Chapter 1
ONE
THE QUIET ONE
Wasp
The security team swarmed, ushering us through a side door into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Away from the red-carpeted celebrity entrance at the front of the building.
Josie, my mentor, and the thorn in my side, heaved a sigh. “When this job is done, I’m drowning myself in a Mojito then going to bed for a week.”
I was with her on that—the going home part. Tonight was my last assignment in the US, and tomorrow, I’d fly to Scotland. As great an opportunity as the past couple of months had been, my heart hurt every time I thought of seeing my family again.
Yet there was one specific draw that this final job had on me. A name I’d spotted on the guest list of actors and politicians. A lass I hadn’t seen in years.
One who made me catch my breath at the memories alone.
A uniformed man, bigger than most but an inch shy of my height, pointed to my camera bag. “Sir, I need you to open that for inspection.”
“Aye, but watch what you poke with that stick,” I grouched, exposing the lenses and camera bodies, frowning deeper when the guard jostled my kit. Decent photographic equipment cost a fortune, and most of mine was borrowed.
Cleared, we entered a corridor that led to a cavernous, pillar-lined hall—the staging ground for tonight’s glittering charity gala. Artwork adorned the walls, interspersed with elaborate floral decorations and a blue lighting scheme.
Automatically, I scanned the faces, searching for her.
For Taylor. The woman who’d taken my virginity five years ago, when I’d been a lad, and who I kept sleeping with, somehow, on the rare occasions we saw each other.
Even thinking her name had my groin tightening.
“I’m going to mingle.” Josie brought her camera back to rest on her shoulder.
“Work through your list then shoot what you like, but be bold. Particularly when Senator Miller arrives. If you believe the polls, he’s going to be our next president.
If you can, get his son and his date. The kid’s meant to have a new girlfriend.
His running mate’s daughter. Do you know who I mean?
Irene someone…” She paused, tapping her lip.
A sense of unease had me shifting my weight. I knew an Irene. That was Taylor’s first name. Irene Taylor Vandenberg.
Like she’d read my mind, Josie clicked her fingers. “Vandenberg. That’s it. Fucking nepotism. My little bird tells me they’ll be onstage together later. Maybe they’ll even make the big engagement announcement here. Be front and centre for that.”
My stomach dropped. “Engagement?”
“Wasp, seriously? If you don’t keep up with this kind of news you won’t make it as a celebrity photog. Look them up. Then go do your job.”
“Got it.” I offered Josie a ghost of a smile and peeled away into the crowded room.
Waiters circled with trays of champagne, dodging me as I stomped off to a corner by myself. Then I paged through my phone, searching as commanded.
I didn’t read celebrity gossip—that wasn’t the field I wanted to work in—but multiple sites spewed the news that the son of the hugely popular presidential candidate might soon be settling down.
There were no pictures of Taylor, just of the guy with his famous father, but her name was there in black and white.
Christ on a bike.
The lass I’d held in my arms and fallen asleep on when I’d been seventeen, who I’d fucked against a wall in my brother’s castle after a party at nineteen, and who I inexplicably missed, though we’d barely been in each other’s lives, was going to make headlines in American politics, marrying into the first family.
I palmed my bearded cheek and sighed. I might be all man now compared with the boy she knew, but the idea of her marriage punched me in the gut. Yet I hadn’t seen her in two years. The disappointment had no merit.
I buried my shock and threw myself into my work.
Over the next hour, I racked up shots of socialites in incredible outfits, wealthy old guys in suits a thousand times nicer than my hired one, film stars I recognised and ones I guessed were important from their entourage, and members of the political scene.
Josie’s contacts landed her—and me—the insider scoop, numbering us among the few photographers permitted inside the building to document the night.
The opportunity to expand my portfolio and make money was immense, and I uploaded the shots as I went, operating on autopilot where my concentration was fucked.
“Lads.” I raised my camera to three men standing together. Dressed in edgy, distressed suits and with punky hair, they were familiar. A band, probably. “Can I take a shot?”
The first man, about my age, so early twenties, and with a strip of blue hair, broke into a smile. He threw his arms around the other two. “Nice to hear a familiar accent. You’re a Scot. Highlands?”
“Aye.” I ducked, lining up the photo to get the charity banner in the background. Blue Hair nudged the other two to grin.
“Where are you from? South?” I asked.
Though Scots, too, their accents were smarter than my soft brogue.
“You don’t recognise us?”
I pulled a face. “Sorry. I’m new at this.”
