Manolos in Manhattan by Katie Oliver Read Free Book Online Page A

You’re smart, and funny, and beautiful, whereas I’m merely famous. Now,” he added as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, “let’s go inside, so I can show you off just a bit more.”
    It was dark when Ciaran returned Holly to the Midtown Hotel. He walked with her across the lobby to the lift and pressed the button.
    “I don’t want this day to end,” he admitted as she stepped inside the car.
    “Me, either. It was really fun. Thanks.” Holly smiled. “I had an amazing time. “Goodnight, Ciaran,” she called out as the doors began to close.
    “Goodnight, Miss James. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    With a smile and a wink, he turned away, and left.

Chapter Nine
    On Monday morning, Christa Shaw took the key her manager had given her in London the day before and opened the front door. The townhouse, located in Gramercy Park, would be her new home for the next couple of weeks. A pair of topiary trees as round and green as lollipops flanked the entry.
    Despite her jet lag, she was beyond curious to see the interior.
    “Wow,” she breathed as she came inside and dropped her bags by the door.
    A staircase rose to the left of the entrance hall, and a Victorian chandelier hung overhead like an elaborate, old-fashioned jewel. Dark-red flocked wallpaper adorned the walls.
    She might’ve stepped back in time to the turn of the century – the
nineteenth
century. It looked like something out of an Edith Wharton novel. She half expected to see Lily Bart come sweeping down the stairs to greet her.
    “Come in and have a look at this, Dev,” she called over her shoulder. “You won’t believe it.”
    “Crikey,” he echoed as he brought in two more suitcases and set them slowly down. “This place looks like the inside of a candy box...or a bordello.”
    “It does, doesn’t it?” She picked up a white card from the elaborately carved half-moon table in the hall. “‘Gavin Williams and Associates, Interior Design.’” She put the card aside and added, “Well, we know who to blame for this Victorian nightmare, then.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Devon mused. “I kind of like it. I wonder how many bedrooms in this place?”
    “Five. Or was it six? Max told me, but I don’t remember.” Max Morecombe was the manager Christa shared with Dominic Heath, British rock singer and one of her closest friends.
    She smiled coyly. “Why do you ask, Mr Matthews? Did you want to christen the bedrooms?”
    He slid his arms around her waist. “Not just the bedrooms, love.
Every
room.”
    Christa draped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “That can be arranged,” she said huskily, and kissed him again.
    Devon dragged his mouth from hers a few minutes later and turned to pick up the suitcases. “I might as well take this stuff upstairs. I don’t know about you, but after that flight from London, I’m knackered. I could do with a few hours of sleep.”
    “Thanks for coming along. I’m glad the CID let you have a couple of weeks off.”
    “I think they were all glad to be rid of me for a bit, to be honest. And I know you’re more than a little nervous about this concert.”
    “I am,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve performed in plenty of other places, but...Madison Square Garden is the biggest venue I’ve ever played.”
    “You’ll be fine,” he said firmly. “You’ve played Glastonbury and the Royal Albert Hall, for crying out loud.”
    “But this is
huge
,” Christa said. “And it’s my first U.S. concert. What if no one shows up?”
    “The show’s sold out. It sold out within two hours.”
    “What if I forget the song lyrics? Or bollocks up one of the dance routines? There’s a
lot
of choreography.”
    “That’s what rehearsals are for,” Devon reminded her. “And you’ve got one first thing in the morning, don’t forget. Now, stop worrying. You’ve got this, babe.” He reached out and took her hand, then lifted it to his lips. “What you need is rest. You’re tired. Come on,