Rekindling Love (British Billionaires Series) (4 page)

Falling into Dylan's hug was exactly what Susan was in need of. His arms were comforting, his chest broad, and their shared history one that would bind their friendship no matter the distance or time passing between each meeting.

“
Susan-Marie, back in town and back on Broadway.”

“
Did you think I'd be a no-show?” she demanded of her old school friend and American agent.

“
I did wonder.”

Stepping backward, Dylan took her in. Stunning. Raven black shoulder-length hair, layered to accentuate her cheek bones, sea-green eyes and pink, round button-shaped lips. She remained as visually striking as she had at school. Her figure, though, had not. The puppy fat she'd lost years ago. A harsh truth, thinner opened the door for more roles on Broadway for her. He guessed she must work out regularly from her toned figure. Voluptuous, rather than waif-like, she was everything a woman should be. Dressed in jeans and an unusual hot-pink shirt of a band he'd never heard of, Susan retained an air of elegance and money, as opposed to someone dressing younger than their age.

“
Stop staring at me like that!”

“
Sorry. I was only thinking how beautiful you are.”

“
Right back at ya, Dylan,” she said sincerely.

At five foot eleven, his soft features gave him an impish look. White-blonde, medium length hair, his style combined with his formal fashion had Susan wondering why he worked behind the scenes. His looks were perfect for the stage. She took in the tight black trousers and tighter black shirt, rolled up to his elbows. It was as if his clothes were one size too small. The effect accentuated every aspect of his stocky, but strong, physique.

“
How is it you're not opposite me on stage?” she took hold of a hand to spin him for a full twirl of his compact, defined frame.

“
Inability to sing, dance or act.”

“
Oh I remember now,” she laughed. “Regretfully your talents are best suited off stage.”

“
My talent is recognizing a talent. Then I skim money from their earnings to make a salary for myself.”

“
Don't knock it,” said Susan. “If it wasn't for you I'd have never got my feet on the professional ladder of this industry. I think of some of the other people you work on behalf of it and it's amazing what you've done. People love the artists you represent. Discovering them and promoting them engenders happiness from the fans. That's a cool contribution derived from your efforts. I'm proud of your work and more proud to be represented by you.”

Susan always knew how to say the right thing and mean it. Dylan felt his ego inflating.

“
How is it you manage to stay grounded, Susan-Marie Thompson?”

“
I chose my friends wisely. You'd never let me get a big head. It's not like I will ever forget my humble beginnings.”

An awkward silence opened. They never discussed school much, least of all her experiences there.

“
How are things with your dad?” asked Dylan, recovering the affable atmosphere.

“
As expected. Contented I'm working and pursuing my goals. Insistent I do it his way. I foolishly thought he might meet me at the airport. I've not seen him for three years, but he was a no-show. I've no idea why I was disappointed. He's never led me to expect any change in his behavioral patterns”

“
Coming home is hard?”

“
Yes.”

“
Because you feel unloved by him not bothering to journey to the airport to welcome you back?”

“
I can't be unfair. I know he loves me in his own way. It's just not an easy way to accept. He thinks if you're in a production you stick with it, work with it and it must become your whole life. Because I'm over here with a show he sees himself as surplus to requirement. If I'm honest, he thinks my wanting to visit him is an excuse for me to avoid my commitments to the show. When I turned up, I thought he was going to go straight for my jugular.”

“
I didn't realize it was that bad.”

Susan spun her chair to take in the view of Broadway from the serviced offices Dylan rented. Clean, modern, simple and conventional, it suited Dylan's needs. His necessities only encompassed a desk, laptop, phone and spare seat or two for the artists he represented. It wouldn't be cheap renting here though. The technological facilities were modern and first-rate. The fittings were on the ordinary side. Though the furniture was new, it was made of an indeterminate wood. The wooden desk and shelves were complimented by black office chairs. Had it not been for the posters he'd set up, mostly of her Broadway appearances, it would've been drab. It was the partially panoramic view of Broadway that would hike up the costs he had would pay for leasing the tiny office.

“
It wasn't great. He was contented to hear I'm 'living' with the London component of the cast.”

“
As in Callum rented somewhere nearby to your apartment,” clarified Dylan.

“
He did.”

“
Is he coming Wednesday evening?”

“
Callum? Yes. He'll be there. I believe he's familiar with Mr. Radmacker.”

