Act Like It Read online

  Act Like It

  By Lucy Parker

  This just in: romance takes center stage as West End theatre’s Richard Troy steps out with none other than castmate Elaine Graham

  Richard Troy used to be the hottest actor in London, but the only thing firing up lately is his temper. We all love to love a bad boy, but Richard’s antics have made him Enemy Number One, breaking the hearts of fans across the city.

  Have the tides turned? Has English rose Lainie Graham made him into a new man?

  Sources say the mismatched pair has been spotted at multiple events, arm in arm and hip to hip. From fits of jealousy to longing looks and heated whispers, onlookers are stunned by this blooming romance.

  Could the rumors be right? Could this unlikely romance be the real thing? Or are these gifted stage actors playing us all?

  Dear Reader,

  Here in North America, we’re swinging back around to cozy days spent inside reading, while some of you (picture me waving at you, Australia) are headed into summer beach days. Whatever weather you’re enjoying—or not enjoying, as the case may be—a good book is always in order, and I have a few that may be just what you’re looking for.

  This month, we’ve got a particular emphasis on the mystery and romantic suspense genres. We also have the first in several new series and are introducing four new-to-Carina authors!

  Barreling onto the scene with a new series, new genre and a new pen name, Piper J. Drake offers explosive (at times literally) action and an endearing romance in the first book in her new romantic suspense Safeguard series, Hidden Impact. Meet military-veteran-turned-mercenary Gabriel Diaz. Betrayed, injured and building a new mercenary team, the last thing he expects to do is sweep Maylin Cheng off her feet—and out of the path of the car that tries to kill her. But now that he’s fallen for her, he’s all in to protect her at all costs, while helping find her kidnapped sister.

  The always incredible Josh Lanyon joins Piper in the romantic suspense category, with a charming and loveable male/male romance, Jefferson Blythe, Esquire. With only an outdated copy of Esquire’s Europe in Style to guide him, Jefferson Blythe sets out to see the world and runs straight into death, danger...and the boy next door.

  And making her debut, Mia Kay brings us her romantic suspense Soft Target. Wounded FBI agent Gray Harper will honor his dead partner by returning to work—as soon as the Bureau shrink clears him for duty. In the meantime, a long vacation in his best friend’s hometown sounds like the perfect distraction. But Nate Mathis has another plan. His twin sister, Maggie, has a stalker, and Gray’s the only one Nate trusts to catch the bastard.

  In a contemporary romance that unexpectedly hooked the entire Carina Press acquisitions team from the first page, Lucy Parker brings everything we love about romance and our heroines to the page—and the stage—in her debut book, Act Like It. Enter our heroine stage right: she’s the darling of the London press. Enter the hero stage left: he’s public enemy number one. They barely tolerate each other—and they’re about to become the most mismatched couple on the West End stage.

  Two new authors join Carina Press with new mystery series. Debut author Lisa Q. Mathews is first on the scene with The Ladies Smythe & Westin series. In Cardiac Arrest, Summer Smythe, a twentysomething party girl making a fresh start in a ritzy Florida retirement community, teams up with her neighbor, feisty senior Dorothy Westin, to clear her name in the murder of her popular—but heartless—cardiologist boss.

  Jonathan Watkins debuts with Carina with his previously self-published and newly reedited and revised Bright & Fletcher Mysteries. As soon as criminal defense lawyer Issabella Bright’s long-lost father blows into the Motor City, kidnapping, ransom and murder follow him and threaten to tear asunder the work-and-romance partnership she’s built with the man who will go to any length to keep her safe. And that man, Darren Fletcher, soon learns that shielding Issabella from danger could swiftly end with his Dying in Detroit.

  Weather (ha, get it?) you’re under a blanket keeping warm on your couch or enjoying the sun of your summer, these books will keep you company for a few hours and provide some take-you-away entertainment.

