Managed: A VIP Novel Part 6

"You're not going to try to talk Ms. James out of hiring me, are you?" I ask when he hangs up with Jules.

"Because we spent time together on the plane, you mean?" His brow lifts as his lips flatten. "I'd be a right prat if I did."

"Your words, not mine."

"Are you saying you think I'm a prat?" He appears so honestly offended, even a bit hurt, that I instantly feel tiny and petty.

"No, no. I'm sorry. I don't know what the h.e.l.l I'm saying." I wave a hand because I can't stay still. "I'm fl.u.s.tered. It's not every day you antagonize your prospective employer for hours on end."

A small smile creeps up along the outer corners of his eyes. "Yes, well, technically I'm not your employer. Brenna and I are partners of a sort. But I'll take note of your remorse."

"Remorse implies I did something wrong. This is more awkward embarra.s.sment."

The smile moves to his mouth, pulling at it. But he won't let it unfurl. I wonder if I'll ever see this man smile with ease. I wonder how long I'll even know him. My chances of landing a job in a business that he's a part of feels slim. I'm not the b.u.t.ton-down type.

"You're still not going to tell me what you do?" I ask.

"You could Google my name or Brenna's at any time." He gestures toward my handbag with a tilt of his arrogant, stubborn chin. "So go on then. Pull out your phone and check."

Oh, I'm tempted. So very tempted. But it feels like cheating somehow. "Maybe I want you to trust me enough to tell me."

A soft scoffing noise escapes him. "It isn't a matter of trust. I hardly consider this a secret since you're going to find out soon enough. It is a matter of respecting Brenna's somewhat overzealous but apparently adamant desire to keep you uninformed until the time of the interview."

I flop back against the leather seat with a huff. "You're right. I'll respect her wishes too. But this just means I'll have to use my imagination."

"No doubt you'll have me pegged as an international spy by the time we arrive," he deadpans, though amus.e.m.e.nt glints in his eyes.

"Hey, I only thought that once."

The corner of his lip twitches, and then his phone chimes. He glances down at it before tapping out a message.

"Is that Brenna?"

"Chatty and nosey." He doesn't look up from his phone. "A winning combination."

"You love it," I counter with false bravado. Nerves are starting to make me jumpy. And I'm seriously considering poking him right now just to get an answer-something I think he knows because he glances my way, and that stern expression of his returns.

"Yes, that was Brenna. I informed her I had the package on board and ready for delivery."

"Har."

He turns toward me in his seat, leaning against the corner, his big body sprawled like some Armani ad come to life. All that harsh male beauty focuses on me; it's like being under stage lights-exposing, blinding, hot.

I try not to squirm. I wonder if I'll ever be able to look at him without being rendered breathless and mushy-brained.

Thankfully, our stare-off is broken when the car pulls up before a small hotel with an una.s.suming front. The door is Victorian style with glossy green paint, cut-gla.s.s windows, and a simple black awning to protect visitors from rainfall. It looks clean and cute but not like a place I imagine Gabriel Scott, with his perfectly tailored clothes and crisp mannerisms, would stay. There isn't even a doorman. Gabriel is definitely the doorman-needing type.

Even so, we're here. I smooth my hands down my plain black yoga pants. Christ, I should have dressed up for the plane ride. I can't even remember what interview outfit I brought. Will it work? Will Brenna be waiting for us now that Gabriel's alerted her? I thought I had until tomorrow morning before I'd meet her.

"Sophie," Gabriel says, his deep voice even and low. "You're fretting over nothing."

"I'm not fretting."

One eyebrow lifts, challenging me.

I pluck at the edge of my shirt. "Okay, maybe a little worrying is occurring."

"You'll fit in fine. Perfectly, actually." He frowns as if this bothers him.

Or maybe he's placating me. "If she's at all like you-"

"She's not." He straightens and adjusts his cuffs. It's a tick. But I don't know what he has to be nervous about. "None of them are like me. You'll love them."

I want to ask who "they" are. But I don't like the implication he's made about himself. "I like you fine," I tell him.

