Rekindling Love (British Billionaires Series) (2 page)

Taken aback by the question, she saw him readjust his vision to focus on the traffic. “Maybe one or two,” he confessed roughly.

Giggling, Susan had to pursue the line of questioning. “Don't hold back. Tell me. Perhaps I was in one of the productions you saw.”

“
I liked
Jersey Boys
.”

No surprise there, thought Susan. Coming from an Italian background and given his age, that particular show would've been right up his alley.

“
I wasn't in that. Anything else?”

“
That Abba one.”

“
Mamma Mia
?”

“
Yeah. My wife loved that.”

“
The musical or movie?”

“
Both. I seen 'em both.”

“
Which year?”

“
The musical? Not sure. It was a while back. 2008, I think.”

“
Did you like it or just your wife?” she grilled.

“
It was alright. They had some smashing songs. ‘Dancing Queen’, ‘Fernando’, ‘SOS’, ‘The Winner Takes It All’. I even remember the clubs playing ‘Lay All Your Love on Me’ and ‘Take a Chance on Me’ when I was younger.”

“
You don't give the impression that it was the worst night you've ever had.”

“
As long as it's between you and me, I thought it was fabulous. I could've watched it again and again.”

“
And you saw it in 2008?”

“
Yeah. I remember. It was our thirtieth wedding anniversary. It was a great show and a great night.”

“
That was me,” said Susan humorously.

“
What?”

“
That was me. I played the daughter inviting the three men to her wedding to discover which one was her father. I was Sophie in that production. That's why my face might be familiar to you.”

“
You were blonde in that.”

“
I wore a wig,” enlightened Susan, in reference to her stark black hair.

“
My wife will be thrilled to bits when I tell her I had you in the cab. What's your name?”

“
Susan. Susan-Marie Thompson.”

“
You on stage again?”

“
I am. A new production. It's called
Rekindling Love
. If you want to treat your wife, you should take her. It's a new show. It might not be up to your taste, but if you want to get in her good books, treat her.”

“
Rekindling Love
. It sounds soppy.”

“
It kind of is, but the story is strong and the music is great. No opera, I promise. It's up to date, melodic and has a range of rhythmical beats in it.”

“
Ahh, I'll keep an eye out for it.”

“
Do that. If you do decide to suffer the ordeal on account of making your wife happy, take my agent's card and give him a call. He'll set you up with free tickets. Mention my name and he'll fix it for you.”

“
Thank you, Ms Thompson. I've had my lion’s share of famous people since I've been a cabbie, but none as generous as you.”

“
I'm sure that's not true, but thank you for saying it,” said Susan graciously.

“
This is you right?”

Rolling to stop outside the Neo-classical town house in Manhattan, Susan knew she had to face her father. “This is me. How much do I owe you?”

“
This one's on me. I'll see the show. A favor for a favor.”

“
No way,” said Susan, slipping three $20 bills in his hand after he'd lugged her suitcases to the front door. “If you do see the show, ring the theater to let me know. Perhaps you and your wife would like to go backstage for a drink. I'd love to hear what you think of it.”

Shaking his head at the unaffected young woman, the taxi driver placed her money in her palm.

“
Susan-Marie Thompson. I will not forget that name.”

Watching him enter the cab, Susan skipped neatly to the passenger door, opened it, and tossed the fare on the back seat. Waving goodbye, she could see a smile on his face. It made her own face light up.

Facing her father’s house in the darkness, it was difficult to make out the features. The white color was visible, thanks to the moonlight and clear skies. Dragging her feet up the stairs, she debated on whether or not to use her keys or ring the doorbell. Annoyance flickering across her face, she couldn't believe anyone visiting their father should have to contemplate an issue of this nature. She rang the doorbell.

“
Are you going to come or not?”

Imogen was rapidly getting on her brother's nerves with her incessant insistence he attend a gallery opening. From the kitchen he could hear her pacing the other room, becoming more and more agitated with his vague response.

“
I've been interested in art since when?”

Assessing her brother he was undeniably gorgeous, but his single status was unsurprising to Imogen. He was six feet tall with long lashes flattering his deep-blue eyes. His deliberately shaved black hair was a short scruffy buzz-cut. His face featured the designer stubble, which emphasized his chiseled bone structure. He looked better suited for being a catwalk model than a lawyer. However perfect he was physically, he was an annoyance in terms of personality. He couldn't even commit to a genteel art party, let alone a relationship. He called it “laid-back,” but Imogen called it “disinterest”. No woman would want to attach themselves permanently to a man with no passion.

“
It's not about the art. It's about the socializing.”

“
I'll take you for dinner then,” he said charmingly.

“
That may work on your harem, brother, but it doesn't with me.”

“
What harem?”

Affection swamped her as she stormed into the modern kitchen. Spick-and-span, not an item was out-of-place. Everything from the blender to the toaster was allocated a position and there they would stay until used. Watching her brother, she felt a tad homesick. As much as he loved living in America, Rupert was unable to sacrifice many of the simple things in life the British enjoyed. Kettle on, tea bags in tea cups, Imogen knew he was hoping a discussion over a brew would buy him the minutes needed to conjure an excuse as to why he couldn’t go.

“
Rupert, we are going. This is Jonathan Radmacker's first exhibition in fifteen years. It's history. You need to be part of it.”

“
What kind of a name is Radmacker? That in itself is putting me off. He sounds mad. If he's not, he'll definitely be pretentious or his pictures will.”

“
Art isn't limited to painting, Rupert. Don't be bloody-minded. He's a conceptual artist. Uses a lot of sculpture.”

Rupert repressed a laugh. “I'm seeing abstract bronze busts then?”