  Coming in December: Hitting both physical and digital shelves just in time for Thanksgiving here in the States is book two of Shannon Stacey’s combustible Boston Fire series, Controlled Burn. Also in December: Caitlyn McFarland ties up her dragon-shifter romance trilogy, male/male author Annabeth Albert joins the Carina team and Kate Willoughby is back with a terrific new hockey romance.

  Until next time, here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  Dedication

  For my parents and my nana, for their unfailing love and support.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  London Celebrity @LondonCelebrity. 10h

  West End actor Richard Troy throws scene (and a plate) at the Ivy...goo.gl/Pr2Hax

  Almost every night, between nine and ten past, Lainie Graham passionately kissed her ex-boyfriend. She was then gruesomely dead by ten o’clock, stabbed through the neck by a jealous rival. If she was scheduled to perform in the weekend matinee, that was a minimum of six uncomfortable kisses a week. More, if the director called an extra rehearsal or the alternate actor was ill. Or if Will was being a prat backstage and she was slow to duck.

  It was an odd situation, being paid to publicly snog the man who, offstage, had discarded her like a stray sock. From the perspective of a broken relationship, the theatre came up trumps in the awkward stakes. A television or film actor might have to make stage love to someone they despised, but they didn’t have to play the same scene on repeat for an eight-month run.

  From her position in the wings, Lainie watched Will and Chloe Wayne run through the penultimate scene. Chloe was practically vibrating with sexual tension, which wasn’t so much in character as it was her default setting. Will was breathing in the wrong places during his monologue; it was throwing off his pacing. She waited, and—

  “Farmer!” boomed the director from his seat in the front row. Alexander Bennett’s balding head was gleaming with sweat under the houselights. He’d been lounging in his chair but now dropped any pretence of indifference, jerking forward to glare at the stage. “You’re blocking a scene, not swimming the bloody breaststroke. Stop bobbing your head about and breathe through your damn nose.”

  A familiar sulky expression transformed Will’s even features. He looked like a spoilt, genetically blessed schoolboy. He was professional enough to smooth out the instinctive scowl and resume his speech, but with an air of resentment that didn’t improve his performance. This was the moment of triumph for his character and right now the conquering knight sounded as if he would rather put down his sword and go for a pint.

  Will had been off his game since the previous night, when he’d flubbed a line in the opening act. He was a gifted actor. An unfaithful toerag, but a talented actor. He rarely made mistakes—and could cover them better than most—but from the moment he’d stumbled over his cue, the additional rehearsal had been inevitable. Bennett sought perfection in every arena of his life, which was why he was on to his fifth marriage and all the principals had been dragged out of bed on their morning off.

  Most of the principals, Lainie
amended silently. Their brooding Byron had, as usual, done as he pleased. Bennett had looked almost apoplectic when Richard Troy had sauntered in twenty minutes late, so that explosion was still coming. If possible, he preferred to roar in his private office, where his Tony Award was prominently displayed on the desk. It was a sort of visual aid on the journey from stripped ego to abject apology.

  Although a repentant Richard Troy was about as likely as a winged pig, and he could match Bennett’s prized trophy and raise him two more.

  Onstage, Chloe collapsed into a graceful swoon, which was Richard’s cue for the final act. He pushed off the wall on the opposite side of the wings and flicked an invisible speck from his spotless shirt. Then he entered from stage left and whisked the spotlight from Will and Chloe with insulting ease, taking control of the scene with barely a twitch of his eyelid.

  Four months into the run of The Cavalier’s Tribute, it was still an undeniable privilege to watch him act.

  Unfortunately, Richard’s stage charisma was comparable to the interior of the historic Metronome Theatre. At night, under the houselights, the Metronome was pure magic, a charged atmosphere of class and old-world glamour. In the unforgiving light of day, it looked tired and a bit sordid, like an aging diva caught without her war paint and glitter.

  And when the curtain came down and the skin of the character was shed, Richard Troy was an intolerable prick.

