CHAPTER ONE
SYLVIA SHIVERED as she exited the theater into the chilly night. The weather in New York City ignored the calendars often enough, so it wasn't surprising that in late March they were still experiencing temperatures below forty degrees, but Sylvia always dressed with her optimism instead of her common sense.
If her damn headache turned into a cold, she would only have herself to blame.
She tried to burrow under her coat and push her hands deeper into her pockets, considering her options. She paused on the sidewalk as people coming out of the theater moved around her. She should really go home, take an aspirin, and sleep it off—whatever it was—but she'd planned to go to the stage door tonight. Charlie Amis had performed today as the lead, and Sylvia had loved him since she'd seen him last year in Coming to Seattle, so she'd been hoping to meet him tonight.
I'll take the aspirin and go to bed, she promised herself as she turned into the side alley. In an hour or so.
Someone bumped into her, pushing her to the side, and Sylvia lost her footing. She managed to avoid falling to the ground by reaching out to brace herself against the wall, but dark spots clouded her vision. She closed her eyes. Damn it.
Nausea joined the headache, and Sylvia squatted down, taking a deep breath, but that just made things worse. The smell of the dumpsters a few feet away hit her, and she almost gagged.
"Hey, are you okay?"
She raised her head slowly to look at the good Samaritan passer-by, and the first thing she noticed were shiny black shoes. As she let her gaze follow the path up from there, Sylvia took in the sight of a well-dressed, tall man with wide shoulders, who looked exactly like…
"You look like Greg Abrams." The words slipped out before she could stop herself, and Sylvia winced.
The man sighed. "Yeah, I know, I've heard it before."
Greg Abrams was an international movie star whose face was on a cover of a magazine every other week. His latest movie, the third one in the Collectibles franchise, was the highest grossing movie of all time. She wouldn't get it wrong.
"Oh my God. I'm about to throw up in front of Greg Abrams." Her brain-to-mouth filter still wasn't working, but the man in front of her only chuckled and took a small step back.
"Are you really?" Greg-Freaking-Abrams asked, handing her a small water bottle he apparently had in his pocket, ready to rescue random women from utter humiliation.
She took it after a second of hesitation. "The jury's still out on that one."
"Drink the water, then. Slow sips should settle your stomach."
Sylvia had no idea if it was true—she could just as well end up throwing up water instead of her early dinner—but in the end, she did as he'd told her.
After a minute or two, she began to feel marginally better. The headache was still there, but the nausea had retreated and the black spots were gone.
"Thank you. I don't think I'm going to throw up now."
Greg-Freaking-Abrams—Sylvia really couldn't stop thinking about him this way—offered her a quick, one-sided smile. "Great. Then it's relatively safe to do this." He eyed the wall next to her and stepped closer, squatting by her side without leaning against the building.
"What are you doing?" Sylvia raised her eyebrows at the guy.
"Keeping you company until you feel better."
"I feel better already."
He shook his head. "Better than now. Good enough to actually leave this…place." He frowned at their surroundings, and she didn't blame him. As she looked around now, she realized she'd ended up in probably the filthiest corner of the street, with a dumpster only a few feet away on either side of her.
She closed her eyes for a moment. "I'm trying to will myself to feel better faster," she told him.
He chuckled."Well, sometimes it works."
Sylvia opened her eyes to look at him. "Does it?"
"It worked for me a few times, I guess." He glanced down at the ground. "I tend to feel sick right before a big premiere."
She grimaced. "I imagine throwing up on the red carpet could potentially be worse than doing it in the back alley."
"Potentially, yes."
Sylvia took another sip of the water to have a moment to collect herself. She was sitting between the dumpsters and talking with a movie star about throwing up. Or, she was having some vivid hallucinations. If she had a fever, it wasn't that improbable…
"So, what are you doing here?" Greg asked right when the silence was about to slide into the uncomfortable territory. "Were you coming from the theater?"
Sylvia winced and remembered where she'd been heading to. Damn it, she was going to miss Charlie Amis after all. "Yes. I wanted to go to the stage door." Then she realized she hadn't even introduced herself. "I'm Sylvia, by the way."
"Greg. Nice to meet you." He smiled as if it was truly nice to meet a strange woman in a back alley like this. "I saw Illuminations as well. Great show."
"Right?" Sylvia brightened and sat up straighter. "I love it. Tonight was my third time."
"Third time? Wow, that's some dedication." Greg shook his head. "I don't remember watching anything three times in recent years."
Sylvia decided she probably shouldn't tell him that she'd watched her favorite play eight times last season. Three times was not uncommon for her at all.
"I'm a big Broadway addict," she admitted. "That's kind of what I do."
"Lucky you." Greg smiled. "There's a lot of shows I want to see while I'm here, but this was my first. I only got into town yesterday."
"You were lucky to see Charlie Amis as the lead. He's an understudy, but he's amazing," Sylvia said, playing with the cap of the bottle. "Not that the main actor isn't great, too, I just… Charlie's something else."
Greg's smile only grew. "That he is." He shifted in his crouch but still kept away from the wall. Sylvia didn't blame him. His coat probably cost more than she spent on tickets in a year. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine." The nausea was completely gone now and the headache was halfway there. "I think I'm ready to leave."
She pulled her legs closer to her so it would be easier to get up, but he raised his hand, stopping her.
"Listen, I would give you a ride home, but I'm"—his lips twisted in a mocking smile—"under a watchful eye. If someone catches us getting into one car, it'll turn into a mess."
Sylvia was shaking her head before he even finished. "No, really, forget it, the metro is close and—"
"No, no, no way." He grabbed a wallet from his pocket. "Taxi will take you home. My treat."
"I'm not taking your money," she protested. "I'm fine. Besides, I can afford a cab if I need one."
He lowered his head a bit to catch her gaze and Sylvia lost her train of thought. Damn, but his presence suddenly got more intense. "Look, I'm not trying to offend you or anything. I'd drive you home myself, but since I can't, this is the least I can do." He handed her a fifty-dollar bill.
Sylvia looked at the money. She hadn't even been planning to take a cab before. "I really don't—"
"My mother would kill me if I let you go on without making sure you're safe. Fifty bucks isn't a high price to pay for staying alive."
Not wanting to fight with him about this anymore, she finally accepted the gift. "Thank you."
He rose to his feet and extended a hand to help her get up. When she looked up at him, she was suddenly hit once again by the fact that he was a big shot movie star—a big shot movie star who hung around with her between the dumpsters, offered to pay for her cab, and now pulled her up so easily she didn't even stumble like she usually did.
Greg gave her a nod and a smile before stepping out of the shadows first. She followed right after him only to lose her footing a second later and fall forward. He caught her easily and pulled her into a standing position, but they ended up with barely any space left between them.
Sudden flashes from the side blinded her, and Sylvia hid her head against his chest on instinct.
Oh God, she thought, closing her eyes. So much for not making a mess.