"Well, good." He knocks on the window. The driver opens the door, clearly having been waiting for Gabriel's signal. "If all goes well, you'll be seeing a lot more of me."

He does not make it sound like a reward.

Last night, after Gabriel made certain I'd been properly checked in-he refused to leave me at the curb and was affronted that I'd a.s.sumed he would-I was so tired, I stumbled into my room and crawled under the covers.

I didn't sleep a wink, which was annoying, but it was dark, and the sounds of traffic coming through the ma.s.sive, old windows reminded me of home, so I was content just to lie there.

Now, in the light of day, I'm dressed in my favorite '60s-style teal sheath dress with three-quarter-length sleeves. Black b.u.t.tons run down one thigh and a flirty little black ruffle dances along the hem. I'm wearing black kitten heels and my hair is in a chignon.

I could have gone for something more conservative, but that would be a lie. I'm not conservative and never will be. And really, if Brenna James hires me to run her social media campaign and be a photographer, I'll be in my jeans more than anything else.

I dither in front of the mirror for as long as I dare, then make my way down to the lounge. The hotel is an old, Victorian, four-story townhouse. The staircase is narrow with worn wood risers that creak under my feet. There's a tiny claustrophobic elevator that I used last night when the porter brought my bags up.

I'm on the fourth floor, and the lounge is on the second. It's done up like a cla.s.sic gentleman's club with various leather arm chairs set around small wooden tables. Emerald silk wallpaper meets white wainscoting, and subdued conversation rises from small groups having their breakfast.

I'm supposed to meet Brenna in an hour. And though I'm not hungry, I manage to order coffee after asking the waitress to decipher the menu. Apparently, I need a flat white, since I'm not in the mood for a frothy cappuccino.

"Why does it say no pictures at the bottom of the menu?" I ask the waitress as she sets down my coffee.

"This is a private club," she says in a thickly Eastern European accent, "for entertainment professionals. The members want to feel comfortable eating without the threat of someone taking their picture."

I glance around with wide eyes and spot a woman who I swear is an up-and-coming singer. She's eating with a man; they're snuggled up and laughing quietly. I can't see his face, but there's something familiar about the way he holds himself. Or I just might be spinning castles now.

"A club? Really?"

"Mostly music, stage, and screen," the waitress tells me blandly. "And some footballers, I think."

After that, I can't concentrate. I drink my creamy coffee and hear s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation around me: a doc.u.mentary producer lamenting his inability to find a proper narrator, a record exec mentioning heading to the studio to work on a new alb.u.m, a television reporter whining to his agent about his contract.

I have to wonder (again) who it is I'm interviewing to work with. An actor? Is Gabriel an agent too? I could see him doing that with ease. Or maybe he works for a movie studio.

I'm so engrossed in shameless eavesdropping and speculating about Gabriel that I don't notice the stylish woman until she's at my table, pulling out a free chair.

"Hey," she says. "I'm Brenna. Or Brian." She laughs. "Scottie told me the jig was up with my secret ident.i.ty."

Brenna James is tall, thin, and severely pretty with honey-red hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She's dressed in a gorgeous copper-colored suit and sky-high turquoise heels.

"G.o.d, that's a cute dress." She plops down in the chair opposite me. "Is it wrong to want to hire you based on that dress alone?"

"I wouldn't complain," I say, shaking her hand. "But feel free to ask me more questions if you must."

"I know we're supposed to meet in thirty minutes, but I saw you sitting here and thought it'd be rude not to come over." She gives me a wide smile that makes her appear impish. "Forgive me for intruding?"

"It's no problem at all." I signal the waitress before asking Brenna, "You said Scottie. Do you mean Gabriel?"

Her mouth falls open as if I've slapped her. "Um...yes. Gabriel Scott. Everyone calls him Scottie."

"Oh, I didn't realize."

She leans in, her eyes wide and curious. "He, ah, gave you his first name?"

Is it some kind of dire secret? I'm veering back toward them being international spies. And I'm only half-joking. "Well, getting him to give me his name was like pulling teeth, but yes."

