Jack contrived to look as if he knew what Nico was talking about. He didn’t have a clue. “Your sister-in-law?”

  “The same,” Nico growled, then took another long swallow. When Jack gave him a blank look, he went on savagely. “She’s determined to set me up! Flinging them at me like bloody confetti. Here, have a princess!”

  Jack couldn’t help but grin. “Rough life.”

  “I don’t need her help finding a wife! Who the hell says I want a wife?” Nico drained his glass then banged it down, making the table jump. He glared at Jack as if it were all his fault.

  Slowly Jack shook his head back and forth and took a more measured sip. “Not me.”

  “Wives are trouble,” Nico snarled. “Anna’s trouble.”

  God knew his own wife was trouble. Except she wasn’t his wife anymore, was she? Jack stared at the bottom of his glass.

  Across the room someone was tuning a guitar. It was still a little flat. More tuning. Yeah, that was better. The guitarist strummed one chord, then another. Jack’s fingers itched to take it from him. He tightened his hold on the glass.

  The guitarist began to play. He had a clean tenor voice to go with it and the song was upbeat, lilting. Some English folk piece with a tune Jack recognized but with words he didn’t know and couldn’t make out above the noise around him. Jack focused on it. Music steadied him.

  Nico kept right on talking. Jack wasn’t listening. Not until he caught the word “Celina.” Then he wasn’t steady at all.

  His head snapped up and he looked hard at Nico. “What did you say? About Celina?”

  “I said your ex is one of the good ones,” Nico told him cheerfully. “She’s a good woman. A keeper.”

  Jack bristled. “And you know this how?”

  “Because I know her. She works for my grandmother. I see her regularly. Talk to her. Dance with her. Take her out to a meal. A concert.”

  Jack’s jaw went tight. His fingers strangled the glass.

  Nico noticed. “Oh.”

  Yes. Oh. Jack looked daggers at him.

  Nico leaned back in his chair and brought his glass to his lips. “She’s there,” he said. “I’m there. That’s all.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed.

  Nico shrugged wryly. “Well, and we went out with Jonas and Hope once. Once,” he repeated. “I thought Jonas might be preoccupied with Hope,” he added, then grimaced. “Didn’t do any good. Jonas can multi-task. Who knew?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack growled.

  “Means he told me she didn’t need me sniffing around, making her life difficult. Jonas can actually talk when he sets his mind to it.”

  “Good for him.” Jack thought he might actually feel grateful.

  “And Celina wasn’t interested.”

  Jack looked up quickly, his gaze probing N
ico’s face. “In you?”

  The other man shrugged. “Some women just don’t recognize a good man when they see one.” Nico settled back in his chair and slanted a grin at Jack.

  Jack knew he was being needled. He could usually brush it off, play it cool. Not tonight.

  “Just saying,” Nico went on when Jack didn’t reply. He took a swallow of his beer, then, because he apparently had a death wish, went on. “I can’t believe you two broke up. You get a good one, mate, you don’t let go.”

  Goaded, Jack snapped. “I wasn’t the one who let go!”

  Nico’s brows lifted. “Ah.”

  Jack grunted. He swirled the beer in his glass and stared into it. The guitarist began playing minor chords now, then plucked a plaintive melody that dug at Jack’s soul.

  “You want her back?” Nico asked.

  Jack just looked at him.

  “So, she’s fair game?”

  Jack slapped his glass down on the table. “No, she damned well is not!”

  “Ah.” Nico leaned back in his chair, regarding Jack across the table, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Thought it might be like that.”

  Jack fixed Nico with a hard glare. “Leave her the hell alone.”

  “How does she feel about that?” Nico wondered.

  Jack gave an uncomfortable shrug. “I just saw her today for the first time in two years,” he admitted.

  Nico had been tipping back in his chair, but at Jack’s words all four legs of the chair hit the floor and he leaned forward to stare. “Two years? Hell, man, what is wrong with you?”

  Jack ground his teeth. He didn’t explain.

  So Nico put his own interpretation on it. “Oh, right.” Nico snorted. “I forgot. You’ve got every girl between the ages of thirteen and a hundred and three smitten with you.”

  Even in the heat of the pub, Jack felt a burn across his cheekbones. “Not quite.”

  “Close enough.” Nico contemplated the notion. “Must be nice being you.”

  “Says the playboy prince.”

  Nico looked offended. “Not as easy as you might imagine.” His fingers tapped a sharp tattoo on the tabletop for a long moment. Then he shoved himself to his feet. “Another round?”

  “Why not?”

  If he went back to the manor now, he’d go looking to see the light on in her room and be tempted to go up there. Or if it wasn’t on, he’d wonder where the hell she was. And with whom. Better to stay right here.

  When Nico returned with the next round of beers, he wasn’t alone. A tall, lean unsmiling blond guy in a suit and tie was following him. “Found him at the bar,” Nico said cheerfully. “Fredrik Jensson, head of palace security.” He introduced the other man, then nodded at Jack, “Jonas’s best man, Jack Masterson, God’s gift to music and the man all women are hot for.”

  Jensson’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. “All women?”

  “All but one.” Nico grinned. He slid into the chair closest to the wall and kicked out the extra chair to Jensson who sat down but didn’t appear to relax a bit. One leg bent easily, but the other stuck out as if he intended to trip someone. His back was ramrod straight and his knuckles were white as he clasped a glass containing something clear and sparkling in it.

  “Which one?” Jensson asked now. “Which woman?” he clarified as if the answer mattered to him.

  Jack scowled.

  But Nico was clearly enjoying himself. “His ex-wife.”

  “Drop it,” Jack growled.

  But Nico shook his head. “My grandmother’s PA. Celina,” he clarified for Jensson’s benefit.

