Secrets of the Rich & Famous

by Charlotte Phillips - Secrets of the Rich

  ‘Somewhere else isn’t good enough,’ she said. ‘It has to be here.’

  A lightbulb flickered on in his mind at the desperation clearly audible in her voice. Was that it? She was some kind of obsessive fan? Oh, great. Just what he needed.

  He tried to speak kindly. ‘Listen, Jennifer, I know there’s a strong fan base for my work, and I’m grateful for that, but you have to understand I like to keep my work life and my private life separate.’

  More like have to, from now on.

  He saw her eyes widen, and her lip curled a little. It occurred to him that for a fan she didn’t seem particularly keen on him.

  ‘This isn’t about you!’ she snapped. ‘It’s about the address.’

  She wasn’t making any sense. He felt suddenly very tired. Not surprising after the few days he’d had and the night flight in from the States.

  ‘What’s so significant about this address if it isn’t the fact that I live here?’

  She dropped her eyes from his, fiddled with the belt on her dressing gown.

  ‘It’s an important part of my cover story,’ she said. ‘I can’t change it now. There’s too much riding on it. And I only have limited time and means.’

  Her cryptic explanations were beginning to irritate him.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? Cover story?’

  ‘I’m a journalist.’

  The words fell like rocks into his tired mind. He’d just flown thousands of miles to get out of the scrutiny of the press pack only to find that one of them had moved in with him. He fought to keep a neutral expression on his face, to hear her out, when what he really wanted to do was frogmarch her out of the apartment and lock the deadbolt behind her.

  ‘What kind of journalist?’

  ‘I’m working on an article that involves me inventing a different identity,’ she said. ‘The house-sitting is a cheap way of getting myself an address in the right …’ she pursed her lips ‘… social bracket. I’m working to a tight budget.’

  He tried again.

  ‘What paper do you work for?’

  The blue eyes cut away from his.

  ‘I’m freelance,’ she said.

  So she worked anywhere and everywhere she could. Terrific. It was time to wrap this up—immediately.

  ‘Get your stuff right now and leave,’ he said. ‘I don’t give a damn about any contract. My lawyers will take it from here.’

  She tilted her chin up and looked down at him, as if another bargaining tool had suddenly occurred to her. ‘Mr Hammond, you must know that with a couple of phone calls to the right people I could have paparazzi outside this flat before the sun comes up,’ she said.

  He saw steely determination in the blue eyes and braced himself against the surge of rage. These press people—thinking they could manipulate any situation.

  ‘Are you threatening me, Miss Brown?’

  She shook her head quickly.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she said. ‘You can believe me when I tell you I have absolutely no interest in what’s going on in your life.’

  She must be the only journalist in the country who didn’t.

  ‘I’m working on a very specific project. I don’t want any trouble, and neither do you.’

  ‘But you don’t seriously expect me to move out of my own house?’ he said. This was the best place for him to lie low, decide his next step. He certainly didn’t intend to do it with anyone else under the same roof.

  ‘I don’t,’ she said.

  She crossed the room and stood on tiptoe to take a glass from one of the cupboards. The movement made her robe ride up, and he fought to take his eyes off the length of creamy slender thigh it revealed. There was something undeniably alluring about her in a scruffy kind of a way. She went to the water dispenser on the side of the fridge and filled the glass. Not a hint of awkwardness, acting as though she lived here and he was the guest.

  ‘I’ll be no trouble. Just imagine you’ve got a very easy to live with house guest until New Year. God knows the place is big enough for two of us without getting in each other’s way.’

  For some reason his mind snapped to the bedroom, to that lithe body pinned underneath his, the blue eyes gazing back at his own.

  ‘And what if I refuse?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve got a lot invested in this. A girl has to make a living, and if you pull the plug on this article I’ll have to find something else lucrative to write about.’

  The pointed look she gave him said it all. Cross her and her next project would be him.

