by Clare London
Romancing the Ugly Duckling
By Clare London
Romancing The...
Is this the makeover of a lifetime?
Ambitious fashionista Perry Goodwood lands the project of his dreams—track down a celebrity family’s missing brother in the Scottish Highlands and bring him back to London for a TV reality show. But first he must transform the rugged loner into a glamorous sophisticate.
Greg Ventura has no use for high fashion. He lives on the isolated island of North Uist to escape the reminder that he’s nowhere near as handsome as his gorgeous brothers and avoid the painful childhood memories of being bullied.
Greg wants nothing to do with city life, and Perry’s never been outside London. When Perry is stranded on North Uist, this conflict seems insurmountable. But Greg is captivated by the vivacious Perry, and Perry by both the island and his host. However, Perry’s one heartfelt wish remains: that ugly duckling Greg fulfill his potential as a swan.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
By Clare London
Coming in July 2017
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Copyright
“So what are ye here for?”
“I’m a stylist. I’m here….” How was Perry going to phrase it? To make Greg Ventura look less like a wild animal and more like his handsome brothers? To make him look like a city slicker? “I’m here to make sure he has everything he needs to fit back in.”
“Clothes?”
“Yes.”
“Haircut? Manicure, that kind of thing?”
“Yes, of course.” Perry felt suddenly rather embarrassed at his own perfectly manicured hands.
“But nae makeup?” Lisa asked.
“Well, yes if it’s needed. At least for the cameras—”
But Perry never got the chance to finish his explanation. Lisa looked at Bridie, and they both burst into laughter.
“And if he doesnae want all that?”
For the first time, Perry felt in a truly alien setting. “It’s quite usual in the media world.”
“I’m sure it is,” Bridie said. “But this is Greg Ventura we’re talking about. The man who hasn’t bought new clothes for a year, who doesn’t have a decent mirror in his house. The man who thinks he’s barely one step up in looks from Willie Aitken’s pigs.”
Chapter One
SOMEWHERE along the line, at some distant, unremembered stage of a previous life, Perry Goodwood must have done something really good. His too small but tastefully decorated office in the Latham Agency, London, was currently full of men. Tall, dark-haired, dancing-eyed, perfectly groomed, shirt-straining-torso’d men. Four of them. Brothers, no less.
He hadn’t seen such a fine selection of male gorgeousness since he was a young gay teenager with copies of Men’s Health secreted under his mattress. And even then, the gorgeousness had been static, easily creased, and with eyes only for the camera. Today’s exhibition was nothing remotely like that titillating but ultimately unsatisfying experience of his youth. This was, quite honestly, a lusty heaven come to life—and it was all happening in his office! Perry Goodwood, lowly assistant fashion designer, occasional actor/model, and makeover consultant to several TV stars. Well, B-list ones, at least. Admittedly, Perry’s personal client portfolio—and any further plans for developing worldwide domination—was still a work in progress.
But someone, somewhere, had recommended his services to this astonishing group of Adonises. If Perry hadn’t known that person was his rather creepy boss, Eddy Latham, he’d have offered to love them forever.
“So, Mr. Goodwood, can you help us?”
Perry blinked hard. Someone was talking to him. One of the gorgeous brothers was talking to him. The one who seemed older and in charge of the group. He was staring at Perry with earnest dark eyes. An errant curl teased his forehead, and the beautifully trimmed beard brushed his strong, manly jaw like a caress.
Perry’s lower lip wobbled with excitement.
“It’s a matter of total discretion, of course,” the man continued. “My family can trust you on that, I’m sure.”
Perry hadn’t matched all the other names to the faces, partly because they all began with the initial G, and partly because his brain had shorted out after the third firm, warm, crushing handshake. But he recognized this hero at least. Geoffrey Ventura, Premier League footballer for the last ten years, with a hallowed place in the England squad for the last five, though Perry would’ve been hard-pressed to name the tournaments as he never watched football, just the footballers. But Geoff Ventura was also a darling of the press, one of the wittiest and most quoted sports celebrities in the media, and eldest sibling of a family notable for its testosterone-fueled sportsmen and their glamorous social partners.
Perry had suffered crushes on many a straight man in his time, but he didn’t dare admit that, in his teens, he’d had a picture of rising star Geoff Ventura under his bed. And now the man himself was here. In Perry’s office.
Heavens, you already know all this. Get a grip, Perry!
“Of course you can trust me,” Perry said. “We pride ourselves at the Latham Agency in delivering what our client wants in a professional and discreet way.” God, he sounded like he was reading from the glossy brochure.
“Mr. Latham told us we could rely on you,” Geoff said. “I’m so reassured.”
That was amazing in itself. Perry couldn’t remember the last time Eddy Latham, the owner of the PR agency, had been that positive about Perry’s career prospects. Eddy wasn’t the world’s best at staff motivation. But for the moment, Perry’s cynicism was squashed by the glow from Geoff Ventura’s praise. “I’ll certainly do my best for you. What is it exactly you need?”
