Escaping Mr Right

by Avril Tremayne

  Just a job. And yet I knew exactly which folder out of nine identical ones held the case studies I’d told myself I was too busy to do myself, and had farmed out to one of the researchers.

  If it was just a job, why hadn’t I read that file?

  I sat at the dining table and stared at the folders. My mind was awhirl. The kiss. The call. Marcus. It’s Nick. The job. The folders. The children. I could feel the scream building, and if I started screaming I had no idea if I’d be able to stop.

  This was what happened when you let your guard down. If not for that kiss, I wouldn’t have split with Marcus, Nick wouldn’t have engineered a situation to get me to Manila, and I would not be tearing myself apart at the idea of reading twenty-six case studies. And, oh God, if I couldn’t open the damn folder, how was I going to cope when I had to actually meet the kids, talk to them, film them?

  Well, a guard that had come down could go back up, couldn’t it? And maybe reading the case studies was the first brick in that wall. Reading them would be a … a test. Like desensitisation therapy. Focus on the facts and the details, become so familiar with the stories they lose their power to shock and hurt.

  I grabbed the folder before I could chicken out and opened it. There they were. Twenty-six pages, one photo and one brief per page. Taking a deep breath, I started reading.

  Honey, found as a newborn in a rice field.

  Joseph, left in a hospital after a car accident.

  Grace, forgotten by her father when her mother was placed in a mental institution.

  Paolo, left at the gates by his poverty-burdened parents, along with his sister and brother – each of whom had their own page.

  Twenty other pages that I forced myself through, examining every image, reading every word, telling myself if I could do this, it would be one more mark of my success in detaching myself from my past. I could do it. I would do it.

  When I finally closed the file, there was an ache in my heart and the sting of incipient tears behind my nose. I blinked and breathed the tears away, because Chloe Masters didn’t cry, not anymore – but the ache remained. I tried to put the folder back on the pile, but somehow, I couldn’t do it. My fingers wouldn’t release it. It felt like, if I did that, I would be letting the children go. Twenty-six unwanted, abandoned, unloved children.

  If there was a silver lining, it was that my anxiety over Nick Savage seemed trivial by comparison. Pathetic, even. And Chloe Masters was not pathetic.

  Nick Savage was not the story. Nick Savage was maximum half an hour, minimum ten minutes, of my eight-day assignment. One interview, and he would be relegated to being nothing but eye candy for the camera, in the background, wielding a hammer.

  I did not need to call Nick Savage. I would not call Nick Savage.

  Instead, I would read the profiles again. I would read them, and then re-read them, and keep re-reading them, over and over again, until I could recite them in my sleep, dry-eyed and dispassionately, building my defences to ensure I didn’t crumble on the job.

  And tomorrow morning at the airport, if I saw Nick Savage, I would do my best to cryogenically freeze him out of my life, using only one baleful eye.

  CHAPTER NINE

  As it turned out, when I arrived at the airport the next morning, there wasn’t the remotest possibility of my baleful eye getting close enough to Nick Savage to give him a momentary chill, let alone freeze him.

  He was completely surrounded, and I could only catch glimpses of his body parts as the throng around him periodically shifted. A bit of forearm, a peek at his bent head, a peep of chest as he signed autographs for kids, chatted to parents, posed for selfies with fans, and was ogled by women of all ages, shapes and sizes.

  For the first time, I deep-down understood how annoying it must be for Evie every time she stepped out with Jack, and why she’d tried so hard to avoid taking him, and everything that came with him, on. Of course, I’d seen the phenomenon with Jack before. But Jack was … well, Jack. Movie stars expected it, and he handled it with ease. I’d experienced it with Marcus too. But again, it seemed kind of normal for him. Marcus was that kind of guy. Charming and friendly, gracious and sociable, and also somehow humbled by the attention.

  But Nick?

  Well, Nick was hard and challenging and sardonic. Arrogant, rather than humble. He wasn’t the smiling/laughing/chatting type. It was unnerving to see him behaving in a way that was so at odds with my perception of him.