  He’d heard enough.

  ‘Pack your stuff,’ he said. ‘In fact, no—don’t pack your stuff. Get whatever you need for the night and get yourself out of here. I’ll have someone send your bags on. You can collect them from the house-sitting agency.’

  She didn’t move an inch. In fact, she got closer.

  ‘You people are all the same, thinking you can do whatever you like just because you’ve got a huge bank balance. I have a legal right to be here.’ Alex wasn’t so tired that he didn’t hear the desperate edge to her argument, but right now he was too tired to care.

  ‘I don’t get this,’ he said, levelling his voice with conscious effort. ‘I’m prepared to pay all your costs, cover any lost income. You could restart your project without losing anything. An address change can’t make that much difference.’

  She took a sip of her water and Alex noticed her hands shake slightly. Good, she must be feeling nervous.

  But she still shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘Because I’ve already set myself up with this address and I’m not screwing around with that. Plus I don’t dance to anyone’s tune just because they happen to offer me hard cash. I can get where I want to by myself, thanks very much. This way you get to keep a low profile … that is what you’re doing here, isn’t it? … and I get to finish my article. Everyone’s a winner.’

  She folded her arms. She looked as fresh as a daisy, clearly prepared to argue all night if necessary, and suddenly he was done with it.

  ‘Stay the damn night, then,’ he snapped. ‘You’ll be out in the morning before you’ve had your first cup of coffee.’

  The words were barely out of his mouth before she made a move towards the door, immediately taking him up on it. She disappeared, her bare feet padding softly down the passage back to the bedroom.

  He stared at the empty doorway. Let her have her victory. It would be short-lived. In a few hours’ time his legal team would have it sorted and he could bolt the door behind her.

  Alex switched the phone to his other ear and looked out of the bedroom window onto the square below. It was early and traffic was still light. A couple of hours’ sleep hadn’t soothed his mood and he was more on edge than ever. Mark Dunn had been his lawyer and close friend for a decade, providing confidential advice he trusted on a personal and business level.

  ‘You’re actually telling me I can’t evict her from my own apartment? What is the law there for? There has to be some kind of loophole.’ He gripped the phone between ear and shoulder so he could flick again through the house-sitting contract.

  ‘Without looking at it I can’t be certain, but these things are essentially rental contracts.’ Mark’s voice was matter-of-fact. ‘Fax it over and I’ll check it out. Of course you could insist she leaves regardless of what the contract says, but in the circumstances that might not be wise. What’s she like?’

  Young, slim, minxy blue eyes. Legs that shouldn’t be allowed.

  ‘Knows her own mind and is refusing to back down,’ he said. ‘Hinted that she could make trouble.’

  ‘She most certainly could if she wanted to. Alex, think how this could look if she put the right twist on it. All this stuff in the press about you and Viveca Holt. It’s just a few weeks until the awards season kicks off and, trust me, the words “casting couch” are not ones you want bandied about in the run-up to that.’

  ‘You think I
don’t know that?’

  The familiar bite of fury at the backlash resurfaced. How dared people dictate what he did? Who he chose to see? Part of him wanted to issue a statement: Yeah, so I had a fling with Viveca. A great time was had on both sides, if I say so myself, and I doubt it did her career prospects any harm. But really it’s none of your damn business.

  ‘You need to kill that story stone-dead,’ Mark carried on. ‘Listen to your PR team for once. You’re paying them enough. Go to ground for a few days and then gradually start to be seen again on your own in the right places. Maybe a few carefully chosen public events. Be seen to be having a quiet Christmas away from the limelight. Regain some respectability. Don’t give them anything to write about and it will all be forgotten by New Year. What you don’t need is some loose cannon of a journalist getting a scoop on you assaulting your own tenant and then throwing her out on the street. And that’s just one story she could come up with. There could be worse. These people aren’t big on truth. Any new story will be used as an excuse to rehash this current scandal. It could run and run if you don’t handle it right.’

