The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(98)

She heard her name—bone-deep, innate terror—from a guttural voice that she didn’t initially recognise as Griff’s, and then instinct kicked in and she was flinging herself at her father, knocking him towards safety. His stick hit her shin, but she felt nothing.

In a manoeuvre that was so hairline-close to hitting her it would have been too dangerous to film had this actually been a staged stunt, the brakes clamped down and the car stopped. Suddenly. Abruptly. And the night was so quiet and still it was almost more shocking than what had come before.

Sprawled across her father’s legs, Freddy raised her head, feeling as if her neck couldn’t support it, and looked into his dead-white face. His lips moved, but no words emerged.

She heard a rapid clicking sound, and realised vaguely that someone was taking photos.

In that state of what-the-absolute-fuck and why-is-my-head-floating, she saw Charlie emerge from the crowd, equally pale, and hold up his phone. “Well,” he said, his voice shaking so badly he was barely comprehensible, “the remote brake system works.”

Then, roughly, he yanked open the driver side door of the car, and hauled out Joe Ferren.

Freddy didn’t see what happened next because Griff was down on the ground beside her, and her senses returned in a rush of sensation with the silky feel of his shirt and the warmth of his rapid breaths against her neck and the hard clutch of his hands. Inhaling in a gasp, she clung to his body, smelling the comforting, familiar scent of his hair, and felt how badly he was shaking. His palm held the back of her head, and his beautiful nose was smooshed into her throat. He was saying words there, but she heard only the timbre of his voice.

When he cupped her cheeks with hands that still shook, she had the stupid passing thought that at least her head was securely attached now, with him holding on to it, and then his mouth was on hers, and he was kissing her hard. She managed to lift arms that felt like weights, wrapping them around his neck, kissing him back just as desperately.

He tore his mouth from hers. “Jesus Christ.” He kissed her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, her lips again. “Are you all right?” The question was forceful, demanding—and echoing with lingering horror.

“Yes?” Still bewildered, her response was more of a question than an affirmation, but he closed his eyes.

“God.” He buried his mouth against her temple. “Freddy. Darling.”

More than anything, it was that rare, beautiful endearment that brought her back to herself. “What happened—Dad? Dad, are you all right?”

As Griff helped her to her feet, she turned swiftly, but Sabrina and Akiko had already gone to Rupert, standing either side of him while he felt gingerly at his back. “I’m fine.” He looked as shocked as she felt. “Freddy—Christ. You could have been hit. You shouldn’t have—”

Pieces of recollection came back to Freddy, the memory of him tensing against her, and she shuddered, holding tightly to Griff. “I could feel you about to push me out of the way,” she said, her breath hitching. “Again. I couldn’t let you be hurt again because of me.”

Her father’s face changed, the shock of the near miss overtaken by realisation, and almost...shame. “Freddy. Baby girl. Whatever else I—I’ve done, surely you’ve never thought that I blamed you for what happened at the Majestic?”

Before she could answer, Ferren came stumbling forward, rubbing at his ruffled hair. His beard was growing in, and he looked typically handsome and romantic—and, by the looks that surrounded him, he was a dead man walking. “What the fuck,” he muttered, “is wrong with that car?”

“What’s wrong with that car,” Charlie snapped, “is that it’s completely wired for an experimental remote system. You can’t access half the controls right now without the app.”

Ferren scowled. “Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

“You were supposed to not fucking break into my garage and steal it, and almost mow down my brother’s girlfriend, you utter fucking twat.”

Very belatedly, Ferren addressed Freddy and Rupert. “Sorry.” He scrubbed his hand over his head again. “You two all right?”

Freddy felt Griff’s body tense in the instant before her cool, contained critic lunged at Ferren, and her past jaguar comparisons no longer seemed amusing. He looked absolutely livid.

“You piece of shit.” Griff’s fist knotted in the front of Ferren’s shirt and he yanked him forward, and that was the impetus for Freddy to recover her wits completely.

There were plenty of witnesses around and several journalists still avidly filming, and if he broke Ferren’s jaw, the biggest drama queen in British film would inevitably press charges.

“Griff.” She jumped towards him, but Charlie was already there, dragging him off.

“Mate, I get it, but you’re going to end up under arrest.” He spoke hastily, right in his brother’s ear, and when Griff tried to tug free, took a different tack. “Freddy needs you.”

Breathing hard, Griff stilled and turned to look at her again. Freddy was actually feeling not too bad now, but she immediately tried to look in need of immense support. From the flash of reluctant amusement that crossed Griff’s face, it wasn’t convincing at all, but it succeeded in calming him down enough that he stepped away from Ferren.

Coming back to her, he pulled her into his arms and pressed his mouth against her hair. “Okay,” he said. “I’m not going to hit him.”