He tried to stop himself zeroing in on the touch of her hand on his, on her bubbling enthusiasm. As he gave in and let her increase their pace he raised his other hand and snapped his fingers in front of her face.
‘Pay attention. We’ll have to arrive separately, leave separately, and no acknowledgment of each other beyond basic politeness. I can’t afford to be linked with anyone else in the press—not now. The whole Viveca thing will be rehashed if I give them half a chance. So above all—and this is really important—there cannot be a repeat of the art exhibition debacle. Whatever you do, you must not get drunk! ‘
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rule #5: Get thee to the right locations. Save as much of your budget as you can for some choice tickets to the right occasions. Charity dinners are the perfect choice—they are stuffed with the über-rich, desperate to part with their money for a good cause. All you need to do is watch and make your move …
EVENING wear. Christmas party evening wear. Glittery, goldy, silk, satin, velvet. A dream night out.
Make-up applied and hair finished, she held up the dress she’d chosen from an amateurish online photo which had passed Marlon’s approval. A sumptuous full-length velvet gown in midnight-blue with spaghetti straps and a low draped décolletage. She put it on, zipped it up and walked down to the dressing room to stand in front of the mirror. It hung on her straight-up-and-down figure like a dishrag and the draped neckline looked like a huge wodge of spare flappy fabric. She took it off.
Thank goodness for shapewear. A girl’s best friend.
She shrugged her way into a nude pushup bra and stuffed in the large-sized gel pads. Fortunately she wasn’t planning on getting naked with anyone any time soon. They’d be in for a shock if she did. She stepped back into the dress and adjusted the neckline. Unbelievable. She could hardly recognise herself. She felt suddenly absurdly shy. Even though there was hardly an inch of her body that wasn’t now fake in some way or other, in this dress she felt like a million dollars.
She glanced at the door, suddenly wanting Alex to see her looking her best for once, instead of her worst. Just to show him she wasn’t only country bumpkin Jen. If she could impress him, with his string of supermodel girlfriends, she could impress anyone at the ball.
Before she could chicken out, she stepped into nude heels and made her way out of the room. Heart thumping in her ears, she checked the kitchen, then looked into the sitting room. The whole place was silent.
He’d already left.
Alex had spent what felt like hours mingling, being seen with the right people and saying the right things. Following PR advice, he deliberately hadn’t avoided the press stalking the red carpet. He’d given a statement about the stellar work done by the foundation, and waited for the inevitable question about Viveca Holt. When it came he’d dashed off a carefully prepared reply.
‘I’m grateful to Viveca for the outstanding work she’s done on The Audacity of Death,’ he’d said. ‘Ours is a professional relationship. Anything more than that is pure speculation and, frankly, I think we should be focusing our attention this evening on the work of this charity instead of on idle gossip.’
He’d avoided follow-up questions, instead moving quickly through the glass revolving doors into the cool glossy cream of the hotel lobby, relieved that once inside the building the press were no longer a concern. Ushered to the silver and white elegant luxury of the ballroom, he’d taken a flute of champagne from an instantly present waiter and concentrated on socialising.
Half an hour in and not a foot wrong so far. He should be relaxing into the evening, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of edginess that gnawed at his gut.
She was late. He should have insisted she use his driver instead of getting a cab.
He mentally kicked himself into touch. What the hell did it matter when she arrived? Or even if she did? This was him doing a favour for a friend, that was all. It meant no more than that.
‘Looking for someone?’
Mark Dunn approached, hand outstretched, his wife trailing in his wake. Alex hadn’t realised he was scanning the room so obviously. He pulled himself up mentally, forced himself to focus on his friend.
‘Just seeing who’s shown up,’ he said, shaking his hand.
‘Nice job with the press,’ Mark said. ‘You’re getting to be something of an expert. Talking of which, how’s the resident journalist?’
Late.
He shrugged. ‘Since we got the gag order sorted, no problem at all,’ he said. ‘We barely see each other. She’ll be moving out at the end of the month.’
He had no desire to discuss Jen with Mark or anyone else. She was already occupying far too much of his head. It suddenly occurred to him that she might have changed her mind at the last minute and gone to the nightclub, after all, what with her warped principles about not accepting help. The thought made him suddenly feel cold, and he turned to Mark to excuse himself, go outside and ring her on his mobile phone.
The words never made it past his lips. Instead the room seemed to freeze.
He found himself staring, mouth hanging open, over Mark’s shoulder at the doorway, past the vibrant buzzing crowd. Because suddenly there she was.
He felt as if his eyes must be on stalks. When had Jen got curves like that? He was sure he would have noticed that cleavage if it had been there before. He could see growing confidence in her assured smile, in the way she walked tall, head held high. She was absolutely stunning.
He felt a thin sheen of sweat break out on his forehead and ran a finger around his suddenly tight collar. Moisture leeched from his mouth and he cut his eyes away in a hurry.
Oh, he was in so much trouble here.