  And then he caught sight of me, and like a switch being flicked, he changed. Oh, he still smiled and chatted and signed, but his whole body tensed and the air in the terminal seemed to be suddenly impregnated with Dare you. Which I interpreted as Dare you to come over here.

  Yes, well no. I was not going to be dared by Nick Savage. Ever, ever again.

  Turning abruptly, I made my way to the business class check-in, where I took advantage of the queue to call my cameraman, Derek, to check how far away he was.

  As I ended the call, I felt a fizz in the air, and my shoulders tightened defensively. I didn’t have to look behind me to know Nick was there.

  ‘Looking nice, Chloe,’ he said.

  I managed not to turn around as I responded with an offhand, ‘Thank you,’ but I was doing a lightning fast inventory of the way I looked, because I could tell a criticism when I heard one. Criticism in all its forms, veiled and unveiled, had been a specialty of foster mother number three – a girl didn’t forget that stuff.

  So. Red skirt suit, sexy and expensive; cream silk camisole top; high-heeled pumps in an understated nude; newly bobbed hair swinging free with a sharply cut fringe. Nothing to criticise – but nevertheless, I knew shoe one had been dropped.

  There was a tiny fingertip brush against the shoulder of my jacket, which I did not deign to flinch away from. ‘Perfect business class attire,’ Nick said.

  The line moved up by one person. I stepped forward and Nick stepped straight into the newly opened gap behind me. ‘Don’t you want to see what we charity workers are wearing in Economy?’ he asked.

  And there it was. The second shoe, dropped.

  Nick was earning a fortune and was sitting in cattle class; I was earning a pittance by comparison, but was up the front of the plane, courtesy of the television station’s international staff travel policy. And Nick wanted me to squirm over it.

  ‘As it happens,’ I said, turning slowly with my freeze-eye on, ‘I’m well acquainted with economy class fashions, given it’s my usual way to fly.’ But I examined him, head to toe, in any case. ‘T-shirt. Jeans. Oh – and is that an erection? Again?’

  ‘Get used to it,’ he said, and winked. ‘You’ll be seeing a lot of it over the next week.’

  Seriously? A wink?

  I faced the counter again. ‘Let’s hope you’re sitting next to someone who can help you with that. It would be a shame to let that fine specimen go to waste.’

  ‘Fine specimen? Why thank you, Chloe.’

  It was a good thing I wasn’t facing him or he might have seen the laugh bubbling up before I could choke it back. ‘And who knows,’ I said, through slightly trembling lips, ‘if you can get a little Mile High Club activity on the way to Manila to take the edge off, maybe I won’t have to see it for a few days.’

  ‘Hey, I’m up for a little mile high if you are,’ he said, leaning close enough to speak right in my ear. ‘Change your ticket, Chloe. I’ve got a seat reserved for you, right next to me.’

  I laughed then – but out of disbelief! ‘Er … that would be a “no”.’

  ‘Do it, Chloe.’ In my ear again. ‘We have things to talk about.’

  ‘I have all the research I need. All you need to do is step in front of the camera when you’re told to and answer a few questions. That’s a ten minute job. It doesn’t require a whole flight’s worth of discussion.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the story.’

  I took a moment to gather my composure before responding. ‘If you mean Marcus, I don’t want to talk to
you about him.’

  ‘Why not? You talked to him about me.’

  ‘I mentioned you. It wasn’t exactly a discussion. And that’s different.’

  I heard the breath he took. In. Then slowly, slowly, out. ‘If you sit next to me on the flight, you’ll have eight hours to explain exactly how that’s different.’

  ‘Anyway, given you’re the one who wants to do the talking, shouldn’t you be the one changing your ticket? It’s not like you can’t afford it, football star.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but you see, the more money I spend on my air ticket, the less money the orphanage gets.’

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  ‘So if you feel like making a donation, the option is there,’ he continued.

  Goddammit!

  ‘Think of it as a Vodka Vern moment,’ he added. ‘Giving to the less fortunate, on the down low, no fuss.’

  The check-in agent beckoned me forward. Tick, tick, tick, tock.