“
I'll bet. Don't suppose you fancy dinner?” asked Dylan tentatively.

“
Yes, please. It's nice to have an old friend who knows me to chat with, but I can't tonight. We could go Wednesday after the exhibition”

“
That's great. What have you planned this evening?” Dylan forced his voice to be as casual as possible.

“
I forgot how big the portions are here and how big my appetite is when I'm comfort-eating. There's a gym close to where I live. I thought I'd sign up to stop me ballooning while I delight in my fast food nation.”

“
Wouldn't it make sense to eat now and work out later?”

“
Don't tempt me, Dylan. You of all people should know how difficult food is for me. Seriously I would, but I've got my gym induction. You know how risk assessment is these days. I've been working out at gyms since I left school in England, but whenever you join a new one, no matter how much experience you have, they like to introduce you to every piece of equipment there.”

“
Health and safety,” said Dylan relaxing at the reason behind her refusal to join him for a meal.

“
Anyway, I have my session booked and paid for tonight. My personal trainer will tailor an exercise routine to my body's needs and wants. You never know, I might meet the man of dreams there.”

“
You and a gym-bunny? Come on Susan, is that you?”

“
Of course not.”

Watching Dylan rise from his chair, Susan followed suit.

“
Let's blow this joint. We'll meet Wednesday and immerse ourselves in serious culture, but for now you can share a cab with me if you're done for the day,” she said, linking arms to forcibly remove him from the office.

Susan was inwardly dreading the gym session. She'd never gotten over the trauma of joining when she was fat. It was as if only thin people were welcome to work out. The only way for fat people to become slim was to use a gym. It was a catch twenty-two. She knew she'd never be thin and she knew she had to regularly exercise to keep her figure. Aware it was a necessary evil, she had to bite the bullet and go through with it.

The health club was expensive and exclusive. Attached to rich apartments in Broadway and within walking distance of her own flat, it was convenient and the clientele was as expected. The personal trainer was formal and friendly, but left Susan cold in respect of developing a new crush. He was far too beefy for her taste. Dylan was right: overly pumped men that had more brawn than brains weren't for her.

However clichéd, if everyone had the same taste it would be a boring old world, thought Susan. That her trainer was Neolithic and had difficulty stringing a sentence together didn't mean he was devoid of a heart of gold, or unable to offer the right woman a fairytale ending. He just wasn't for her.

Satisfied she comprehended how the machinery operated and having scrawled an exercise plan allegedly tailored to her fitness levels, Susan signed off on her membership form for processing. Alone, she was left to make use of the gym facilities without supervision.

Strangely, she recognized him right away from behind and it wasn't because he had a perfectly muscular ass, although the black training shorts certainly drew attention to it and his sleeveless shirt uncovered bulging biceps. It was something more than his body that had Susan stealthily surveying the gym, ninja-like, to confirm her suspicion.

Oh my God, he's still beautiful, she thought.

Rupert Locke-Smythe. He was talking to a girl on the treadmill. She was five foot eight and of Asian descent. Her body was tall and slender. Even now, after all these years, Susan knew she couldn’t compete with the likes of her – especially not where Rupert was concerned. Darting past a row of ski machines, she walked past the treadmills to the stationary bicycles lined behind the treadmills.

Taking a cycle mid-row gave her a view of the man. She was breathless before her feet started pedaling. It was Rupert Locke-Smythe and he'd grown into a beautiful man. More beautiful than the eighteen-year-old boy she recalled vividly. Tall and confident, and she could hear his British accent from where she sat. Smooth and low in tone, she wished it was her on the treadmill.

Years change nothing, no matter what distance you put between two people, thought Susan. Isn't that a cheesy line from the musical? It sounds corny on stage, but it's not too far from the truth.

Oh God, he's going. What should I do? I'll work out, because I am no longer fifteen years old and no longer indulge in unrequited love with mean boys. He's not a boy, though. He's a man. The girl from the treadmill isn't following him, that's a hopeful sign. Means he's single. Maybe fate has put us here. First the flowers from his sister and now this. It has to be a sign. Sitting here on the bike isn't going to help love run its course. I'm not even pedaling. Pedal, Susan, pedal. No, stop. Go after him and say hi. That's a bit stalker-ish. Time's running out. Time to be a stalker or time to wave goodbye to what destiny offered you on a plate. Do something. Don't freeze.

She jumped off the bike, the bicycle seat stabbing her in an unwelcome place between her legs.

