by Maggie Cox
Freya picked up the top newspaper and scanned the headlines.
She saw the photograph of her and Nash before she could comprehend the accompanying title. Distress was clearly evident on her shocked face, but it was Nash’s heart-stopping visage that riveted her even more. The photograph had captured him with his arm tightly circled around her waist, and he looked both possessive and fierce. All the moisture seemed to dry up inside her mouth.
“I got up early to go and get those.” Nash jerked his head toward the newspaper. “I wanted to see what they’d write.”
“And? Wait… Don’t tell me. No doubt it’s something along the lines of ‘has-been actress falls down drunk in the street’!” Was there no end to this torment of mind, body and soul? Resigned, she waited for Nash to tell her the worst. Her French was fairly inadequate, and there was just a minimal amount of words she understood.
“It’s nothing like that.”
“Then, what is it?”
“They’re suggesting that you and I are lovers.”
MAGGIE COX loved to write almost as soon as she learned to read. Her favorite occupation was daydreaming and making up stories in her head, and this particular pastime has stayed with her through all the years of growing up, starting work, marrying and raising a family. No matter what was going on in her life, whether joy, happiness, struggle or disappointment, she’d go to bed each night and lose herself in her imagination. Through all the years of her secretarial career, she kept on filling exercise books and—joy, oh, joy—her word processor with her writing, never showing anyone what she wrote and basically keeping her stories for her own enjoyment alone. It wasn’t until she met her second husband, the love of her life, that she was persuaded to start sharing those stories with a publisher. Maggie settled on Harlequin Books, as she had loved romance novels since she was a teenager and read at least one or two paperbacks a week. After several rejections, the letters that were sent back from the publisher started to become more and more positive and encouraging, and in July 2002 she sold her first book, A Passionate Protector, to Harlequin® Presents.
The fact that she is being published is truly a dream come true. However, each book she writes is still a journey in courage and hope and a quest to learn and grow and be the best writer she can. Her advice to aspiring authors is “Don’t give up at the first hurdle, or even the second, third or fourth, but keep on keeping on until your dream is realized. Because if you are truly passionate about writing and learning the craft, as Paulo Coelho states in his book The Alchemist, ‘The Universe will conspire to help you’ make it a reality.”
REPUTATION IN TATTERS
MAGGIE COX
~ Rescued by the Rich Man ~
REPUTATION IN TATTERS
To give and receive love is
our highest purpose
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
‘NASH! Good to see you, my friend. Thanks for dropping by at such short notice. I know you’re a very busy man.’
His hand was gripped by the bearlike clasp of the tall, dark-eyed, bearded giant in front of him, and Nash Taylor-Grant’s answering smile was brief but relaxed. ‘No problem. You’d better tell me what all this is about.’
‘I’ll get my secretary to bring us in some coffee first.’
‘You go ahead, but I’ll take a rain-check, if you don’t mind.’ Nash grimaced as he peeled off his expensive coat and sat down in one of the leather club chairs opposite the long polished desk. ‘Cutting down on the caffeine,’ he offered laconically.
Nash hadn’t known Oliver Beaumarche long, but in the relatively short time they’d been acquainted it had become clear that the wealthy and successful restaurateur was to be a good friend. Having regularly dined at both his upmarket London restaurants—for business and for pleasure—Nash didn’t hesitate to recommend the establishments to his other well-connected friends whenever the opportunity arose.
Now Oliver had asked for Nash’s help in a professional capacity, and although he hadn’t hesitated to assure him that of course he would help, in whatever way he could, Nash was perplexed as to why the older man would need the kind of expertise that he particularly excelled in. ‘Damage limitation’ was how his stock in trade was known in the PR business—the protection of famous clients’ reputations in the media—and it had made Nash’s fortune. And, whilst Oliver Beaumarche was a respected and well-known name in the world of high-profile eateries, he was hardly an A-list or even B-list celebrity—and as far as Nash was aware he hadn’t been involved in any scandal lately that would make his reputation in need of rescuing.
‘Well, then.’ Following his lead, Oliver lowered his large, impressive frame into a wing-backed chair and sighed heavily. ‘Someone I very much care about has been going through the most horrendous situation and needs some help. Unfortunately it’s not the kind of help that I can deal with on my own, and that’s why I need to talk to you.’
His lightly tanned brow furrowing, Nash leant forward in his seat, loosely linking his hands together as he thoughtfully surveyed the other man. ‘It all sounds a bit of a mystery, if you don’t mind my saying. You know what I do…so how can I help?’
‘The girl I’m talking about is my niece…my sister Yvette’s only child. I’m afraid I’ve rather doted on her since she was a baby, and when she lost her father when she was only six—I suppose I took on a paternal role in her life.’
‘You aren’t making this any clearer, my friend.’ Now it was Nash’s turn to sigh. As much as he respected the other man, and genuinely wanted to be of assistance if he could, he had practically back-to-back appointments waiting for him at the office all the way up to seven o’clock this evening, and after that an important dinner with another valuable client. He sat back in his chair and swept his fingers through his hair, the floppily perfect dark blond strands falling back at an unconsciously rakish angle.
