by Jessica Hart
It was just as well that gust had blown the umbrella inside out when it did, Clara told herself. She had got a bit carried away there, and she didn’t want to give Simon the impression that she was unprofessional. She was supposed to be focusing on her career, after all.
And it wasn’t as if the kiss had meant anything to either of them. Simon clearly wasn’t that bothered. He certainly didn’t look as if he was twitching with awareness or wondering how she would react if he laced his fingers with hers and tugged her towards him.
Clara cleared her throat. Not that she was wondering that either.
Not at all.
So, back to business.
She rummaged in her bag for her phone. ‘I should ring Ted and find out where they are. I think they’d be interested to see this place.’
‘Why?’ said Simon, looking around him. ‘It’s all right, but it’s pretty tatty, isn’t it?’ He fingered a jagged tear in the plastic banquette seat. ‘Look at this. And the menus are grubby. As for the wine…’ he took a sip from his glass ‘…a fruity little paint-stripper.’
He broke off as he caught Clara’s eye, and flung up a hand. ‘Don’t tell me! This is romantic too?’
‘Well, it is. OK, the banquettes have seen better days, but they’re so private and so Parisian,’ she said. ‘I like the fact that there are no white tablecloths or fancy menus. No tourists, either,’ she noted, inspecting the few fellow guests. ‘It’s authentic.’
Simon sighed. ‘Is there anywhere that isn’t romantic to you?’
‘This is exactly the kind of tucked-away place we want you and Stella to have your discussion,’ said Clara, searching for Ted’s number on her contact list. ‘Intimate, private. Waiters in long white aprons, the smell of garlic, Madame at the till…it’s perfect!’
Ted and the rest of the crew were also in Montmartre, it seemed. They appeared a few minutes later and when they saw what Clara and Simon were eating, ordered lunch too. Even Simon had to admit that the food was excellent, Clara thought. She was very glad that Ted agreed with her about shooting a scene between Simon and Stella over dinner.
By the time she had talked to Madame, made all the necessary arrangements and called a couple of taxis to take them back to the hotel, Clara was feeling much more in control. She was back in production assistant mode. Calm, efficient, resourceful…not at all the kind of girl who would kiss the talent or make a fool of herself by wanting to kiss him again.
Really, there was no need to make a fuss about it. It wasn’t as if she or Simon would want to repeat it, and no one else would ever guess they had kissed at all.
‘What’s going on between you and Simon Valentine?’ Ted asked under his breath as they made their way out to the taxis.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Clara, miffed that he had apparently picked up on something. After she had been so careful to behave normally too!
‘You’re being too polite to him.’
‘I’m being professional.’
‘And he keeps looking at you, whenever you’re not looking at him.’
‘Really, Ted, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He looked at her closely. Sometimes it was a curse to have a friend who knew you too well. ‘You’ve fallen for the Dow-Jones Darling, too, haven’t you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Ted would never let her forget it if he knew about the kiss. ‘I’m still getting over Matt, remember? I’m here to do my job and nothing else.’
And that meant not kissing Simon again.
By the time they all got back to the hotel, Roland and Stella had arrived and were having a drink in the bar. Stella was instantly recognizable. Clara had never watched her show, but she had seen Stella plenty of times, smiling out from magazine covers at supermarket checkouts everywhere.
‘There you are!’ Roland beckoned Clara and Simon over, while Ted and the crew took the opportunity to slip away.
Lucky things, thought Clara. Roland was looking displeased, and she guessed that Stella hadn’t been happy to discover that Simon wasn’t waiting for her. Stella’s ratings might have been dropping recently, but there was plenty of the star about her still. Stella was used to having whatever she wanted and, if Ted was to be believed, she wanted Simon.
Eyes narrowed, Clara watched as Stella greeted him effusively and offered perfumed cheeks for a mwah-mwah kiss. She was petite and very pretty, with a gloss of celebrity that made her look faintly unreal. Her hair was just a little too blonde, her teeth too white, her make-up too perfect.
Nothing that anyone could ever accuse Clara of. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’ Roland demanded, scowling at her. ‘You look a bloody mess,’ he said bluntly.
Clara looked down at herself. Until that moment, she had forgotten how bedraggled she must look after her drenching. Her boots were still damp, her jacket stained and wrinkled, and she hadn’t given a thought to her hair after squeezing out the worst of the rain.
‘We were looking for locations,’ she said. ‘We got a bit wet.’
Roland turned to Simon. ‘Please tell me Clara didn’t drag you out to look at locations in this rain?’
‘She was explaining the romance of Paris in the rain,’ Simon said. His eyes met Clara’s fleetingly. ‘It was very instructive.’
Stella, Clara noticed, had kept a possessive hand on Simon’s arm. Now she shuddered lightly. ‘We won’t be filming in the rain, will we?’
‘Of course not,’ said Roland quickly.
