Page 8

But could I have done it without Temperance Johnson? Probably not. Beating your first director to death—with his own Oscar no less—is the kind of thing that makes others shy away from working with you. No matter how much the director deserved it.

Crossing one leg over the other, I meet Temperance’s waiting gaze.

"How can I help you?" I ask, keeping my voice light, as if I'm only mildly interested.

The crystal tumbler looks almost small cradled in his large hands. "I need you to deliver something for me."

I sip my seltzer. The headache throbbing behind my eyes is starting to form talons. In the last few years Temperance has only asked that I listen and report back to him on all the rumors swirling in my world. He’s directed me to attend parties, to accept roles.

“You need me to deliver something?" I prompt when he doesn't continue.

"You'll be in England for the press tour. You'll attend a party hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Balmoral for the Globe Kids Trust. I need you to give something to the Duchess."

I blink a few times. I'm not surprised Temperance knows about my connection to the Globe Kids Trust—a nonprofit associated with the famous Globe Theatre in London that gives access to theater training to underprivileged youth. When I set up something similar, though much less prestigious, in my home town, their program director was very generous in sharing insights with my team.

Victoria Elizabeth, the Duchess of Balmoral, is a major supporter of the Globe Kids Trust. She's always had an interest in the theater. Her husband was an actor before giving up his career when he married into the royal family. Benjamin Arthur isn't the first one of my profession to sidestep into royalty.

The news here is I'll be attending an event that, to my knowledge, I have not been invited to yet. Before the gunfire at my premiere, my schedule wouldn't have allowed for it.

A tickling at the back of my neck makes me wonder if the attack on the theater last night was somehow orchestrated to revise my schedule, allowing me to act as Temperance's courier.

Silence draws out. Should I say it? Or just let it go? “That’s convenient for you,” I say, broadening my smile.We are in on the same joke.

His eyebrows go up.I don’t get your meaning.

“My schedule changing the way it has, works out for you.” I push the point.

He shakes his head a little and drops his gaze to his glass, as if just now understanding my meaning. A soft sigh eases out of him.Now I’ll have to say something I didn’t want to say.“I did warn you.”

The ridges of cut crystal dig into my hand as I tighten my grip on the glass. He warned me not to accept this role. Warned that it would make me a target.

“I don’t regret it.”I had to do something.

“Yet,” he says, his eyes rising to mine. There is sympathy in the swirling depths. “You don’t regret it yet.” Temperance isn’t threatening me. He’s warning me. Again.

I don’t respond. Can’t. Have nothing to say. Nowhere to go. No one different to be.

Temperance reaches into his pocket, all casual predator. He leans forward to lay something on the glass coffee table. It’s bronze and round with a coiled chain. I resist the urge to scoot to the edge of my chair and get a better look. It looks like an old pocket watch from where I’m sitting.

Silence descends. The ocean crashes against the shore. "Is there anything else?"

Temperance shakes his head. He leaves his glass on the coffee table and rises. I settle deeper into my seat, sipping my drink. "I guess you can see yourself out, then." My tone is droll.You showed yourself in, after all.

He offers me a subtle yet infuriatingly arrogant smile in return. "Yes, of course."

His unannounced presence was all just a mind fuck. A reminder of who holds the power. As if I could forget. Tears of rage burn my eyes but I blink, forcing my body back under control, taking a slow breath and letting a satisfied smile spread across my lips.

You wasted your time, I'm not intimidated by you.I know my body does things to yours that you can't control. You're not the only one with power in this room.

Temperance ascends the stairs out of the sunken living room, his broad shoulders square. He crosses the marble entry to the towering front doors, his shoes quiet on the hard surface.

The door he chooses closes behind him with a soft thud and a second later the lock automatically thunks into place.

I take a few breaths, looking at the closed doors, then stand. Crossing to the coffee table, I put my glass down next to Temperance’s and pick up the object he left.

The chain uncoils as I lift it. The whole thing is smooth bronze, no inscriptions or decorations. There is a button at the top and when I press it the lid pops up, revealing a compass. I run my thumb over the glass protecting the face.

Slipping it into my back pocket, I stride purposefully into the west wing of the house, my heels clicking a sharp staccato. It’s time to deal with Ash.