Page 38

I straighten my shirt before answering the door. The PA, her ear piece in place, wearing comfortable clothing and simple pony tail, is waiting. She holds out a coffee cup for me. "Good morning," she says brightly.

"Morning," I grin, not even trying to hide the good humor I'm in. "Want to come in?"

She glances at her smart watch. How many steps a day does she take? I bet it's over ten thousand. A flash of her circling her small hotel room to complete her daily goal enters my mind. I swallow, something twisting in me. "They need you downstairs in twenty. Did you have breakfast?"

I glance back into the suite. Julian has gone into the bedroom, probably getting dressed. The door opens, and he steps out. God, he looks good. In his tuxedo from last night, his finger-fucked hair twisted over those sparkling blue eyes, his bow tie hanging loose, jacket in hand. Those glorious hard planes of his chest, the rounded perfection of his shoulders, are visible through the fine material of his white shirt.

Seeing me watching him, Julian grins, those damn dimples practically making me tremble. Sandra makes a small sound of surprise but does not comment. "I've got to run to my room, love," he says. "See you later."

He leans over and gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek, lingering just long enough for the stubble around those silky lips to rub me just right.

"Morning, Sandra,” he says, his voice husky.

She checks her watch again. "You've got thirty-five," she says, all business.

He grins at her. "Thanks.” He steps out of the suite, throwing me one last heated glance. Jesus, he is something else.

"So, breakfast?" she says, once he's out the door.

I have to clear my throat. "Yeah, sure.”

"Great." She pulls out her phone and speaks quietly to someone. Moments later, a waiter arrives with enough food to feed half the cast. I sip at the coffee and have a hard-boiled egg, my appetite not focused on food this morning.

We head down to the interview rooms, with their gold paisley carpet and comfortable looking chairs, posters from the movie arrayed around them. The makeup artist works quickly, the hairdresser pulling my hair into a casual ponytail that takes thirty minutes to perfect. My makeup—which makes me look like I wake up this way—takes another forty.

By the time I'm under the lights and miked up, my high from last night is starting to wear off, and the drudgery of the press tour is crowding back in. “Last day,” I remind myself under my breath.

By this time tomorrow, I'll be back in my apartment. I can't wait to see Archie.

Sandra enters, holding the door open. My heart leaps into my throat when Temperance follows her in. His eyes meet mine, and I swallow, forcing a calm, pleasant expression onto my face. I stand to greet him. "Greg Martin, forEntertainment China—an English-language publication for the big ex-pat community,” the PA says.

"Thank you," I say, holding out my hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Martin."

"Call me Greg," Temperance says, his accent British today.

"Greg, then." I turn toward my chair, taking the moment with my back turned to suck in a deep breath and relax.

Sandra’s walkie-talkie crackles, and she excuses herself, so that it's just Temperance and me. He takes the reporter’s chair, one long leg crossed over the other as he pulls out a small notebook and a pair of glasses. Perching the spectacles on his nose, he smiles at me.

I'm staring, waiting,desperateto know how he will proceed. "How are you feeling?” he asks.

"Good, you?" My voice is tentative; I'm not sure where he is going with this. I have so many questions but am afraid to ask any of them.

"Great, you did a wonderful job."

"Did I?"

"Perfection." He's practically purring.

"Is he..." I chew on my lip for a moment…do I want to know? I drop my voice to a whisper. "Dead?"

"Don't worry about Vlad; that's not your job."

I stiffen. "I'm going to find out. It's natural that I want to know."

He smiles. "So true. You're good at this. You'll need to find out through regular channels though. How would I know?" He waves his pen up and down his body, referencing his facade of a reporter.

"Okay," I say, brows bunching. "So what are you doing here?"