‘Perhaps I should introduce her? Then no doubt all will become clear.’ Getting to his feet, Oliver walked across to a door situated a few feet behind his desk and opened it. ‘It’s all right, darling…you can come in now,’ he invited warmly.
The frown that was already furrowing Nash’s perplexed brow deepened. He hardly knew what to expect before the slender dark-eyed brunette walked in. When she did, immediately he felt adrenalin pump through his insides, as though he was on a white-knuckle fairground ride. Although her exotic features were touched with just a mere application of make-up, and the plain dark grey suit she wore over a red wool sweater was not an outfit that was designed to demand attention, the face before him was immediately familiar. Freya Carpenter—an actress whose star had definitely been on the rise up until a couple of years ago, when there had been untold speculation in the press about her volatile marriage and her addiction to drink and possibly drugs.
Nash had met her once, at some celebrity bash he’d gone to, and although she’d looked more than sober enough at the time he’d been struck by how remote she’d appeared amidst the sea of well-known faces—as though the entire experience was an ordeal she’d really like to escape from. No…at that particular event it had been Freya’s husband who’d been drinking too much and generally making a damn nuisance of himself. Nash remembered musing on how such a talented, beautiful girl could end up with such a loser. But if the rumours about her drinking and drug using were true, then clearly the woman’s capacity for making good choices as
far as her personal life was concerned was very definitely flawed.
Now, as he got to his feet and offered her his hand in greeting, of course he instantly knew why she might be in need of his help. Apart from the damage done to her reputation by accusations of drinking and drug-taking, two years ago Freya had also gone through the most horrendous divorce—an event that had been nothing less than trial by the media, and which had consequently lost her an important part in a major film because the producers had commented at the time that she was unstable. Then, just over a year ago, she had reportedly almost got herself killed in a car smash. Her ex-husband had very vocally reinforced the public perception that she’d been high on drink and drugs at the time. She’d been supposedly mourning their split, and the fact that he had left her for some nineteen-year-old fashion model who was pregnant with his baby.
Reading between the lines, and recalling her solemn face at that party whilst her husband had commanded most of the attention with his loud-mouthed antics, Nash now came to the conclusion that there was a hell of a lot more behind that story than the public had been led to believe. The young woman standing before him might have gone off the rails in her personal life, but she was still an actress with some highly notable roles to her name. She’d even graced the London stage a couple of times, and won critical praise bar none, so she was no bimbo just in it for the fame. That made it even more puzzling that she had wound up with a disaster like James Frazier.
The most recent slur to suddenly reignite frenzied interest in the actress had been speculation about her mental stability, and it had had the press camping out in droves on her doorstep for the past week. The story went that Freya Carpenter was all washed up: she’d suffered a major breakdown and was not likely to return to the stage or screen any time soon. Yes…it was obvious to Nash why Oliver Beaumarche’s famous niece might urgently need the help of a man like him…
‘Freya, this is Nash Taylor-Grant,’ Oliver introduced her.
Warily, it seemed, she placed her chilled palm in his, and Nash saw her flinch as if contact with another human being—any human being—was tantamount to putting her hand into a tank of piranhas. Vaguely troubled, he volunteered a smile nonetheless. ‘We’ve met before, Ms Carpenter…a long time ago at a party. I doubt that you’d remember.’
‘I thought you looked familiar…although I have to say I can’t recall the particular party.’ Quickly withdrawing her hand, she pulled her glance away with it and went to sit in the seat that her uncle had positioned for her near his, her quick, light movements naturally graceful.
Once the men had resumed their seats, Oliver Beaumarche glanced very seriously at Nash. ‘You will now have some idea as to why we need your help. I never told you about my connection with Freya before because naturally, as someone who cares very deeply about her welfare, my need to protect her privacy has always been paramount,’ he commented, stealing a moment to smile at the reserved brunette. ‘But now Freya wants to start rebuilding her career after the trauma she has been through, and she cannot do so unhindered while her unscrupulous ex-husband is still busy doing his utmost to undo every bit of good that she is trying so hard to achieve. Look at what has happened now, for instance! She has been nothing less than a prisoner in her own home after all this ridiculous nonsense in the press about her state of mind, and I do not doubt for a minute that the rumours were started by that good-for-nothing, unspeakable—’
‘Please don’t think that I am totally blaming my ex-husband for my recent lack of success, Mr Taylor-Grant,’ Freya interjected quietly and her mesmerising, slightly smoky voice had the disarming effect of making all the hairs on the back of Nash’s neck stand on end. ‘I take full responsibility for what’s happening in my life. It’s my uncle who seems to believe that my reputation needs some help—though if you ask me after this latest fiasco I think it would probably be better if I just go quietly away somewhere and disappear until everybody forgets about me.’
An ironic little smile touched a mouth that was undeniably tinged with sadness yet still suggested the most riveting sensuality. As though hypnotised, Nash felt his gaze magnetised by it. He shifted ever so slightly in his seat. ‘I don’t think anyone who has read the papers or heard the news in the past couple of years would deny that your reputation has definitely taken a bit of a battering, Ms Carpenter. Nonetheless…I’m certain that there must be a lot of public sympathy out there for your predicament.’
