Then a footman or someone walked by with little Chandler, urging him to do his business, but the baby collie-mix didn’t mind the rain. There were interesting smells in the grass.
Turning back to her room, she tried to think what she wanted to do today. John had meetings but in a hushed, emotional whisper, he asked her to attend the ball Thursday evening at the end of the summit.
She said yes almost before he finished asking. The feel of his chest beneath her cheek, the pump of his heartbeat in her ear, the warm embrace of his arms… She could deny him nothing.
In truth, she should pack her bags and run home. She was falling for him. But she could never let go, never tell him the truth. She was too ashamed.
Even after a night in the light, she never wanted John to know what she’d done on that Vegas stage. It would change how he looked at her and that she could not bear.
She heard a sound beyond her bedroom. A maid called out, saying she’d brought breakfast.
“Thank you.” Gemma tied on the provided robe, complete with the queen’s cypher, and made her way to the trolley.
She could tell John she couldn’t go to the ball after all. Make up an excuse to go home. But oh, a royal ball with a royal prince. It was too much to pass up. But really, she shouldn’t risk it. If her videos got out, she’d not only embarrass herself but her family, Prince John, and the House of Blue.
Where was the freedom she felt a mere ten hours ago? The sense she was no longer the woman who sold her soul for thirty pieces of silver. She was fresh and new.
Pouring a cup of tea then buttering a crumpet, Gemma sat at the dining table. “What do I do?” She swallowed. “God?”
One bite into her crumpet an idea hit and she stepped lively for her phone. After several rings, Matt Biglow’s crumpled voice answered.
“Gemma?”
“Are you asleep?”
“Yeah, it’s two in the morning.”
Gemma glanced at the large, round clock on the wall of her suite. Ten o’clock in Port Fressa was two in the morning in L.A.
“Sorry. I’ll call you later.”
“I’m awake now. What do you want? I’ve tried to call and text you, but you never answer.”
“I blocked you.” She crossed the plush beige-and-gold carpet back to her breakfast.
“Six years together and that’s how you treat me?” he said. “Blocked.”
“Do you really want to talk about how we’ve treated each other?”
“Right, go ahead, what do you want?”
“I want an honest answer. Don’t mess with me. I won’t get mad or anything. Okay?”
“Depends. Will it incriminate me?”
“Where are the Vegas show files?”
After her accident, the producer dropped them like a hot potato, along with the cable channel, but Matt had uploaded an episode—the worst one as far as Gemma was concerned—on video sites, hoping the show would go viral and get network or streaming service attention.
“Destroyed,” he said without pause. “A virus burned up my hard drive. I lost five years of work. I told you all of this in a text. But I guess it was blocked.”
“You’re telling me the shows, all of them, are gone?” She’d anticipated a battle with him but this was going splendidly. If the shows were gone, she was free. Safe. Herwhat-ifsperished.
“What’s this about, Gemma?”
“I met someone. He’s just a friend but he invited me to a rather public event.”
“Are you talking about Prince John? He’s the one who answered your phone, wasn’t he?”