  ‘Chloe?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, all right.’

  With a fixed smile, I shook my head at the check-in agent – sorry, my mistake – and left the queue. Without looking at Nick, I headed for the ticket desk, briefcase swinging, dragging my wheelie bag behind me.

  He grabbed my wrist before I could make a clean getaway. ‘I like the new hair,’ he said.

  I looked at him over my shoulder. ‘It’s break-up hair, so I have you to thank for it.’

  ‘I’m not sorry, Chloe.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you’re not.’

  ‘And if you’re thinking you’ll find a way to make me hang my head in shame over what we did, you can forget it. I don’t feel guilty.’

  But looking into his eyes as I wrenched my wrist free, I could see a flicker of something that told me he did.

  I had one small revenge.

  When Derek agreed to downgrade with me, I made sure he got the seat beside Nick in row fifty-three, while I took the only remaining seat, four rows ahead and across the aisle. And to ensure Nick had no opportunity to uncover my deviousness and somehow have the seats switched again, I avoided the boarding gate until the last possible moment, hurrying onto the flight just before the aircraft doors closed. When I reached my seat, I made a big show of rifling through my bags for what I’d need during the flight, simultaneously casting a surreptitious sideways spy-eye down the aisle, hoping to find Nick fuming.

  But Nick, seemingly oblivious to my arrival, was deep in conversation with Derek, who was pointing out something in the red folder I’d given him when we’d met at the ticketing desk. Which was when it suddenly dawned on me that if I wanted to talk to Derek during the flight, I would have to go to both of them, supplicant-style.

  I sat and stared blankly at the video screen set into the back of the seat in front of me, not feeling quite so pleased with myself, after all. And then I began to hear … sounds. A tittering laugh … a squeal … a giggle … Nick’s rumbling voice. A thief-like peek around the edge of my seat showed a gaggle of flight attendants accumulating in the aisle beside row fifty-three. Oh for God’s sake! Didn’t those flight attendants have things to do? Checking that seatbelts were fastened? Tray tables stowed? Bags in the overhead lockers? What if I did need to speak to Derek about something important? Would I even be able to get near him?

  The squeals and titters wafting up the aisle were reaching a crescendo, making me grind my teeth so hard, I half-expected to be spitting out a tooth chip before take-off. But at last it was time for the safety demonstration, and the aisle finally cleared of flight attendants, and I could at last unclench my now-aching jaw.

  It was only a brief respite, however, because when the aircraft reached cruise altitude and the seatbelt sign was turned off, it all started again – including the grinding of my teeth.

  I decided I needed a drink if I was going to get through eight hours of flight attendant flirtation. I pushed the call button twice, and was comprehensively ignored. I looked up the aisle, but saw no flight attendant in sight. No doubt because they were all down the aisle, clustered around row fifty-three, where I was not going to look. It seemed row forty-nine was going to have to go it alone if it wanted a nice stiff … whisky.

  I’d only taken two steps when the plane dipped, and the seatbelt sign came back on. But oh no, there would be no returning to my seat and buckling up! I was going to get that damn whisky if I had to pour it myself.

  I made my tottering way up the aisle, gripping the occasional seatback to steady myself as the plane dipped and rolled. I reached the toilets, and there was another, stronger dip – but the galley was so close now, I was not to be deterred.

  Another jolt, and I reached out to brace a hand against the toilet door … but my hand was grabbed and held against something else. A hot, cotton-covered … chest?

  I’m not sure exactly how it all went down from that point, because it happened so fast, but somehow there was a grab, a push, a stumble – and I was inside the small toilet cubicle.

  With Nick Savage.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nick locked the door, then looked at me.

  I gaped at him for a full five seconds. And then I found my voice. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Getting you alone.’

  ‘And if I don’t want to be alone with you?’

  ‘I told you, we need to talk. Preferably without an audience.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you that can’t be said with an audience.’

  ‘I thought we’d start with you telling me why you didn’t call me back.’

  ‘Because – read my lips – I had nothing to say to you.’