He should have acted on that initial attraction the first night he’d met her. Seduced her into a quick fling, a few nights of fun—done and dusted. That was the root cause of all this. She’d have been out of his system by now, gone the way of all the others, Viveca Holt included. Instead he’d followed the stupid PR advice and kept his distance. He’d let himself get to know her, and in the process it seemed she’d somehow got under his skin, inside his mind. And he had no idea how to stop her.
Jen was one of a table of ten, and found herself included from the outset in buzzing, friendly conversation. The room was lit by huge chandeliers suspended from an ornate domed ceiling. Christmas flowers and swags of greenery studded with tiny pearly lights made everything festive. Circular tables were dressed in pristine white and silver, with sparkling crystal glasses and perfect silver cutlery. The waiting staff were smoothly efficient. A month ago this situation would have made her quake so badly with nerves that holding a knife and fork would have been a challenge. Now she tucked into the starter of roasted scallops with a celeriac purée without so much as a tremble.
She realised with a pang of something akin to guilt that there was a part of her that could really come to like this opulent lifestyle. Not just the beautiful food and elegant surroundings here tonight, but the luxury of living in a Chelsea apartment, too, and beautiful clothes. She’d spent so long belittling this world in her mind, determined to believe it a façade filled with shallow people, that to admit she was enjoying herself made her feel like a hypocrite. She tried to focus on the fact that this was a means to an end, about work not play. Enjoyment shouldn’t come into it.
As the meal finished the auction began, hosted by a well-known comedian who held the room effortlessly in the palm of his hand. The man on her left knew exactly what he wanted. She watched as he treated the just-for-fun ambience with absolute seriousness.
‘Not bidding?’ he said as he won a weekend of hunting and fishing on an exclusive estate somewhere in the North for an unspeakable amount.
‘I don’t fish,’ she said.
He grinned, raised his glass. ‘Richard Moran,’ he said.
Mid-thirties, with the most inscrutable dark eyes she’d ever seen made even more striking by their contrast with his fair hair. He was good-looking, she decided, in a menaci
ng kind of a way.
He held out his hand.
She smiled and shook it.
‘Genevieve Hendon,’ she said. It actually helped, having a false name. It was calming somehow. Jen Brown didn’t look like this—didn’t come alone to places like these.
‘On your own?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ she said. ‘I was meant to be here with a friend, but something came up at the last minute. I couldn’t bear to miss it so I came alone. How about you?’
She wanted to get as much background on him as she could in the shortest possible time. No point wasting her energy getting to know him if he wasn’t eligible, after all.
He inclined his head.
‘I came alone, yes, but I know a lot of people here. This is my field.’
She smiled, pouring as much interest into her tone as she could.
‘Would I know any of your work?’
He gave her his full attention. ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘Have you heard of the Faith trilogy?’
Her heart began to pick up speed. The only way someone could avoid hearing of the Faith trilogy would be if they lived in a cave. Not award-winning arty stuff, by any means, but a total crowd-pleaser of a swashbuckling adventure franchise. It had broken box office records. She ran through her mental checklist.
Good-looking? Yes, despite the slightly unnerving eyes.
Rich? Definitely, definitely, definitely.
Eligible? Still to be discovered.
‘What do you do?’ he asked her. ‘Are you in the industry?’
She laughed lightly.
‘Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid. I’m building up to launching my own bespoke jewellery business.’
Marlon had helped her come up with that occupation. Something creative that might fit in with a wealthy background and didn’t have her sitting on her backside living off her trust fund.
The bidding restarted. This time on VIP tickets to a sell-out Christmas race meeting. There was a buzz of excitement in the room.
‘Excuse me one second,’ he said, standing up. ‘Someone I must speak to.’
She took the opportunity to scan the room. The women’s outfits were nothing short of stunning, in every jewel colour she could think of and in the richest of fabrics—velvet, silk, lace. The men looked pristine in black tie. Way towards the front of the room at another table she was able to pick out Alex Hammond. She thought him the most handsome man in the room. Her heart turned over softly, making her catch her breath. No doubt along with every other woman in the room.
To her surprise his eyes seemed to be fixed on hers. She’d been expecting him to avoid her like the plague after the pre-ball pep talk he’d given her on the importance of keeping her distance. And now, bizarrely, he appeared to wave at her.
Surreptitiously she took a glance behind her—in case Viveca Holt was at the next table or something. Because surely he wouldn’t be blowing his cover, not to mention hers, by openly greeting her like that. Nope, he was definitely waving at her. For Pete’s sake. She gave him a smile that was more of a grimace and inclined her head as slightly as she could, hoping that would be enough of an acknowledgement to stop him.
Apparently it wasn’t, because he raised a hand again. She looked away, heat rising in her face. Maybe he’d decided keeping his distance wasn’t so important to him, after all. Her heart rate picked up at the thought. The idea that he might actually be interested in her filled her belly with butterflies and she took a deep calming breath. Tonight was about gathering material, not about swooning like some stupid teenager over Alex.
She would acknowledge him now and then stick to the original plan.
Raising a hand, she waved back to him in what she hoped was a coolly discreet fashion.
‘Table sixteen. Thank you very much, miss. The total now stands at one thousand pounds exactly.’