“It’s not us who needs it,” said another brother at Geoff’s shoulder.
Perry had placed all the other Venturas by now. This slightly more scowly one was Gerry, ex-university rower and now something Big in City Finance. He’d married a supermodel who was purportedly related to the ill-fated Russian royal family, if Who’s Doing Who? was to be believed. It was the magazine of choice in the agency staff room, bought and pored over religiously every week by Perry’s friend and colleague, Antony.
“Gerry’s right,” Geoff said. He looked slightly uncomfortable. “We need your help for our brother Greg.”
Perry didn’t remember a fifth brother in any of the celebrity interviews. “There’s another one like you?”
Gerry Ventura snorted.
“Gerry, please,” Geoff said warnin
gly.
“Greg didn’t want to be part of the family, Geoff. He’s the one who scarpered off as soon as he was old enough, didn’t he? Don’t see why we’re chasing after him now.”
“He ran off?” Perry was having trouble keeping up, let alone understanding what it had to do with him.
“Greg lives elsewhere,” Geoff said smoothly.
“Fucking middle of nowhere,” Gerry muttered.
“But he’s still family,” contributed one of the remaining two brothers. They looked a few years younger than the others, just as well-dressed but considerably livelier, and more alike in the flesh than in photos, which was to be expected as they were the twins, George and Gareth. They’d both had short-lived but controversial careers in movies, and now had investments in a long list of London nightclubs. Lived most of their lives in those establishments too, as Perry recalled from media gossip.
“And that’s the point, isn’t it?” said the other twin. The two of them rocked back on their heels, crossing their arms and presenting a brace of smug, mirror-image grins.
Perry looked to Geoff for guidance. “The point…?” He only had two seats in his office, which he’d offered to Geoff and Gerry at the start, then taken Gerry’s seat himself because Gerry hadn’t seemed to want to settle. He now stood with the twins, all of them ranged behind Geoff like an imperial guard protecting their emperor.
Geoff leaned forward in his chair, reaching out a beautifully manicured hand to grasp Perry’s, as if they were the only people in the world. The one thing that saved Perry’s head from being turned by this personal attention—and it threatened to set him spinning more than that poor girl in The Exorcist—was that he remembered seeing Geoff use this tactic before in a TV interview.
“You see, Perry,” Geoff said in his smooth, very persuasive way, “we have a commitment. A media contract.”
“A potential contract,” Gerry snapped.
Geoff’s shoulders tensed but otherwise he ignored his brother, his gaze still fixed on Perry. “Yes, it’s still potential at this delicate stage of the negotiations. And it’s contingent on the whole family being involved—all the brothers. We all need to be available, and together.”
Perry nodded slowly. Things were becoming clearer. “And your brother Greg isn’t with you?”
Gerry snorted again. “Not in any bloody way.”
Geoff bit his lip as if restraining his temper with difficulty. “Certainly not in terms of location. And not… well, not in his lifestyle choices either. That’s why we’ve come to Latham’s Agency. Greg needs to be back here in London with us—and looking his very best—by the end of next month to sign the deal.”
“It’s all or nothing,” said Twin #1.
“All for one and one for all!” added Twin #2 gleefully. He turned to Twin #1, and they high-fived each other.
“Bloody kids,” Gerry muttered.
Perry was still floundering a bit, but before he could ask any more questions, his boss stuck his head around the door. “Everything going well?” he asked with loud, blustering, and rather insincere jollity.
Perry resisted rolling his eyes. At times like this, Eddy Latham was the worst kind of boss, in that he wanted to be in on all the projects but was never prepared to do any of the work. “Everything’s fine, Mr. Latham.”
Unfortunately that wasn’t enough incentive for Eddy to withdraw. Instead he eased himself into the room with the other five men, taking up a position beside Perry’s chair. Eddy was only five foot six, but about the same measurements around the middle. As the Venturas took several steps to the side to accommodate him, Perry couldn’t help comparing it to a rush-hour commuter jumping onto the train just as it pulled away and squeezing everyone else along inside the carriage.
“As I suggested, Peregrine’s your man,” Eddy said confidently. He was the only person who ever used Perry’s full name. “He launched Mandy Price, the glamor model turned TV presenter. And Professor Ignatius Froome, that academic who never brushed his hair or cleaned his teeth before Peregrine took him in hand. I’m sure you remember them both? The makeovers were impressive. My agency’s credentials speak for themselves.”
Unfortunately, Perry remembered both of those obstreperous clients with nothing less than horror. He’d long suspected Eddy passed all the lost causes to Perry so that if Perry succeeded, the agency would benefit, but if he failed to deliver the makeover—well, it’d be Perry’s fault alone. This wasn’t going to be one of those jobs, was it?