“
I said conceptual, not abstract. And sculpture isn't bronze busts. There are loads of materials he'll have spent years assembling and constructing, carving and modeling, depending on what he's chosen to incorporate in the exhibit,” she said, informed from her online browsing.

“
You're not selling it to me.” He placed her tea-cup and saucer on the glass table, alongside a plate or biscuits. Rupert sniffed at the term cookies. Tea and biscuits was a civilized affair.

Imogen sat down on the expensive steel chair, the seat and back rest made of thick perspex, a look-alike of glass. She'd never mention it to Rupert but while stylistic at this precise time, they would age swiftly in terms of interior decoration. Often referring to his kitchen as the “spaceship” because of its sparse, modern high-tech design, she knew within less than eighteen months he'd have to employ someone to update the room to deter people from referring to it as retro or, even worse, gauche.

“
Why can't you ever get in something nice like chocolate chip cookies?” sniffed Imogen, dunking the plain rich tea finger biscuit in her tea.

“
I do, but cookies aren't served with tea, Imogen.”

“
Don't be ridiculous. Why have you got that weird look in your eyes?”

“
No reason,” said Rupert amiably, sitting next to her to sip his own tea.

Remembering when he'd last eaten cookies, he certainly hadn't been civilized. If memory served correct, the last time he served hot chocolate and cookies was to a female companion on the sofa in the living room. They'd ended up back at this very table, but not to dine on.

“
Rupert, it's important to me that you come.”

“
Is it?”

“
Yes,” she huffed.

“
If you don't have a date, I can set you up with a friend,” he proposed.

“
How dare you?” They both cracked up at her shrill indignation.

Squeezing her hand fondly, Rupert had only adoration for his sister. A few years younger than him, his family adopted her after losing twin toddler brothers in a fatal accident. Merely a child, the devastating loss nearly tore his family apart. Billions in the bank, Rupert's father insisted on adopting within weeks of the tragedy. Remembering massive rows between his parents over his alleged insensitivity, Imogen's inclusion in the family unit bought them together. No one could every replace the lost twins. His father wasn't compensating for their absence. A three-year old girl appearing in their house, rejected from an unknown reason by her own parents, touched everybody’s heart. Grief was unable to ruin the family with a tiny, fragile angel in the house needing love and protection. Gone but never forgotten, even Imogen referred to the twins as her brothers taken too abruptly. Respectfully, they continued paying tribute on the twin’s shared birthday and the day of the accident. Rupert knew his little sister saved his family and parent's marriage. Fully occupied raising her, his mother, father, and even himself found the love that Imogen radiated inescapable. She united the fractured parts to rebuild the Locke-Smythes. Rupert was eternally grateful for her. His sister was not only a sibling, but his best friend.

“
If you have a date, why is my presence a necessity?”

“
When did you last go out?”

“
Sunday,” answered Rupert instantly.

“
What did you do?”

“
Had brunch with a friend, then went home to chill out.”

“
Who'd you have brunch with?”

“
Elizabeth.”

“
Did she accompany you home to 'chill out'?” Imogen gesticulated the quotation marks for “chill out, letting her brother know she was aware it was a code word.

“
Are you fishing for details on my sex life, Imogen?”

“
Are you avoiding the question, Rupert?”

“
Yes, she chilled out with me on Sunday.”

“
Before Sunday when did you go out?”

“
What is this, the Spanish inquisition?” Rupert glared.

“
Answer,” said Imogen. Her tone suggested she could have been a valuable asset to the Spanish inquisition.

“
Saturday night. I was clubbing.”

“
Alone?”

“
No.”

“
With who?”

Any normal woman would assume it was Elizabeth if I had breakfast with her on Sunday morning, thought Rupert. Only Imogen was daring enough to force him to face the truth of his not always conservative lifestyle choices.

“
No one,” he finally answered

“
You met someone in the club and you planned to.”

Admiring her interrogation techniques, Rupert was unable to refuse. “Yes, I did. I met up with Mikaylah.”

“
And took her here after, no doubt.”

“
A gentleman never tells,” smirked Rupert.

“
You did, I know. What about Friday night?”

“
Drinks after work. You were there.”

“
I was there alright,” agreed Imogen. “There to watch you whisk your PA's sister from the bar to somewhere else. I'm guessing this flat.”

“
Imogen, I can't conduct an affair within the workplace. My PA is stunning. If I can't have Judith, why not indulge the fantasy and play with Jacqui?”

“
Jacqueline and Judith. Who names their daughters that?”

“
Now you're just being catty,” observed Rupert.

“
Dare I ask what you did on Saturday, during the day?”

“
Hit the gym. Went to New Jersey to take in an American football game. Saw the Giants.”

“
We've been here longer than five years. Are you ever going to call it football?” chided an exasperated Imogen.

“
If I was to do that, I'd have to start calling proper football soccer. Football involves playing with your feet, which is what we do in England. Catching a ball, throwing, running and occasionally kicking it does not scream foot and ball to me.”

“
You head the ball in English football.”

“
Yes, because you can't touch it with your hands. English football focuses on feet and balls, hence the name of the sport. There are no hands involved, otherwise it'd be handball or hand-and-foot ball.”

“
You're a pedant. I call it soccer.”

“
That's because you're a girl and you don't understand the beautiful game,” Rupert taunted in the manner he did as an eight-year-old to his five-year-old sister.

“
Rupert, dad carted me to Chelsea for games at Stanford Bridge as well.”

“
Yes, but you loathed it. I thoroughly enjoyed them.”

“
It's not the point. I call it soccer because that's what the Americans call it, and that's where we live. Why be obtuse and make language a cultural barrier?”

“
You're right, it's not the point. The point is I went to the game with the British lads,” stated Rupert to defer Imogen's imminent lecture.