The Berkeley Method (4 page)

His other hand roams over the curve of my waist, as though he wants to stroke every part of me at once. His fingertips sweep under the hem of my skirt, and my body convulses at his touch.

I can hardly tell where I end and he begins. I feel in his kiss that there is so much being said without words. It’s as though he is claiming me back as his own.

The thought brings a shock of reality, and I force myself back from the floating heavenly place James is taking me to.

“Stop,” I gasp. Marshalling every particle of self-control, I push away from him. The heat and closeness of him is unbearably difficult to leave. I feel as though I’ve been severed.

We stand staring at each other. He is breathing heavily. I can make out the definition of his chest rising and falling fast beneath his T-shirt.

There is something unreadable in his expression. For a moment he moves fractionally, as if to take hold of me again. There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite read.

“Wait,” I manage, remembering the inescapable strength of his arms.

His face twists a fraction, as though I’ve caused him pain. And then his expression changes, like he’s forcing control back into his body.

He pushes both hands though his brown hair.

“Jeez, Isabella,” he manages, “do you have any idea how difficult it is not to take you back into that alley and fuck you? Whether you want to or not?”

He says this last part with a dangerous flash of his eyes.

“You wouldn’t,” I manage. Though looking at him now, I’m not so sure.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he admits. Then he takes another step forward, and I feel myself held again on both sides. “But I could.”

There is a wicked grin on his face, and I feel a flash of pure lust surge though me.

I stare back into his green eyes, and then the events of the last few days come back to me in a rush.

“Why didn’t you call?” I blurt suddenly, the pain and the hurt tunnelling up. James removes his hands and steps back fractionally.

His face makes a round of emotions, and he settles on confusion.

“I did call,” he says. “I called and I emailed and I tried to get you on Skype and Facebook and Twitter. I thought you were ignoring me.”

I open my mouth and shut it again.

“You weren’t ignoring me,” he concludes, turning the words over slowly, as though realising something profound. There is a glimmer of something in his eyes. Relief?

He takes another step towards me, but I raise my hand, just a little.

It’s all too much to take in. His intoxicating proximity, after all the heartache.

“I haven’t seen you in…” and then I stop myself mid-protest, realising the next words out of my mouth will sound ridiculous.

“In four days,” he finishes. “But it feels like much longer. I feel that way too.”

My eyes search his face, wondering how he can say the right thing so easily. I have so many questions.

We stare at each other for a long moment, assessing, unsure.

“Come on,” he says finally, “I’m guessing one of the reasons you ended up wandering around in Camden is because you went out drinking without eating properly.”

I nod shamefacedly. This is partially right. The rest we need to talk about.

Rehab
, hisses my brain, remembering the headlines.

“I know a great burger place near here,” he says. “And I have such crazy jet lag, I could eat at any time. Let me buy you a cheeseburger and we can talk.”

A cheeseburger. I can’t help but grin at him. Coming from James Berkeley, it all sounds so normal.

“Surely you mean a Michelin star steak?” I tease, unable to help myself.

“You haven’t seen this burger place,” he replies. “So. Can I tempt you, Ms. Green?”

Always
, Mr Berkeley.

“Ok,” I agree, my mind whirling.

Then you can explain to me what you were doing in rehab.

Chapter 5

The burger restaurant is, quite simply, out of this world. It’s a riot of modern chandeliers and sleek black tables set in an old Regency Townhouse.

James guides me to an orange leather banquet, and I can’t keep the smile from my face.

“I should have known you wouldn’t take me to just any old burger joint,” I say, trying to control the amazement in my expression. This is some place.

He gives an innocent smile. “What? This place? It does good burgers. I only take you to the best places, Isabella. You know that.”

I allow my gaze to roam around the eclectic décor. The walls are covered in edgy art and illustration works which contrast brazenly against the ornate period features. There’s a brightly lit wall of different coloured bottles, fronted by a sleek hot-pink bar. Behind it, three black-shirted barmen are mixing incredible looking cocktails at lightning speed.

The whole restaurant is like an explosion of decadent good taste.

“Do you like it?” he asks, watching me stare at the chandeliers.

“I love it,” I admit. “It’s just on the right side of too much.”

He gives a little smile. “Sounds like a girl I know.”

I look away from him, embarrassed. “I’m not too much.”

“The right side of too much,” he corrects. I look up to see he’s gazing at me intently, and I look away again, with a little smile.

Despite the drama and uncertainty, I realise I am bathing in the golden warmth of James’s presence. After four days of cold empty pain, it feels like sunshine.

It’s wrong, I know. I should be more wary. I just can’t help myself. What he does to me goes beyond logic.

Then I remember. Lorna and Sandy and Alex.

“Shit!” I crash my palm to my forehead.

“What is it?” James looks alarmed.

“I left Lorna and the others in the pub,” I confess. “They’ll be really worried. And Lorna has my phone.”

James visibly relaxes.

“Is that all?” he murmurs. “Since you manage to put yourself in life and death situations without thinking, I had assumed it would be serious.” He sighs. “Give me a moment.”

He takes out his phone and makes a brief call. I hear a few words exchanged. Then he hangs up, and in a second, his phone beeps.