A shadow of distress seemed to pass across her arresting features. Her slender shoulders stiffened beneath her unremarkable fitted jacket and her velvety brown eyes stared almost accusingly at Nash. ‘I’m not looking for sympathy, Mr Taylor-Grant! And I’m not mentally unstable either! I’m angry, but then I think I have a right to be! Look…all I want is to be able to get on with my life again without interference. Can you imagine what it’s been like being literally hounded by a pack of story-hungry reporters and photographers? If I did have a breakdown, could anybody blame me?’
‘I don’t think they could. It can’t be pleasant,’ Nash concurred.
‘Besides…why should the public have sympathy for someone they believe had everything and then threw it all away because she let her private life go to rack and ruin? They probably think I got exactly what I deserved!’
‘I’d hardly call a major car accident and defamation of character by someone I presume must have loved you once upon a time something that you “deserved”…. Would you?’
His words were like a cutlass, slicing her in half, and for a long, dreadful moment Freya was frozen by the wave of pain that throbbed sharply through her. Did he but know it, he was wrong about James loving her. Oh, his passionate words and declarations of being crazy in love with her had definitely convinced Freya that he was in earnest at the time, but she had quickly discovered that lies and deceit came very easily to him—especially when employed to get him whatever it was that would serve his own greedy ambition. But still Freya had to silently admit that she’d been complicit in all too easily believing his lies…
‘Freya?’ Her uncle’s unfailingly kind eyes regarded her with more concern than she could handle right then. He’d been so good to her…so patient. And she wished that not even one single ounce of her predicament had ever visited its pain upon his heart.
‘I’m fine…really. But if I’m honest…’ She glanced at Nash and made herself endure the unflinching examination in his piercing blue gaze—an examination that seemed to reach deep inside her and see her soul laid bare… Was he looking to gain some advantage? she wondered. She’d learned the hard way to be wary in a profession that raised you up to the skies one minute and then sent you crashing back down to earth onto a bed of red-hot nails the next. Her uncle was too trusting for his own good sometimes. How long had he known this PR guru, anyway? Not long, was her guess. Though it was perfectly true that she remembered seeing Nash before…even though her comment about forgetting which party they’d met at had probably convinced him that she was probably too drunk or high at the time to remember.
Freya had been neither, and a flash of anger and despair assailed her. But, recalling the encounter with Nash, she remembered she’d certainly observed at the time that the man possessed an almost careless kind of male beauty and a sexual aura that was magnetising. She also recalled that the lissom beauty who had accompanied him that night had poured herself into the kind of tight-fitting dress that had made Freya wonder how she even breathed in it, let alone moved! The woman had spent practically the entire evening gazing up at her escort adoringly, as if there was no other man in the room but him.
It had been painful for Freya to witness such obvious adoration when her less than charming husband had been busy making a spectacle of both himself and her. Now, regarding Nash as he sat opposite her on the other side of Oliver Beaumarche’s generous-sized desk, she guessed it would be all too easy to succumb to that frank, inviting demeanour of his and tell him everything…all the sordid little secrets of her disastrous soul-destr
oying marriage and the quite staggering mistakes she’d made along the way. The very thought was apt to make her doubly wary of the power he might so easily wield should she confess anything to him.
‘I think this is a waste of time,’ she continued. ‘I’m in no hurry to get back into the limelight, Mr Taylor-Grant. I’m not saying I would never want to work in the industry again, but when I do it will definitely be behind the scenes. I’ve had my fifteen minutes of fame, and quite frankly I’d rather jump off a cliff than willingly submit my private life to the kind of vicious intrusion that I’ve had to endure ever again!’
‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Ms Carpenter, that’s going to be a tall order under the circumstances.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well…’ Nash crossed his legs at the knee of his dark blue Armani suit, and rested his arms alongside the chair’s dark cherry surround. ‘So long as the press and the public keep speculating about you, and so long as your ex-husband keeps feeding them lies…I presume that they are lies?…then I doubt if you’ll be allowed to get on with your life in peace and work behind the scenes as you desire. Have you even made a statement refuting your ex’s most recent allegation?’ he asked her. ‘Not the one about you having a breakdown…the other one.’
Freya knew immediately what Nash was referring to, and she sensed heat rise in her face as his unwavering gaze locked onto hers with even more acuity than before.
‘You mean that recent little slur about my sexuality? Do you think anyone really believes such salacious drivel?’
Nash said nothing. Although Freya’s cheeks had turned slightly pink, he guessed it was more out of rage than embarrassment. Good for her! he thought privately. If she still had some fight in her after what her apparently malicious ex-husband had done to her then that would be all to the good in helping her work towards full recovery. Although if he was honest Nash still couldn’t understand why she had given a waste of space like Frazier so much power over her life and her career in the first place. How people fooled themselves when it came to relationships. They took more care, it seemed, in choosing a car or a house than a life partner!