Geoff Ventura glanced at Perry. “This is far more than a cosmetic job.”
“I can do far more than a cosmetic job,” Perry said smartly.
A small smile twitched at the edge of Geoff’s lips. “Yes, I’m sure you can.”
“Geoff, you’re not serious?” Gerry snapped. “This can’t work.”
Geoff frowned at his brother. “We have no other choice.”
“Rubbish! I say we negotiate without Greg.”
Geoff shook his head. “They won’t agree to that. I’ve tried. It’s all or none of us.”
“No fucking way.” Gerry’s face grew darker. “They won’t go with the Howells instead of us. They wouldn’t be that stupid. A bunch of ponced-up shop boys and girls without an ounce of genuine talent between them? With us, they have real celebrity. We’ve all succeeded in our own field. We have true credibility. The public loves us.”
Perry’s ears pricked up. The Howells were another celebrity family from south London, and always in the popular media. They consisted of three wannabe supermodels, a loud-mouthed matriarch, and several young men with impossibly white teeth, and Perry followed their exploits avidly. Well, he was gay. And only human. In fact, it had been his mischief that renamed them in the office as the Howlers.
Geoff shrugged, but his expression had hardened. “The public loves them too. It’s what the media does, Gerry. Chooses what makes the best TV, regardless of merit.”
Perry leaned surreptitiously toward the twins, speaking half under his breath. “Are we talking about a TV deal here?”
Twin#1—possibly George—nodded vigorously. “A reality show series. You know, like the Kardashians? It’d be really big. The production company wants to feature a London family.”
Gareth joined in. “They approached both us and the Howells, and they’re filming simultaneous pilot episodes next month.”
“A day in the life,” George said breathlessly.
“Warts and all!” Gareth followed with a deep chuckle, though only he and George seemed to be finding this whole thing funny.
In fact, Gerry’s face was like thunder as he leaned over to hiss at Geoff. “We need this show, you hear me?”
“Things not so rosy in the financial garden? I hear you’ve been overtrading in some of your more bullish deals,” Geoff said snidely.
“Don’t get high and mighty with me. I hear you haven’t been chosen for the first team squad this season, so you’ll be needing another income as well.”
“For God’s sake—!”
“Gentlemen, please!” Eddy cried, flapping his hands as if to cool them all down.
“I’m just saying that this is an opportunity we don’t want to miss,” Gerry growled, still glaring at Geoff. “And it’s critical we all look good—that we all look civilized. We’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“Even Greg?” Geoff said tightly.
“Especially Greg,” Gerry snapped.
The room fell silent for a moment. Geoff looked weary, Gerry still glared, and the twins tried, unsuccessfully in Perry’s opinion, to look innocent of everything.
Perry asked tentatively, “About your brother Greg. Can you give me any idea what I’d be working with?”
“Go on,” Gerry said to Geoff. “Show him.”
With a low sigh, Geoff pulled out a photo from his jacket’s inner pocket and handed it to Perry.
The first surprise was that the photo was of a teenage boy rather than a man. Wasn’t Greg Ventura an adult like his brothers?
It looked like an old photograph too: something about the fuzzy quality of the print. The boy was in the foreground, leaning back against a wooden fence in a field, scowling at the camera as if he wanted to attack it with the heavy spade he gripped in one hand. Perry could see his resemblance to the other Ventura brothers in his square jaw and smoldering eyes, but the similarity ended there. He had none of their rugged, elegantly styled good looks. He was tall and broad, but his limbs looked too large for his body, obvious in the clumsy way he slouched against the fence. His dark hair was all over the place, badly cut with lank tangles brushing his shoulders and hanging over his forehead. The clothes didn’t do much to help either. His jeans were patched in several places, and worn and stained over the knees. And in Perry’s opinion, a faded flannel shirt was rarely a good look on such a young man. Was that dirt on the rolled-up sleeve, or something worse? Perry gave a private shudder.
The worst thing was the acne. Poor kid was covered with it, from chin to forehead, what Perry could see of his skin under the thatch of hair. No wonder he tried to hide his face. His nose was big in proportion to his cheeks, his eyes very widely spaced. That generous mouth might have been attractive in a smile, but instead it was twisted in a weirdly uneven and unpleasant scowl.
“Um. What is he… twelve? Thirteen?” Perry asked.
“Twenty-five at the moment,” George said with a grin.
“Nearly twenty-six,” Gareth added. “His birthday is in two months’ time.”
“But this photo—”
“It’s the only one I could find,” Geoff said shortly. For a brief moment, he looked pained. “That’s him at our uncle’s farm in Hampshire. We used to spend school holidays there.”
“Ghastly place,” Gerry muttered. “Wild animals and filth everywhere.”
“Greg loved it!” George retorted.
“You’re a snob, Gerry,” Gareth added. The twins didn’t seem to have any shame in insulting their elders.