  Alex felt fury begin to mingle with extreme frustration. The last few days had been hell. The constant paparazzi attention had made work impossible, and then there’d been the backlash from the film studios backing the movie. He had no choice but to get things back on track if he wanted to limit the damage to his professional reputation. Since his business empire had been his one priority these last five years, he had no choice but to play the game.

  ‘OK, so if throwing her out isn’t an option, what do you suggest?’

  ‘If I were you, while we come up with a solution, I’d let her be and do my best to keep her sweet.’ He paused. ‘Not too sweet, though, Alex. That’s the kind of thing that got you into this mess.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rule #2: Get your eye on the prize. Before you can trap the heart of a millionaire you have to be able to identify him. To observe the visible signs that set a wealthy and eligible man apart from the rest of the dross you must observe him in his own environment.

  THE kitchen was a vast cold expanse of gleaming cupboards and spotlights and stainless steel. Not so much as a pepper mill cluttered its surfaces. Its clinical sterility reminded her of a hospital, and Jen hated it more than ever this morning. No matter how hard she told herself that she was the exception to the female rule, absolutely not attracted to Alex Hammond, her subconscious wasn’t getting the message.

  The recurring thought of lying on the bed beneath him, his muscular body hard against hers, had invaded her mind and banished sleep for what had been left of the night. The residual adrenaline from facing down a furious Alex hadn’t helped, either. As a result she was now edgy and tired, her relief at being able to stay in the flat short-lived. For the first time in weeks she longed for her cosy kitchen back home, with its threadbare sofa in the corner, perfect to curl up on if you shifted the cat to one side before you sat down.

  There was no sign of Alex Hammond this morning. He was obviously sleeping in after the late night. She listened hard for a moment to make sure.

  Nothing. The perfect opportunity.

  Kneeling down next to the stainless steel dustbin, she pressed the button on the lid to open it and scrabbled around, grimacing as she shoved aside teabags and eggshells and goodness knew what. At last she found what she was looking for: yesterday’s newspaper. She tugged it out, scattering coffee grounds across the glossy grey-tiled floor and smoothed it out with her fist. Folding herself up on the floor, she settled down to read the article she’d only skimmed yesterday.

  Now she was sharing a flat with him she wanted every gory detail.

  Unfortunately Alex’s face in the photo was obscured by a blob of cold scrambled egg from last night’s supper. And as she began to read the irony of that fact wasn’t wasted on her. Since a costly divorce five years ago he’d been living the life of a rich bachelor to the full. And if you insisted on dating a different woman every week, all of them beautiful and most of them famous, it stood to reason that sooner or later one of those affairs would come back and bite you very publicly on the behind. It was a simple matter of probability.

  The latest film from Alex Hammond’s extremely successful production company, The Audacity of Death, was already tipped to clean up at next year’s awards season. Its star, the young and stunningly gorgeous Viveca Holt, had been plucked from obscurity to take the female lead role over a number of well-established actresses. None of this had mattered one bit until pictures had surfaced of Alex Hammond stepping out with Viveca during the film’s production and the rumour mill had begun with a vengeance.

  The glamour surrounding the film-maker and the film star being together was far too good to pass up. Whether or not sour grapes were to blame wasn’t clear, but the implication from the press pack was that Viveca had moved from obscurity into the role of a lifetime via Alex’s bed, with him pulling strings along the way. Definitely not the kind of publicity a serious piece of arty film-making needed, with award nominations being announced next month.

  Jen nearly hit the ceiling when Alex Hammond walked unexpectedly into the room. She frantically screwed the newspaper into a ball. He looked down at her as he rounded the corner, at the bin open next to her spilling its contents across the floor, and raised his eyebrows. She coloured.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He moved smoothly across to the counter and switched on the coffeepot.

  She squashed the paper back into the bin and slammed the lid down on it.

