Page 22 of The Moon & His Tides
“Savannah won’t like what you’re wearing.” Chaucer had followed me up the stairs and perched on the edge of the bed while I explored. “She expects the help to dress well, or it reflects poorly on the family.”
I arched a brow and looked down at my white tee, dark jeans, and leather jacket. They were all cheap, of course, but I’d never been accused of being poorly dressed. Even if I’d wanted to change, there wasn’t much else in my closet better than this except for the suit I’d worn at the closing ofBury the Dead,and I wasn’t going to wear that to a house party. No matter that it was being held by aduchessa.
Chaucer laughed. “You look mortally offended.”
“I’ve been called beautiful one too many times,” I admitted with a good-natured shrug. “I’m not afraid to admit it’s gone to my head.”
She shook her head, red curls tumbling pleasantly over her shoulders. “You’re an interesting man. Actors usually have big egos.”
“I just told you I was beautiful.”
“No, you told me people say that. You don’t have the right bearing. You seem almost…” She tucked her tongue between herteeth. “Almost like you don’t want people to look at you for too long.”
My hands fisted spasmodically at my sides as her words hit just a little too close to the mark. I felt the vibration from the impact in my teeth. She had no idea what she was saying, just a shot in the dark. I was moving into this quaint house to begin a relationship with Savannah and her husband; if I had real intimacy issues, why would I seek out such a complicated emotional situation?
Because you know it’s going to fail,a little voice whispered in the back of my mind.
Because you know a poor boy from Napoli won’t succeed under the glittering spotlight of civilized pop culture for long.
Because your father didn’t love you and your best friend and twin left you, and you have no one left because you aren’t worthy.
I shoved the thoughts away through sheer force of will, fixed a grin to my features, and turned to change the topic and remind Chaucer why people in my hometown called me “l’incantatore,” the charmer.
6
ADAM
Another party.
If I had a nickel for every party I’d been to in my twenty-eight years, I’d be a very rich man.
Although I’d been born very rich, and in those twenty-eight years, I’d only succeeded in making myself obscenely richer.
The truth was, the parties, the money, it all bored me to tears.
Being famous was a side effect of my lifelong addiction to dramaturgy. I wasn’t gauche enough to complain to anyone about the trials of being an international movie star. Not when I had scads of money, the pick of any script I deemed worthy, and more connections than the Prime Minister himself.
No, I was a lucky man.
Luckyandskilled.
I’d earned my place at the top of the heap, so why did it feel so wrong looking down at the masses?
Maybe because I’d never been an ordinary man.
As a member of one of the oldest peerages in England, one that had somehow managed to retain the colossal wealth of their ancestors despite the death tax and perils of modernization, sonto Marquis Peter Andrew Yardley, who was known throughout the United Kingdom as one of the most civilized and criminallydullmen of our time, I was born under the magnified lens of public scrutiny.
Hell, Arthur Whitley-Fairfax, Crown Prince of England, was my best mate at Eton, and I was a regular at Buckingham Palace.
So why did this embarrassingly privileged sense ofennuiand vague disgust with society persist within me?
As if summoned by my thoughts, the rich, rumbling sound of masculine laughter drew my attention from a sleep-inducing discussion of Academy Award politics to the tall, dark, rough-around-the-edges man my wife and I had invited into our home.
Sebastian stood in the center of the room as though he had been born into this life instead of wedged into it by the sheer force of Savannah’s desires and my inability to say no to them. He was holding court with a Russian prima ballerina known for her resting bitch face who was currently laughing so hard, one delicate hand was pressed to her stomach, and a British director, Sir Ronald Rothschild, a known introvert who was snorting expensive whiskey through his nose as he clapped Sebastian on the shoulder.
It was obvious from the moment I’d seen the handsome Italian on the stage of Finborough Theatre that he was born to be an actor. Too many people believed they could make it on the best international stages and silver screens because they were beautiful, but the truth was, beauty was a hindrance as much as it was a boon. Beauty got you in the door, but talent and an almost manic work ethic bought you a lasting stay.
Sebastian Lombardi was talented, no doubt about it. The way he transformed himself into a war-torn soldier who refused to be buried and laid to rest as one of the many who died for a supposedly “glorious cause” was absolutely staggering. I found my heart palpitating oddly, erratic pounding againstmy breastbone, followed by weak tremors as though my pulse was being manipulated by Sebastian like an orchestra by its conductor. At one point, tucked in the front row in the dark of an indie theatre, I felt transported to the battlefield, as scared and alone as Sebastian’s character had been minutes before his death.