  ‘You kiss me, then dump your boyfriend because of it, but that doesn’t deserve any discussion?’

  ‘It’s had all the discussion it needs – with the relevant party.’

  ‘So Marcus is relevant, but I’m not?’

  ‘Bingo.’

  He smiled. ‘Now you see, that’s a challenge to me.’

  ‘The seatbelt sign is on.’

  ‘And your point is …?’

  ‘We should be going back to our seats.’

  ‘Well, Chloe, I look at it this way. Seatbelt sign is on – that means nobody is going to disturb us in here. So …’ He smiled. Dare you. ‘You said a little Mile High Club activity on the way to Manila might take my edge off. And here I am, ready, willing and able. God knows I’ve been waiting long enough to get that edge seen to. A full year.’

  ‘A full …?’ Utter, astounded, disbelieving, laughing gasp. ‘You expect me to believe that?’ Because I didn’t. Even if every single gossip column inch about his love life was a lie – as if! – guys like Nick Savage weren’t celibate for more than three days at a stretch. He was like a flashing neon sign: ‘Sex Available Here’. He had not been waiting for me, sex-free, for a year.

  ‘Why wouldn’t you?’

  ‘The ménage à trois that was getting under way on the harbour cruise, for a start. Let’s talk about that!’

  ‘I don’t kiss and tell, Chloe.’

  ‘Kiss and tell? How … quaint.’

  ‘Okay, I don’t fuck and tell.’

  ‘You don’t –’ Nope. Couldn’t find a response to that.

  ‘So what happens in here will stay between you and me, Chloe.’

  ‘Except that nothing is going to happen in here.’

  He smiled, full of confidence. ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

  ‘No, we won’t.’

  But Nick was looking around as though that part of the conversation was done and dusted. ‘Hmm. Maybe I should have upgraded. The business class facilities are a little more spacious. But needs must. And you look limber enough.’

  ‘You know, I’d be tempted if it meant I could flush your head.’

  ‘Well, well – that’s an interesting proposition.’

  ‘Flushing your head in an aircraft toilet is interesting? Really?’

  ‘I’m trying to work out the position that would make that a possibility – and I have
to say, I kind of like it.’

  ‘Just bend over.’

  ‘Oooohhh, Chloe, I thought you’d never ask.’

  Unbelievably, I felt a laugh start to gurgle up. I forced it back. ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Hey, I’d even encourage you to flush my head if that would get you across the line.’

  ‘I’m sure the brunette flight attendant with the …’ gesturing to my chest, ‘… would cross the line with you, and keep your hair dry while she did it.’

  ‘I’m sure she would, too,’ he agreed. And then he leaned in close. ‘But if I wanted her, she’d be here with me now and I’d already be in up to the hilt. Instead I’m here with you and we’re still at the negotiation stage.’

  ‘You’re so arrogant, I’m surprised anything except your swollen head can fit in here,’ I said, and reached around him for the door lock.

  ‘If you open that door, Chloe, I can promise you there’ll be a scene. Now personally, I don’t care about making a scene. But I’m pretty sure that would bother you an awful lot.’

  ‘I want to get out.’

  ‘Before we take care of my edge?’

  ‘I don’t care about your edge.’

  ‘You were interested enough in it at the airport. You’re the one who pointed out that I had a nice, healthy erection. You were so interested, I thought you were angling to get a close-up view.’

  The plane dipped again and I fell against him.

  ‘Feel it?’ he asked. ‘Yes.’ As I stepped back from him. ‘And it’s going to give me nightmares.’

  ‘I was aiming more for wet dreams.’

  Another dangerous laugh, throttled just in time.

  He smiled. ‘Come on. Time’s up, Chloe, and you know it.’

  ‘Yes, time is up, so let me out.’

  ‘You don’t really want me to let you out, do you?’ he asked, and took my face between his hands forcing me to look at him.

  I wanted to shut my eyes, hide the confusion I knew was in them. Confusion. Apprehension. Something else that was fluttering every nerve in my body. But I couldn’t seem to make my eyelids close. It was a little moment of suspended time, and I was caught in it, helpless.