  ‘Recycling,’ she lied, getting to her feet. She soaped her hands under the single curved tap in the enormous double sink. Conscious of his far too observant eyes still on her, she added, ‘Everyone can play a part in saving the planet.’

  Oh, yes, that sounded just great.

  He was looking at her as though she were a moron, then he shook his head lightly, as if to clear it.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked, coldly polite.

  She smoothed her hair back from her face with one hand, drew in a composing breath.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘Black, no sugar.’

  He opened one of the many cupboards and took out two mugs. She waited, wondering if he was going to pick up where she’d left off last night on the eviction thing, but he didn’t mention it. He simply filled the mugs with coffee and handed one of them to her. Then he leaned back against the counter, mug in hand, watching her.

  Even on a couple of hours’ sleep he looked fantastic, it was so unfair. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he was dressed casually—just jeans and a dark grey polo shirt that on its own probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. She folded her arms defensively across her own cheap white shirt and jeans and took a sip of her coffee.

  ‘You checked my contract out with your lawyer, then?’ she asked.

  He grinned wolfishly. ‘Of course I have.’

  Of course. Men like him left nothing to chance. She wasn’t the least bit surprised. She waited, ready to argue her point. He probably had the best lawyers in the world, more than capable of pulling apart a standard rental agreement, but she knew she’d touched a nerve when she mentioned the press even if it had been just a bluff. She was just a reporter on a small country paper, not a tabloid entertainment correspondent. Her last story before she’d started interning had been about a cat who’d hopped on the bus and travelled from Littleford to the next village all by himself. That was the level of celebrity she was used to dealing with.

  He didn’t say anything else, just carried on looking at her with that appraising expression in the green eyes which made her self-conscious no matter how hard she tried not to be.

  ‘And?’ she prompted, when he didn’t say anything.

  He sipped his coffee.

  ‘While I could break the contract—and I’m sure the house-sitting agency would be prepared to be reasonable about it …’ His tone made it obvious who he considered the troublemaker to be in this scenario. ‘You’ve told m
e how important it is to you that you keep this address. And, as I’m all in favour of enterprise, I’m prepared to be the bigger person here and honour the agreement. I wouldn’t want to make things difficult for you.’

  She bridled a little at his taking the moral high ground but kept her irritation under wraps. She didn’t believe a word of it. He needed to keep his nose clean. That much was clear from the newspaper article and his turnaround since last night. Any sniff of scandal and he’d be back on the front pages. She had no intention of going to the press—she just wanted to concentrate on her article, on not letting her big chance, her only chance, slip through her fingers—but she didn’t need to tell him that.

  Let him think she had the editor of every London tabloid on speed dial.

  ‘That’s really good of you. Thank you,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  He raised his mug in acknowledgement.

  She waited until he began scrolling through his mobile phone.

  ‘Will Viveca be joining you for Christmas?’ she asked pointedly.

  His expression as he looked up from the phone was dark and inscrutable. She saw a flash of the arctic coldness from the previous night.

  ‘No, she will not!’ he said curtly. ‘It’s a working relationship, nothing more.’

  ‘That’s not what the papers say,’ she said.

  ‘And of course they are always right about absolutely everything.’ He slammed his mug down, slopping coffee across the granite counter. ‘It was a few dates and it was months ago. Can’t I go on a couple of nights out without the world reading God knows what into it?’

  Clearly not. She would give him her standard live-in-the-public-eye-at-your-peril lecture.

  ‘That’s the thing, though. You’re happy to court publicity when it suits you. When it’s good publicity. When there’s a film to promote. You can’t then say it’s unacceptable when people want to know more about you.’

  ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ he said. ‘Seeing as you belong to the vulture camp. Hoping to get the scoop, are you? Well, there’s nothing to scoop. I’m single. I only date when I have to, and I don’t see that it’s anyone else’s business. There’s a line between public and private. Who I date and why I date them is private.’