Simon looked thoughtful. ‘You don’t think there’s something romantic about lovers under an umbrella?’ he said, unobtrusively moving away from Stella’s clutch.
‘Well, now you come to mention it…’ Stella fluttered her lashes at him. ‘Perhaps it might be fun if we did a piece together in the rain.’
It looked as if Ted was right, thought Clara, conscious of a sinking feeling that she chose not to analyse. Stella clearly wasn’t planning to play hard to get, although Clara wished her luck in trying to flirt with someone quite as unflirtable as Simon. If Stella wanted Simon to improve her image, she would have to work hard for him.
But perhaps Ted was wrong, and she wasn’t interested in Simon’s image. Perhaps she was more interested in his mouth and his hands and his lean, solid body.
Something stirred queerly in the pit of Clara’s stomach. Only that morning she would have pooh-poohed such an idea, but that was before she had kissed him. Now she could understand it far too easily.
She turned away. ‘I’d better go and check the equipment,’ she said to Roland.
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Simon quickly. ‘I want to change out of these wet things.’
Stella’s perfect lips tightened slightly. Clara imagined she was thinking that she was worth a bit of discomfort, but there was only the tiniest of hesitations before she offered a dazzling smile.
‘Of course. We’ll have a chance to talk properly tonight, anyway. Roland is taking us to the Tour d’Argent.’
‘That would have been nice, but I’m afraid I’ve already agreed to have dinner with Clara here and the rest of the crew,’ said Simon pleasantly.
Stella registered Clara’s presence for the first time. Her blue gaze took in the hair hanging in rats’
tails around Clara’s face, the neon-green cast on her wrist and the scruffy wardrobe. She was not impressed, and Clara didn’t blame her.
‘I’m sure they’ll manage without you,’ she said to Simon, dimpling charmingly and peeping a glance at him under her lashes that would have had a lesser man crumbling at her feet. ‘I think it’s so important that we get to know each other before we start filming.’
‘That’s true,’ said Simon. ‘Why don’t you and Roland join us, in that case? Clara, you can change the booking, can’t you? I’m sure the restaurant can squeeze in another two.’ He turned back to Stella before Clara could reply. ‘You’d love this place, Stella—but perhaps you and Roland would rather go to the Tour d’Argent?’
Clara felt almost sorry for Stella as conflicting emotions crossed the flawless face. Obviously Stella didn’t enjoy having her will crossed, but just as obviously she wasn’t ready to give up a chance of seducing Simon, and had no intention of being stuck with Roland all night.
‘No, it sounds like fun to eat with the crew, don’t you think, Roland?’ To give her credit, Stella managed a smile, even if it was on the tight side.
Clara avoided Roland’s accusing glare. ‘I’ll give the restaurant a ring,’ she said, backing away towards the lift. ‘I’ll go and do that now.’
Simon was halfway to the lift too. ‘You’re not to leave me alone with that woman,’ he muttered to Clara under his breath.
‘I’m sure you’re more than a match for Stella.’ Clara was ashamed of the lift of her heart.
‘That’s what you think. Women like that terrify me. They’re all breathy voices and fluttery hands, but pure tungsten under the fluff. It’s been like this ever since Astrid left,’ he grumbled. ‘They latch on to you, and before you know it you’re taking them out to dinner, and then they invite you in for a coffee and next thing you’re expected to ring them every five minutes.’
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he eyed the lift doors morosely.
‘Most men would be grateful,’ Clara pointed out.
Simon’s mention of Astrid had come just in time. Like a fool, she had just allowed herself to believe that he really liked her. Why else would he make it so clear that he preferred her company to Stella’s? A little glow had settled around her heart, but it was fading fast at the reminder of Astrid.
How could she have forgotten the woman Simon really wanted?
The way Matt had really wanted Sophie.
‘Stella is gorgeous. Men all over the country fantasise about her wanting to spend the evening with them!’
‘I don’t like being pursued.’ The lift doors slid open and they stepped in. ‘Why can’t women accept a man can be perfectly happy on his own?’ he asked grouchily.
‘You’re not, though. You want Astrid back.’
‘Well, I don’t want anyone else,’ said Simon. ‘I certainly don’t want to get involved with Stella Holt!’
What was the point of feeling disappointed? Clara asked herself as she checked every connecting cable and tested the batteries in the mikes. What had she expected? That one kiss in the rain would make Simon forget about Astrid and fall in love with her?
It hadn’t even been a real kiss. She had just been a distraction from his wet feet.
Besides, she didn’t want Simon either. He was so not her type, Clara reminded herself. OK, maybe he was more attractive than she had thought at first, and yes, he was a great kisser, but she was only just getting over Matt. There was no way she was putting herself through the agony of falling for a man who really wanted someone else again!
Astrid was perfect for Simon. Cool, clever Astrid. I don’t want anyone else, he had said. If he was prepared to make just a little effort, Clara was sure he could get Astrid back, and then he would be happy again.