“
Ouch,” she said audibly.

The girl on the treadmill, spun around to see the accident.

She's lovely. No wonder she can turn down Rupert. Unless he was turning her down. Right, pull yourself together Susan. Give Cupid a wave to shoot his bow.

Scouting the men's dressing rooms, she snagged her sneaker on someone else's foot and went flying.

“
I've got you,” said the dreamy voice, catching her.

“
Thanks,” she muttered, forcing herself to meet Rupert's eyes after fifteen years.

“
It's fine,” he released her. “You steady?”

“
Yes. Thank you so much.”

“
What were you after?”

“
I'm sorry?”

“
What were you after? You seemed to be searching for something.”

That question is friendly, but detached. Is he pretending not to know me? Playing Mr. Cool? Maybe he has absolutely no idea who I am, she thought.

“
What were you searching for?” he repeated.

“
Oh yes, the men's changing rooms.”

“
The
men'
s changing rooms?” Rupert emphasized the gender of the changing room she had stated.

How did that pop out of my mouth? He must think I'm a pre-op transsexual now, she winced.

“
Yes. I dropped my cell phone somewhere here and the last time I had it was passing the men's dressing rooms.” She congratulated herself internally. Off stage or on stage, no one improvises like Susan-Marie Thompson.

“
I thought for a moment,” he grinned at her. “It doesn't matter.”

“
I know what you thought.”

“
You don't. I thought whoever did your surgery did a fantastic job.”

She laughed hysterically. Don't go overboard Susan, she berated. You're laughing as if he's a top comedian that has told you the funniest joke ever told. Now the laugh is sounding fake. Stop it. Ceasing laughing, she realized they were by the men's dressing rooms.

“
Do you need a hand to look?”

“
That'd be nice.”

Susan let Rupert run around as if playing hide and seek with her non-existent missing cell phone. Directing and recalling imaginary places where she had it filled her with mirth.

Oh he's sweet and trying so hard. I need to stop being mean now, she decided. Although that cute little tush bending over is fine entertainment. I'll leave it a minute or two longer.

Giving it five minutes, Susan was picking obscure places forcing Rupert to reach up so his vest would raise, giving her a glimpse of his six-pack stomach. The frisson was exciting. It took the sting from his not knowing her.

“
You know what Rupert, it's fine. I'm due for a phone upgrade soon. I have a spare I can use when the company sends me a replacement sim card.”

“
Problem is, it stops me asking for your number.”

“
No it doesn't. It merely means you'll have to wait to call,” she said tartly.

“
I could give you mine and you could call me,” he challenged.

“
I fear you'd be disappointed. In cat and mouse games I like to play the mouse.”

“
Let me get a pen then.”

Susan nearly passed out at the prospect of a date with Rupert. It had only taken fifteen years and building a career in musical theater to attract his attention. Dressed in a black bike shorts and an aged, baggy, over-sized black t-shirt with a peeling Nike logo on it, Susan's hair was tied in a pony tail. It was bewildering to figure out what he saw in her dressed this way.

Returning with the pen, Rupert was offering the underside of his bare forearm for Susan to scribble her number on. As her left hand caught his right wrist to steady it for her to draw on, her body jolted with electricity. Wobbling, in large numerals she wrote the number on his tanned forearm.

'“No name,” he observed. “How long will it take to get a new sim?”

“
I think between three or five days by post. I can't cope that long without a phone, so I'll go in-store and pick one up before then.”

“
I'll call soon. Perhaps we could grab a drink or coffee.”

“
Won't the girl on the treadmill mind?”

Casting a glance above her head, Rupert clocked Jasmine. “Jasmine? No she's a friend.”

“
You sure?”

“
Yes!”

“
You appeared close, that's all.”

“
You were checking me out from the bicycles.”

“
You were checking me out on the bicycles to notice me checking you out,” retorted Susan mischievously.

“
I may have,” Rupert paused. “Do I know you?”

“
You tell me.”

“
You called me Rupert.”

“
So I did.”

“
How did you know my name?”

Establishing she'd been checking him out, Susan could have lied to say Jasmine or a member of staff told her. “People don't forget Rupert Locke-Smythe. I'm not unique. I'm like other people. Call me if you want, Rupert.”

Dashing to the women's changing room, Susan showered and dressed. When she saw no further sign of Rupert, she fled the building.