One Night (Superstars in Love 2)

Chapter One

Justin Holloway was bloody fucked. No, not just fucked. Fucked, with a capital “F.” He had barely made a splash in the London theater scene before his agent booked him this role. Gary said he was ready to be the lead actor inside an opulent Broadway theater in New York fucking City.

Justin wasn’t quite as sure.

How could he possibly be ready to play the role of Marius in Les Miserables? When he had told his agent he wanted to be on Broadway someday, he’d meant it that way. Some-bloody-day. Not this day. Not this early in his career. Les Miserables was only scheduled to be in New York for a limited run. It had been taken off of Broadway a few years ago, but he, Justin Holloway, managed to land a role.

A big role, at that.

But he didn’t belong here, in more ways than one. Usually, his accent stood out like an Oreo crumb in a cup of milk, and no matter how many times he walked home from rehearsal, he still got lost at least once each week. It was as if the city blocks moved locations overnight just to mess with him.

How bloody big was this city, anyway?

Guess it was time to find out. On his way out the door, Justin caught sight of himself in the mirror. He’d borrowed a stage crew shirt after a lunchtime mishap rendered his own shirt unwearable. If he didn’t succeed in the role of Marius, he’d be wearing one of these shirts for the rest of his life. But he loved the business too much to slink away into the shadows at the first sign of failure, hanging in the eaves, changing scenery and shining lights on the stars he’d once sung with.

Justin tossed his messenger tote over his shoulder, shut off the lights in the dressing room, and headed down the hallway. His footsteps echoed in the deserted corridor. The rest of the actors had gone home long ago. Or perhaps they’d gone out to party. He’d been invited to join them, but tomorrow was opening night, so he decided to go home, drink some whiskey, and convulse in the corner instead.

Blast. He gave up.

He reached into his coat pocket, muttered a curse, and closed his fingers around his cell. Perhaps he would ring Gary, his agent in LA, and ask him what the bloody hell he’d been thinking sending him to this country. Although, that would be the third time this week he’d posed the same exact question …

With a press of his thumb, his phone came to life. “Call wretched agent.”

Siri beeped and said, “Calling Gary Hassleman.”

He picked up on the second ring. “Yes, Justin, you can do this. And why are you calling me? You should be out getting laid. That solves everything.”

Justin grit his teeth. He might have resorted to carnal satisfaction in the past, but his days of being London’s leading wanker were over. He wanted to be taken seriously as an actor, not a womanizer. He needed to focus. “I’m not in need of a bloody shag, Gary. I need my agent to reassure me that I can do this. That I can be Marius.”

Gary sighed. “When the reviews start rolling in from the New York Times, and popping up all over the web, you’ll know what I already do.”

“Yeah?” He shifted the phone to his other ear. “And what’s that, Gary?”

“You were made for this role. You’ll be perfect.” The clunk of papers being stapled came through the phone. “I’m gonna tell you a little secret about myself. I’m a little bit of a dickhead when it comes to work. I only sign the best because I only want to work with the best because I’m the best. If I signed you as my client … you’re the best. Now get over it.”

That shouldn’t have made him feel better, but it kind of did … for all of two seconds. Then the doubt came rushing back. “Yeah? Well I don’t feel like the best right now.”

“That’s your choice. But either way, stop calling me for reassurance. You wouldn’t have gotten the role if you weren’t ready.”

Justin opened his mouth and closed it. “But—?”

The beeping of his phone told him either the call was dropped, or his agent had hung up on him. Brilliant. He felt so much better. He should call him back and tell him exactly what he thought of his brash manner and where he could shove it. Taking his frustration out on the door with his shoulder, he slammed into something solid. Judging from the feminine cry, immediately followed by a resounding splash—the something he hit was a woman.

His iPhone clattered to the ground, bounced, and landed on his left shoe. Bending down, he snatched it up and dropped his phone back into his pocket before peering around the door cautiously. With his luck, it would be the woman who played the lead prostitute and who had been trying to get into his bed since the second his foot crossed the threshold of the theater. And he would have to apologize to her and help her to her feet. Then she would grope at him for the millionth time, and he would have to politely decline.