And she would be pleased for him. Really, she would.
Meanwhile, she needed to focus on her career. She had something to prove to her over-achieving family.
And to herself.
Clara ticked the tripod off her list. Roland had promised her a chance at producing if this programme was a success. She should be thinking about that, and not about the dizzying warmth of Simon’s mouth on hers. About how good it would feel to tell her parents that she was a producer now, not about how good it had felt with Simon’s arm solid around her.
That kiss had been a mistake. She wouldn’t think about it again, Clara vowed. It had been a momentary indulgence, that was all, and it was time to pull herself together. Ted had promised to take her dancing after dinner. That would make her feel better.
She could forget everything when she was dancing.
Even that kiss.
She hoped.
* * *
Where was Clara? Backed against the bar, Simon kept a grim eye on the lifts. Turning up at the time agreed had clearly been a mistake. The MediaOchre crew obviously weren’t bothered about punctuality, and he had been alone when Stella floated into the bar, looking glamorous and sultry and utterly terrifying.
Now she had him pinned into the bar, and was rabbiting on about how much she loved watching him on the news. She was standing too close, and her perfume was giving him a headache. There was something suffocating about her. She was one of those women who liked to touch you all the time. Simon had to grit his teeth to stop himself brushing her hand away.
He was feeling very twitchy. For all her fluffy femininity, he sensed a steely purpose in Stella. She had set her sights on him—God only knew why!—and intended to have him. Simon didn’t care for feeling like a gazelle to her lion. He had told Clara not to leave him alone with Stella, but had she listened? No! She was probably still upstairs, singing in the shower she had spent so much time oohing and aahing over.
His mind stumbled at the thought of Clara, wet and naked, and as his eyes focused on Stella’s lovely face, he felt oddly winded.
‘Don’t you agree?’ said Stella with a winsome look.
‘What?’
Stella’s laugh was silvery and notably lacking in humour. ‘Simon, I do believe you haven’t been listening to a word I said!’
It was true. Simon made an effort to pull himself together. It wasn’t like him to be thrown off his stride, but he had been aghast at how clearly he had been able to imagine Clara under the shower, all long legs and soft breasts, her face tilted up to the spray, her hair streaming down her back. Her eyes would be squeezed shut against the water, and she might be holding her cast out of the shower, but she would be singing, he was sure of that.
And she would be swaying from side to side, shimmying her hips, not caring what she looked like.
She wouldn’t care if he was watching her. She would just smile that tilting smile of hers and invite him in with her eyes, and she would keep dancing until he slid open the shower door to join her, until he kissed her against the tiles and let his hands roam over her wet, supple body.
Simon’s mouth dried. God, what was he thinking? This was all the fault of that stupid kiss in the rain. It had been madness, and he should never have provoked her into it, but she had been so close and so warm and that easy way she moved had gone to his head.
It had just been a joke, of course. He knew that, Clara knew that. But then suddenly it hadn’t been.
Suddenly the light-heartedness had intensified into something deeper, sweeter, more urgent. Something that made his blood pound and his mind reel.
And here she came at last.
Simon’s heart jerked alarmingly as he caught sight of Clara crossing the lobby with Ted. She was talking, waving that absurd green cast around, her face animated and her hips swaying. Even if he hadn’t been able to see her, he would have known that she was there. Her vibrant presence stirred the air, like an eddy of wind lifting autumn leaves.
Catching sight of him, she smiled and waved, just as if she hadn’t left him alone here with Stella.
Simon scowled.
‘Aren’t you going to be cold?’ he asked austerely as she came up.
Clara looked down at herself. On that filthy February night, she had chosen a skirt that swirled and floated around her knees as she walked, a top with thin straps and, in what he supposed was a concession to the weather, a teeny-tiny silky cardigan, all in colours that reminded Simon of nothing so much as a tropical fruit salad. On her feet she wore a pair of bright green shoes with precipitous heels that clashed horribly with the cast on her arm. Next to Stella, in designer black, she looked ridiculous.
Ridiculous, but gorgeous.
‘Ted promised we could go dancing after dinner,’ said Clara as if that explained everything. ‘He’s heard of a brilliant salsa club. Do you want to come?’
She included Stella in the question with a friendly smile. Simon could see Stella’s lip curling in a sneer. She had already forgone an expensive restaurant in favour of a meal with the crew, and she clearly had no intention of being any more familiar.
‘I don’t think so, darling,’ she said. ‘Salsa’s not my kind of thing.’
It wasn’t Simon’s kind of thing either, but he wasn’t risking another tête à tête with Stella. ‘I’ll give it a go.’
‘Are you sure, Simon?’ Stella’s perfectly groomed brows drew together. ‘We’re shooting tomorrow,’ she reminded him. ‘You don’t want a late night.’