  Will was halfway through the most long-winded of his speeches. It was Lainie’s least favourite moment in an otherwise excellent play. Will’s character, theoretically the protagonist, became momentarily far less sympathetic than Richard’s undeniable villain. She still couldn’t tell if it was an intentional ambiguity on the part of the playwright, perhaps a reflection that humanity is never cast in shades of black and white, or if it was just poor writing. The critic in the Guardian had thought the latter.

  Richard was taunting Will now, baiting him with both words and snide glances, and looking as if he was enjoying himself a little too much. Will drew himself up, and his face took on an expression of intense self-righteousness.

  Lainie winced. It was, down to the half sneer, the exact same face he made in bed.

  She really wished she didn’t know that.

  “Ever worry it’s going to create some sort of cosmic imbalance?” asked a voice at her elbow, and she turned to smile at Meghan Hanley, her dresser. “Having both of them in one building? If you toss in most of the management, I think we may be exceeding the recommended bastard quota.” Meghan raised a silvery eyebrow as she watched the denouement of the play. “They both have swords, and neither of them takes the opportunity for a quick jab. What a waste.”

  “Please. A pair of blind, arthritic nuns would do better in a swordfight. Richard has probably never charged anything heavier than a credit card, and Will has the hand-eye coordination of an earthworm.”

  She was admittedly still a little bitter. Although not in the least heartbroken. Only a very silly schoolgirl would consider Will Farmer to be the love of her life, and that delusion would only last until she’d actually met him. But Lainie had not relished being dumped by the trashiest section of London Celebrity. The tabloid had taken great pleasure in informing her, and the rest of the rag-reading world, that Will was now seeing the estranged wife of a footballer—who in turn had been cheated on by her husband with a former Big Brother contestant. It was an endless sordid cycle.

  The article had helpfully included a paparazzi shot of her from about three months ago, when she’d left the theatre and been caught midsneeze. Farmer’s costar and ousted lover Elaine Graham dissolves into angry tears outside the Metronome.

  Brilliant.

  The journo, to use the term loosely, had also complimented her on retaining her appetite in the face of such humiliation—insert shot of her eating chips at Glastonbury—with a cunning little system of arrows to indicate a possible baby bump.

  Her dad had phoned her, offering to deliver Will’s balls on a platter.

  Margaret Ward, the assistant stage manager, paused to join the unofficial critics’ circle. She pushed back her ponytail with a paint-splattered hand and watched Richard. His voice was pure, plummy Eton and Oxford—not so much as a stumbled syllable in his case. Will looked sour.

  Richard drew his sword, striding forward to stand under the false proscenium. Margaret glanced up at the wooden arch. “Do you ever wish it would just accidentally drop on his head?”

  Yes.

  “He hasn’t quite driven me to homicidal impulses yet.” Lainie recalled the Tuesday night performance, when she’d bumped into Richard outside his dressing room. She had apologised. He had made a misogynistic remark at a volume totally out of proportion to a minor elbow jostle.

  The media constantly speculated as to why he was still single. Mind-boggling.

  “Yet,” she repeated grimly.

  “By the way,” Margaret said, as she glanced at her clipboard and flagged a lighting change, “Bob wants to see you in his office in about ten minutes.”

  Lainie turned in surprise. “Bob does? Why?”

  Her mind instantly went into panic mode, flicking back over the past week. With the exception of touching His Majesty’s sacred arm for about two seconds—and she wouldn’t put it past Richard to lay a complaint about that—she couldn’t think of any reason for a summons to the stage manager’s office. As a rule, Robert Carson viewed his actors as so many figureheads. They were useful for pulling out at cocktail parties and generating social media buzz, but operated beneath his general notice unless they did something wrong. Bob preferred to concentrate on the bottom line, and the bottom line in question was located at the end of his bank statement.