  The other man’s eyes widened fractionally, then narrowed as they focused on Jack. “So you’re Celina’s ex?” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

  Jack’s jaw jutted. He straightened. “What’s it to you?”

  “She’s my friend. We went out a couple of times,” he added, making Jack’s own back stiffen.

  “Past tense?” he demanded.

  Jensson hesitated for a moment, as if considering his answer. At last he nodded. “I would say so, yes.” His voice was clipped, proper, and as disapproving as the look he fixed on Jack. Though what, exactly, he was disapproving of, Jack had no idea.

  His fingers left the glass on the table and curled into fists. Jensson’s gaze went straight to them. For a moment he thought he might have the pleasure of knocking Jensson’s block off. That was fine with him. Jack wouldn’t mind a punch-up right now, even with a guy who looked hard as nails. The adrenaline had been simmering since he’d spied Celina in the manor house that afternoon. He needed a release. Badly.

  But Jensson didn’t oblige. His jaw worked a moment, but then he took another slow sip of whatever the hell he was drinking. Then he said, “You’re the rock star.”

  He didn’t look like a fan. Jack bit back a smile and didn’t reply. If Jensson was the head of security, he knew that already. Just because they’d never met –

  “Has Alice Parker spoken to you?” The question came out of the blue and wasn’t quite as casual as Jensson probably intended it to be.

  “Who?”

  “Alice – Ally – Parker,” Jensson corrected himself. “She’s one of the bridesmaids. A friend of Jonas’s intended. Also a journalist. She’s doing some diary of the wedding. For publication.” He didn’t sound as if he approved of her, either.

  Jack knew all about journalists – the good and the bad. Sometimes the ugly. He also knew Jonas and – to some extent – Hope. If Hope was having this Ally Parker as a bridesmaid and Jonas had agreed to her doing a diary of the wedding, Jack figured that whoever Ally Parker was, she was all right.

  Watching Jensson grind his teeth, though, was entertaining. Speculating on why was more so.

  “She’s doing a wedding diary? She’ll make a mint,” Jack said cheerfully. “More power to her.”

  Nico’s eyes widened. His brows lifted. “You’re a friend of the paparazzi now?”

  “She’s not a pap!” Jensson snapped.

  Ah. Jack grinned. So for whatever reason, the palace head of security had Ally Parker under his skin. Jack took a long swallow of his beer, relishing someone else being on the hot seat for a change. Misery did love company.

  “Good to know.” He nodded enthusiastically. “South Face is going on tour again after the wedding. I haven’t talked to anyone else about it. If she’s not a pap, I wouldn’t mind talking to her.”

  Jensson looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Because she’s a journalist,” Jack said patiently. “A good one, I presume.”

  “Of course,” Jensson bit out.

  Jack nodded. “Good. Then she’s worth talking to.”

  “Only because she’s a journalist,” Jensson pressed him. “Not for any other reason.”

  Jack was tempted to bait him a little more, but he wouldn’t want Jensson interfering in his business with Celina, so he simply nodded.

  “You’re giving her a scoop?” Jensson seemed determined to make sure.

  “If she wants. Send her along. Or don’t.” Jack shrugged when Jensson’s back stiffened further. “No skin off my nose.”

  He drained his beer and shoved back his chair, feeling oddly invigorated. Celina might have gone out with both of these guys, but she wasn’t going out with them now. Nico hadn’t hinted that she was going out with anyone. And that meant ...

  Jack wasn’t sure exactly what it meant, but he meant to find out. “I’m heading back. It’s a long walk.”

  “Driver’s picking me up at eleven,” Nico said. “You’re welcome.”

  But Jack shook his head. “No, thanks. I can use the air. I’ve got things to do.”

  “Do?” Nico looked just a little apprehensive.

  “People to see. Places to go,” Jack said cavalierly. “See you tomorrow.” He nodded at Jensson. “Good to meet you.”

  Jensson glanced up, but at that moment his mobile phone must have rung because he pulled it out of his pocket. “Je
nsson.” His voice was low and terse, and whatever the other person said, it made his brow furrow.

  “Sucks to be him,” Jack said sotto voce to Nico. He probably didn’t even need to lower his voice. There was plenty of noise in the pub and Jensson wasn’t paying attention at all. He was intent on the phone call, alert and edgy, ready for action. Like a Doberman.

  Shaking his head, Jack turned and made his way toward the door. It wasn’t an easy exit. He posed for half a dozen more selfies on his way out of the pub, determinedly cheerful, being polite. He declined a request to play ‘just one song’ with a regretful smile.

  “Come again, love,” one of the barmaids sang out as he left.

  Jack wondered if he’d have company, people wanting to walk with him on the way back to the manor. But Weston Foliat wasn’t a big city where people thought they had a right to a guy’s privacy apparently. He was pleased to find that before he reached the end of the village, he was on his own. The walk back was long and dark. He didn’t mind. He had things to think about. Plans to make.

  Chapter Five

  Recipe for a sleepless night.

  Take one small room, one comfortable bed, and add the vision of Jack Masterson sprawled on it, looking like sex for the asking. Stir in the scent of soap and something purely yet indefinably Jack that lingered on the pillowcase every time she pressed her cheek to it, and all those memories of Jack in other beds, and Celina didn’t sleep a wink all night.

  Going out with Hope and Ally and Flora should have taken the edge off. She should have had a lovely evening filled with laughter and wine and stories to distract her. And indeed the evening had been lovely. There had been lots of laughter and wine, and she came away from the little gothic summer house feeling as if she could have three good friends if she wanted them.

  And she did want them.

  Even if they were far away physically most of the time, she vowed to keep in touch. And she would.

  She smiled as she thought about them, remembering the stories they’d told, remembering the story she had told them.