“Kick in the teeth, man. We’re Viking Blue. From Edinburgh.”
“Viking?” I couldn’t help my smirk at the name.
“Aye. Women love it. Wait a sec, Highlander. We’ll give you a good shot.”
The first guy broke his hold on his bandmates then leapt, forcing the two men to catch him. He lay in their arms and stuck his hands behind his head. “I’m Rex, singer and songwriter.”
“Wasp,” I introduced myself, snapping the ridiculous pose. People often did daft stuff when the camera was on them. Rex’s behaviour reminded me of Ally, my twin. A painful pang of missing him rose.
Rex’s bandmates dropped him, and he clambered to his feet, taking a bow for the people watching. He lifted his chin at me. “Got a card? I’ll hit you up if we’re ever in need of a cameraman. We’re new to this, too.”
I produced one and handed it over, and the guy slipped it into his pocket. Then his gaze found a target over my shoulder.
“Whoa,” Rex said. “The evening just got more interesting. Check out Miss USA.”
I twisted, following his gaze.
Oh boy.
Like a vision, Taylor stepped into the room. She shimmered, her sheet of blonde hair pinned up in a fancy style, and her floor-length blue dress accentuating her hourglass form. My camera would never pick up that detail.
Besides, I’d frozen solid.
Ingrid Bergman. Lauren Bacall. They could eat their hearts out. Hollywood’s Golden Age had nothing on Taylor.
Alone, she paused for a moment then raised a hand, presumably spotting a friend. Another lass swept over, and they embraced without touching, gesturing at each other’s dresses.
Taylor glanced again over the crowd. Her eyes found mine. Locked on.
Christ.
A surge of fierce emotion hit me, and I opened my mouth. Engaged. Almost. I ought to congratulate her.
But we both just stared.
“You know her?” Rex asked.
“Who’s that?” Taylor’s friend asked simultaneously, her words just audible from my position across the hall.
Taylor’s eyes widened for a moment, but then she looked away. “No one I know. Let’s get a drink, I have a feeling I’m going to need it tonight.”
No one?
I was no one. Ouch.
That punch in the gut I’d felt? It had barely been a tap. I’d grown up with three brothers and an abusive da—I could take a hit. But the lass’s dismissal knocked the wind out of me. I pressed a hand to my chest, stifling the ache.
She’d recognised me. She’d chosen to blank me. Aye, it stung and then some.
“I guess not,” I told the band, suddenly needing to get away. “Thanks for the photos.”
The men bid me farewell, and I strode off.
“Wasp?” Near the back of the hall, Josie found me, her short, stylish grey hair damp with sweat.
“In twenty minutes, Senator Miller arrives. I’ll cover the front, so back me up then take stage left and remain there through the speeches.
After, you can go. Our contract is covered, and I’ll only be staying to drum up more business. Your flight is in the morning?”
“Aye. Four AM.”
“Get the best shots uploaded before. Drop me a line if you need a reference or if you’re in town and need to borrow a spare body.”
She meant a camera body, but in the six weeks I’d been on assignment at her New York studio, this was the kindest the surly photographer to the stars had ever been.
“Thank ye.”
I wanted to say more, about how I’d learned a lot from her, and how I appreciated her advice and guidance, but Josie already had her viewfinder to her eye, and she strolled away, snapping new arrivals.
If I’d wanted to leave before, I was dying to now. But I had an hour of speeches to capture. I spun on my heel and marched down the corridor, heading away from the throng, needing a minute alone.
Security guards dotted every corner. They eyed me as I passed. I guessed with my height and brawn, I could be considered a threat. Maybe I should be the worried one—the sheer number of them was alarming—but I kept going until I was in a quieter part of the museum.
For a moment, I just stood there in the cool, darkened corridor. Artwork watched me.
I was homesick. That was all. Seeing Taylor’s name on the list had made me think of Scotland. With her being friends with my brother’s wife, it was where I’d seen her most.
In a couple of days, this would pass.
This fucking ache would dissipate.
I’d be back at the castle, throwing myself into the hard, physical work of restoring the crofthouse with my brothers. No moments to wallow in the meaningless rejection of a lass I barely knew anymore.
A door closed inside my head. A violent slam that cut off the what-ifs and maybes that came with long blonde hair and a bonnie smile.
“William?” a voice rang out, breaking the silence.
Holy fuck.
Even if I didn’t know Taylor’s clear tones, no one else here used my real name.
I rotated slowly, flinching at the sight of her gorgeous face close up. “Taylor. You did recognise me, then.”