  Margaret shrugged. “He didn’t say. He’s been in a bad mood all day, though,” she warned, and Lainie sighed.

  “I could have been in bed right now,” she mused wistfully. “With a cream cheese bagel and a completely trashy book. Bloody Will.”

  On the flip side, she could also still have been in bed with Will, enjoying the taste of his morning breath and a lecture on her questionable tastes in literature. From the man who still thought To Kill a Mockingbird was a nonfiction guide for the huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ set.

  Life could really only improve.

  On that cheering thought, she made her way out of the wings and backstage into the rabbit’s warren of tunnelling hallways that led to the staff offices. The floors and walls creaked as she went, as if the theatre were quietly grumbling under its breath. Despite the occasional sticking door handle and an insidious smell of damp, she liked the decrepit old lady. The Metronome was one of the oldest theatres in the West End. They might not have decent seating and fancy automated loos, but they had history. Legendary actors had walked these halls.

  “And Edmund Kean probably thought the place was an absolute dump as well,” had been Meghan’s opinion on that subject.

  Historical opinion was divided on the original seventeenth-century use of the Metronome. Debate raged in textbooks as to whether it had been a parliamentary annex or a high-class brothel. Lainie couldn’t see that it really mattered. It would likely have been frequented by the same men in either instance.

  Personally, she voted for the brothel. It would add a bit of spice to the inevitable haunting rumours. Much more interesting to have a randy ghost who had succumbed midcoitus than an overworked civil servant who had died of boredom midpaperwork.

  Aware that Bob’s idea of “in ten minutes” could be loosely translated as “right now,” she headed straight for his office, which was one of the few rooms at the front of the theatre and had a view looking out over the busy road. Her memories of the room were associated with foot shuffling, mild sweating and a fervent wish to be outside amid an anonymous throng of shoppers and tourists heading for Oxford Street.

  “Enter,” called a voice at her knock, and she took the opportunity to roll her eyes before she opened the door.

  Her most convincing fake smile was fir
mly in place by the time she walked inside, but it faltered when she saw the two women standing with Bob.

  “Good. Elaine,” Bob said briskly. He was wearing his usual incorrectly buttoned shirt. Every day it was a different button. Same shirt, apparently, but different button. He had to be doing it on purpose. “You remember Lynette Stern and Patricia Bligh.”

  Naturally, Lainie remembered Lynette and Pat. She saw them every week, usually from a safe distance. An uneasy prickling sensation was beginning to uncurl at the base of her neck. She greeted Pat with a mild unconcern she didn’t feel, and returned Lynette’s nod. She couldn’t imagine why the tall sharp-nosed blonde was here for this obviously less-than-impromptu meeting. She would have thought her more likely to be passed out in a mental health spa. Or just sobbing in a remote corner. Lynette Stern was Richard Troy’s agent, and she had Lainie’s sincere sympathies. Every time she saw the woman, there was a new line on her forehead.

  It was Pat Bligh’s presence that gave Lainie serious pause. Pat was the Metronome’s PR manager. She ruled over their collective public image with an iron hand and very little sense of humour. And woe betide anyone who was trending for unfortunate reasons on Twitter.

  What the hell had she done?

  She was biting on her thumbnail. It was a habit she had successfully kicked at school, and she forced herself to stop now, clasping her hands tightly together. She had been in a running panic this morning to get to the Tube on time, and now she wished she’d taken time to check her Google alerts.

  Nude photos? Not unless someone had wired her shower. Even as an infant, she had disliked being naked. She usually broke speed records in changing her clothes.

  She blanched. Unless Will had taken...

  In which case she was going to hit the stage and make short work of borrowing Richard’s sword, and Will was going to find himself minus two of his favourite accessories.

  “Sit down, Elaine,” Bob said, his expression unreadable. Reluctantly, she obeyed the order—Bob didn’t do invitations—and chose the most uncomfortable chair in the room, as if in a preemptive admittance of guilt.