The butterflies in her belly turned into concrete. A blinding spotlight pooled over her, making her blink like an owl. The eyes of the nine other guests at her table swivelled towards her, and she was favoured with approving smiles and claps as she realised what had happened.
She’d just bid a thousand pounds she didn’t have on a trip to the races.
The room felt suddenly boiling. He hadn’t been waving at her at all. He’d been bidding on the damn auction.
‘Any advances on one thousand pounds?’ the compère said.
She searched desperately for Alex across the room, but the spotlight made it impossible for her to pick him out. Please let him bid. Please, please, please.
Silence apart from background conversation.
She felt perspiration break out on her forehead. Much more of this and her make-up would begin to slide off.
‘One thousand, one hundred with the gentleman at the bar …’
The spotlight slipped away as quickly as it had arrived and she felt suddenly as if she could breathe again. She took a calming swig from her wine glass, despite the fact she was determinedly pacing herself. The bidding carried on and she made a conscious effort not to move another muscle while the auction was going on. Crisis averted—no thanks to Alex. Wait until she got her hands on him.
Returning to the table in time for coffee, Richard Moran talked about himself animatedly. Within minutes she’d established he was single. That was all the boxes ticked. The perfect target. Plus he was openly flirting with her. The problem was she felt anything but enthusiastic about spending the evening with him. As she tried to work out why there was a nagging feeling of disappointment deep inside her, she found her eyes straying far too often to the table across the room where Alex was talking seriously to the stunningly beautiful woman seated on his right.
As soon as the auction had closed the band began a classy jazz set, and Alex watched as Richard Moran led Jen by the hand to the dance floor. He took her in his arms, his hand pressed against the small of her back.
There was no point even bothering to deny it any more. The seething heat deep in his gut was too strong. He was horribly, angrily jealous. Of all the men she could have ended up with it had to be him. A business rival he truly disliked. He insisted to himself that this was about Richard Moran, not about Jen, and refused to acknowledge the needling thought that he’d be feeling like this about any man in the room she spoke to.
Good intentions or not, he’d had enough. He had to intervene before she went too far. She wasn’t the worldly-wise socialite she was pretending to be. And that meant she was out of her depth without even knowing it. As Moran led Jen to the edge of the dance floor he crossed the room towards them and waited to pick his moment.
‘Another drink?’ he heard Moran ask.
‘Just mineral water, please,’ Jen said.
At least she was pacing herself with the alcohol. With any luck she’d keep her wits about her and take on board what he was about to say.
As soon as she was left standing alone by one of the huge marble pillars Alex approached, took her hand and led her firmly back onto the dance floor. The band played a slow number, and the dance floor slowly filled up. He steeled himself against the heat that climbed through his body as he pulled her against him, slid a hand around her tiny waist. The soft velvet of the dress clung to every contour of her body, giving an intoxicating hint of how it might feel to hold her naked against him. The sweet scent of her hair made his mind spin. She looked up at him in surprise, the soft pink mouth close enough for him to kiss her with just a short movement of his head.
With a stupendous effort he focused on the task at hand and hissed at her in an urgent whisper. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Her brows knitted. ‘I might ask you the same thing. Thanks to you I nearly bought a trip to a race meeting when I’ve got zero cash and I loathe horses. I thought you were waving at me. And I thought we were meant to be avoiding each other at all costs.’
‘We are,’ he said. ‘I just can’t stand by and watch you spend the evening with Richard Moran without warning you about him.’
She pull
ed away a little to look up into his face, a puzzled expression in her eyes.
‘Why would you want to warn me about him? It’s going brilliantly. He’s the perfect target. Did you see how high he went with the bidding for that vile hunting holiday? He’s obviously completely minted, he’s here on his own and he isn’t a total nightmare to look at. In my book that ticks pretty much all the boxes.’
‘It doesn’t matter if he gives millions to charity. He can’t be trusted. He’ll do anything to get what he wants.’
She came to a standstill, forcing him to do the same. They stood motionless, surrounded by dancing couples. Her expression was fierce.
‘He’s in film production, isn’t he? Just like you.’ She held up a hand and cut her eyes away from his. ‘Look, I’m really grateful for all the help you’ve given me, but that doesn’t give you some kind of creative veto over my work. I can take it from here by myself, thank you very much. He’s perfect, and I’m not backing off just because he happens to be some work rival of yours.’
If only the reason was that simple.
‘That has nothing to do with it. I’m looking out for you. He’s not a nice guy.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s just say he’s involved in some pretty shady stuff. If he gets a sniff that you’re chatting him up under false pretences it won’t be pretty. Don’t kid yourself that he’d see the funny side of your damn article. He could ruin your whole career with one phone call if he wanted to. You’re not used to mixing with these people. You haven’t a clue what you might be dealing with.’
He could see immediately that he’d said the wrong thing. Her eyes widened in anger.
‘Don’t you dare patronise me! Just because I’m not swimming in cash doesn’t mean I’m not up to dealing with people who are. You make it sound like I’m some social moron. I thought you were different, but I was wrong. You’re just like the rest of them here—certain that you’re better than everyone else.’
Secrets of the Rich & Famous Page 10