But it wasn’t her.

A blonde woman sat in a huge puddle, her hands on either side of her hips, with a bemused expression on her face. Her full lips were pressed in a thin line, and her green eyes shone even in the moonlight. Her cheeks were damp with tears, and her mascara had run, as if she’d been crying before he crashed into her.

A pity that a woman as beautiful as she was should have something to cry about.

Her pink skirt ended about three inches above the knee, and despite Justin’s concern for the woman, he couldn’t help but notice the exposed skin of her thighs. Her bare, wet skin. Though he knew he should move and help the woman to her feet, he couldn’t stop staring at her. There was something about her that called to him.

“Well, that was unexpected,” she said dryly. “Despite the heat, I would have preferred to chill off a bit in a pool rather than a puddle. But this helped immensely. Thanks.”

Clearing his throat, he ignored the primal urge to continue examining the beautiful woman he’d knocked to the ground, and offered her his hand. As he should have done immediately. “Sorry, miss, I didn’t see you there.”

“Obviously,” she mumbled, her eyes still on him. She flicked a glance at his extended hand and then stood on her own, wobbling on her white stilettos. He reached out to steady her, but she jerked her arm back and shot him a look. Tugging her soaked skirt back down to her knees, she asked, “What’s your rush? And do you always shove through doors like you’re running from a

masked gunman?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. She was absolutely cheesed off. “Yes, actually, I do. But I wasn’t expecting someone to be lurking by the stage exit on a non-performance night, either. Do you fancy hiding in dark alleys?” He cocked his head. “Or do I have my very first American stalker?”

Her cheeks tinged pink, but she fisted her hands. “Yes, because I’m certainly stalking a stage crew member in my spare time.”

What made her think he was stage crew, as opposed to an actor? Even after looking down at his admittedly worn slacks, he couldn’t figure it out. Perhaps it was his messenger tote. Had she mistaken it for a utility bag? Then he saw the T-shirt, and he could’ve slapped himself on the forehead. Of course she thought he would be in the stage crew. He was wearing a shirt that quite literally placed him as one. He should correct her. Let her know who he really was. But then again …

Perhaps not.

He shrugged. “I’ll have you know that stage crew are just as stalker worthy as actors. If not more.”

“If you say so.” She cocked her head. “I’ll have to take your word for it. The first one I met knocked me down within seconds, so color me unimpressed.”

He flinched. “Yeah. About that. Sorry that I knocked you on your arse.” He made a sweeping gesture toward her general hip vicinity. His gaze dropped down, and stayed. She had a hell of an arse, after all. “Hopefully it’s not too sore. I’d hate to think of you limping through the streets on my account. Need some help getting home?”

“First you knock me down, then you ask how my butt feels,” She tilted her head, her green eyes lit up mischievously. All signs of her earlier tears were gone. “And now you want to follow me home? I think I’ll pass, but thanks.”

A horn beeped in the distance, setting off a domino effect of honking. New Yorkers had no patience whatsoever. He rubbed the back of his neck and stifled a laugh. He should walk away now. Go home. Get bladdered with a bottle of whiskey. Save his voice for tomorrow. “What? That’s not a normal American introduction?”

She canted her head. “Not really. We usually save the butt talk for the second meeting. And we usually wait to beat each other up until then, too.”

“Blimey. I had no idea.” He grinned. “If we meet again, I’ll refrain from knocking you down, and then we’ll be squared up. Deal?”

“Somehow I think this is a one-time-only thing,” she said, waving a hand toward the back of the alley. “As nice as you seem to be, I think we’re done here, uh … ?”

“Name’s Justin.” He grinned and used his best sleazy-guy voice, holding his hand out for hers. “You look familiar. Do you come here often?”

“Wh-What?” She shot him a startled look and then laughed. She looked surprised at the sound that escaped her, even going so far as to cover her mouth. “Uh. No. I don’t come here often.” She shook her head, but a smile played at her lips. “And I can’t believe you just used the corniest pick up line ever invented on me in a dark alley. That’s a first.”