This seems to placate her because she relaxes in her seat and, after ordering a pot of coffee, black, surveys me with a discerning eye.

"Would you like to view my portfolio?" I ask, handing over the thick leather case I brought along with me.

But she waves me off. "No need. I viewed your work before asking you here."

"Of course." Heat flushes my cheeks. "Sorry, I'm a bit nervous."

She touches my hand. "Don't be. You survived the trip sitting next to Scottie. That's the biggest trial by fire."

I eye her warily. "Did you put me in that seat? I thought I'd been b.u.mped, but now I'm not so sure."

The waitress arrives with her coffee, and Brenna is quick to pour herself a cup.

"Of course I did." She takes a sip and sighs with appreciation before turning her sharp gaze on me. "As an enticement to working for us. Not so you'd have to deal with him. I'm not cruel."

"I didn't realize it would be a cruelty."

"Well, most people wouldn't, until he opens his mouth and eviscerates a poor soul with a few words."

I have to smile at that. "I don't know if he even has to speak. That glare of his would probably do the trick."

"But you survived," she says again, staring at me as if I'm a rare bird.

A weird sort of protectiveness rises up in me. Not that Gabriel needs it, but I can't stop myself from defending him. "I had fun."

Her red brow wings up at that. "Fun?"

There's so much skepticism in her voice, she's practically choking on it.

"It was a lovely flight," I a.s.sure. "Thank you for putting me in first cla.s.s. I'll never forget it."

She clears her throat. "Yes, well, that's...good. I'm glad. Ah, anyway, I figured Scottie would have that divider panel up before his fine a.s.s. .h.i.t the leather."

I don't mention the broken panel.

Brenna glances at her phone. "The guys are ready. Shall we head to the interview now?"

Nerves flutter to life in my belly. "Guys? There's a group interviewing me?"

"More or less." She gives me a small smile. "You'll see. Come on. We have a private room set up."

"Okay." My legs are suddenly wobbly as I stand. "Is Gabriel going to be there as well?"

A small part of me doesn't want him to witness this. I don't know if I'll be able to concentrate under his laser gaze. But the needier, base part of me wants to see him again. He's familiar. And oddly, I feel confident when he's around.

Brenna halts a step. "Yes, Gabriel will be there." We walk a few paces before she glances at me from under her lashes. "Though, maybe call him Scottie from now on."

"Why?" I don't get the nickname or why someone like Gabriel would allow it. Scottie doesn't fit him at all. Scottie is a dude who yells, "We need more time, Captain!" Not an impeccably dressed man who looks like a male model and speaks like an ornery duke.

Brenna's heels click on the floor as she guides us to a back room. "It's what everyone in the business calls him. Honestly, I haven't I've heard anyone refer to him as Gabriel for years."

I'm glad I didn't tell her I also called him Sunshine. She'd probably up and die on me. Or maybe I'd lose the job. I decide not to talk about Gabriel aka Scottie any more than necessary from now on.

We enter a room, and a group of men turn our way en ma.s.se. My first thought is that maybe Gabriel and Brenna run a modeling agency, because they're all gorgeous in their own way. But then I really look at them, and horror hits me with a cold slap. I know these guys. I know them well.

Kill John. The biggest rock band in the world. My eyes flit over them. Their expressions range from welcoming to mildly curious to s.e.xually interested. Rye Peterson, the ba.s.sist, ma.s.sively muscled and boyishly handsome, gives me an open grin. Whip Dexter, the drummer, nods politely. Jax Blackwood, the infamous guitarist and sometime singer is the curious one, though he doesn't seem upset.

I shy away from his green gaze, feeling ill and unsteady on my feet.

Then there's Killian James. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression. He stood as we entered, his head c.o.c.king as if trying to place me.

My heart starts to pound. f.u.c.k. I need to get out of here.

I take a step back and collide with a body. The scent of expensive cologne and fine wool hits my nostrils.

"Going the wrong way, chatty girl," Gabriel murmurs in my ear, gently nudging me forward.

But I need to escape.