“Here, that’s Lorna’s number,” he says, handing me his phone.

I stare at him in amazement.

“Are you a spy or something?”

He laughs. “I made a call to someone I don’t ordinarily speak to.”

I frown, and then make the connection in my mind.

“Ben
Gracey?”

I’d forgotten about Ben
Gracey.

James gives a tight nod. He and James don’t get along, but they’re relatives. And Ben must have Lorna’s number, since he was the one who she drank herself into a diabetic coma with last week.

As far as I know, Lorna hasn’t seen Ben Gracey since that night. But she is somewhat secretive, where he is concerned.

“That was good of you,” I murmur. I know how James feels about Ben. It must have cost him to ask a favour.

“How did you know Ben would take your call?” I ask.

“Let’s just say, Ben
Gracey has a vested interest in taking my calls,” says James. He gives a slight smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

I press to dial the number, and after talking down a frantic and tipsy Lorna, return the phone and my full attention to James.

“Let me order you a drink,” he says, signalling the waiter.

James orders two martinis and two cheeseburgers from the waiter, before turning to catch my glowering expression.

“I know the best food here,” he says, opening his hands towards me in protest. “And they do the best martinis in London. I couldn’t have you miss out. Besides,” he says, his face turning serious, “after what you just put me through, I think you should accept my being in charge.”

After what I just put him through?

“And what about me?” I counter, thinking of the torture of the last few days. “Why would you leave without telling me why?”

The two martinis arrive, and ever the gentleman, James waits for me to pick mine up first. I let the mixture of sour and sweet roll over my tongue. He’s right. It’s really good.

He takes a grateful sip of his drink.

“Have you been looking at the celebrity news?” he asks.

I blush. “Yes,” I say, and a little burst of anger goes off in my head. Why shouldn’t I look when he’s lied to me?

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,” says James mildly. He takes another sip of his martini, and leaves a maddening pause.

“So, is it true,” I accuse, after I can’t take the silence anymore. “Do I need to know this about you, James? That you can lie to me so convincingly?”

“I would never lie to you,” he says softly. The conviction in his voice startles me.

I lay my hands flat on the table, defeated.

“Then
tell
me,” I say, closing my eyes and feeling very tired suddenly. “What is going on?”

James nods.

“I will tell you what is going on,” he replies, his clipped aristocratic accent snapping around every word. “What’s going on is I tried calling you, emailing you. I messaged you on every social media I could think of. Do you never check your computer, Isabella?”

To my shame, James looks truly hurt.

Whoa. That’s put me in my place. I never thought to check anything but my phone. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

“No,” I admit quietly. “But you never called me. I checked my phone.”

“I did call you,” says James. “The number would have come up blocked.”

This surprises me. I did get plenty of blocked calls; I assumed they were from my catering company, trying to book me on a shift.

“That was you?” I manage weakly.

“I only turned on the iPad tracker because I was worried about you,” he adds. “I flew back today because… Well, never mind why. But in any case, I saw you
were in Camden, so I came over to this part of town thinking I could ask you why you were blanking me. And then I saw you’d disappeared into a back alley. In
Camden
,” he emphasises the words. “
Not
smart.” The anger returns to his face.

“Why were you calling me on a blocked number?” I say, a little of my own annoyance rising. What does he expect, when he doesn’t call on his own phone?

“Because I didn’t have my phone,” he admits.

Aha
. Now we’re getting somewhere.

“And why not?” I say, holding my breath in fear of his reply.

“Because I had to check it in,” he says, “for rehab.”

Chapter 6

The confession crashes around in my brain.

“So you
were
in rehab,” I say. “After everything you said to me.”

Two cheeseburgers arrive in front of us, and I wait a moment to be served. The waiter places ketchup and mustard bottles covered in diamante crystals alongside our burgers, and then retreats.

The food looks incredible. The burgers are thick slabs of prime beef in sourdough buns, with a pile of perfect crisp fries on the side.

“Try the fries,” suggests James. “They’re finished in parmesan and truffle oil. It’s an incredible combination.”

He’s waiting for me to eat first, but I am too mad to even consider it.

“Answer me,” I demand. “Why did you tell me the drugs problem was in the past?”

“Isabella, did you read about the movie cast in the documents I sent you?”

The unexpected question totally wrong-foots me.

“Yes. I… What has that to do with anything?”

“Did you perhaps notice that Natalie Ennis is a supporting actress?”

“Yes. Of course.” No point denying it. Natalie is beyond famous.

“And you’re aware that Natalie’s personal life is somewhat chaotic at the moment?”

I shrug. “It’s all over the newspapers and magazines.”

James raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, as if I should have now reached some logical conclusion.

I get a sudden sense of where he’s going with this, and clamp my mouth tightly shut.
Oh dear. Have I got this wrong again?

He stares at me coolly. “Regrettably, Natalie has succumbed to her personal demons, at a very inconvenient time for filming. I had to visit her in rehab and decide for myself whether she is still suitable to appear in my movie.”

He pulls a strange little smile, as though he’s inwardly laughing at me.

“Why did
you
think I visited rehab?” he says, his voice dripping with acted innocence.

My face is now the same colour as the jewelled ketchup bottle on the table.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I thought you’d checked in.”