Pink Champagne

by Anne Weale

  P I N K C H A M P A G N E

  Rosie Middleton appeared to have everything — health, a successful career, her own home, holidays abroad, designer clothes, lots of friends... The only thing lacking was a man about whom she cared and who would care for her. But Rosie had already lost her heart with disastrous consequences and was determined not to make the same mistake again.

  Which was why, when devastatingly attractive Nick Winchester entered her life once more, she responded with extreme caution. But surely lightning couldn't strike twice?

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  All Rights Reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  MILLS & BOON and Rose Device is registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. First published in Great Britain 1991 by Mills & Boon Limited

  ©Anne Weale 1991

  Australian copyright 1991 Philippine copyright 1991

  ISBN 0 263 12814 8

  Set in Times Roman 16 on 17Vi pt. 16-9111-51062 C

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by William Clowes, Beccles, Suffolk.

  CHAPTER ONE

  FRIDAY was one of those days. Rosie's lunch was a sandwich at her desk. She had already cancelled her dinner date and left a message on her home answering machine that she would be in for supper but late—she wasn't sure how late.

  In fact it was after nine when she flopped, tried but with the satisfaction of having left nothing undone, into the back of the taxi she had called to take her from her office in central London, near Covent Garden, to the house in Fulham she shared with Sasha Otley, another determined career girl, and Clare Bardwell, the older woman on whom they depended for all their creature comforts.

  It was several years since Rosie had had to travel to and from work by bus or tube. But having an elastic expense account hadn't made her blase. When she saw tired faces at bus stops she was conscious of her own good fortune.

  The fact that hard work had had a lot to do with it did not diminish her feeling that she was exceptionally lucky. She enjoyed her job and the long hours it involved. Even a day like today, fraught with every possible snag which could disrupt the smooth running of one of London's most successful public relations agencies, was in its way more fun than an easy day in most people's working lives.

  As for having to call off her date, that was no great disappointment. Carl was a useful contact and a pleasant man who, if she had been agreeable, would have liked to end their evenings together in bed.

  But that, as she had made clear from the outset, was not on. So they saw each other about once a month and talked shop—he was in advertising—and that was as far as it went... as far as any of her relationships with men went.

  Rosie was twenty-seven and, at an earlier stage of her life, had tried very hard to fall in love. But after a couple of unsatisfactory relationships she had given up hoping to meet the love of her life and concentrated on her career.

  Now she hardly gave love a thought, firmly sublimating her biological urges when they arose, which wasn't all that often. Sometimes she wondered if she was under-sexed. Only one man had ever made her ache with longing to share his bed.

  But, as her mother's daily help was in the habit of saying, 'You can't have everything in this life,' and already, Rosie knew, she had more than most women. An absorbing and well-paid j ob. A happy family background in Yorkshire, and a comfortable home here in London with, in effect, the services of a housekeeper, cook and lady's maid. Holidays abroad. Designer clothes. Lots of friends and plenty of social life.

  The only thing lacking was a man to love, to be loved by. But having once experienced the misery of unrequited love, and from all she had seen of other women's love lives, it seemed that men were often more trouble than they were worth. Maybe she was better off without one. Half an hour later, up to her armpits in the warm, swirling, scented currents of the jacuzzi bath she and Sasha had installed last year, with a tall glass of gin, ice, lemon peel and slimmers'

  tonic within reach of her hand, she flipped through the pages of a weekly publishing trade magazine she hadn't had time to look at during the day.

  A few minutes later, skimming one of the columns, she was jolted out of her luxurious relaxation by a name she had never expected to see in that context. A name she would have liked to forget except that, from time to time, she heard it announced on the news on television and always made a point of not watching the item which followed. Although recently publishers have become more cautious about paying massive advances for potential bestsellers, it took a high six-figure bid from Bury & Poole to win the auction for Nick Winchester's first thriller.

  Like Frederick Forsyth, Winchester started his career as a newspaperman before turning to TV, where he is well known to viewers for his reports from the world's trouble spots. Now, as Forsyth did, Winchester has turned his talents to fiction and it's said that his first attempt could even outsell Forsyth's current bestseller.

  'It's brilliant: tautly written and packed with action and suspense. Also the sex scenes—often a weak point in books by and for men—are brilliant. I couldn't put it down,' enthuses Carolyn Campden, B & P's fiction director.

  Normally, Rosie's first reaction on reading an item of this sort would have been to wonder who would get the job of promoting the book. Her own was one of several agencies which specialised in 'hyping' books for publishers and there was a good chance that Bury S i Poole's publicity director, for whom she had organised several successful promotions, would choose her to handle this one.

  But in spite of the prestige and money involved, did she want to handle the promo for a book by a man who had once caused her so much heartache?

  Nick Winchester had been, and no doubt still was, a man who attracted women easily, and who took full advantage of his opportunities for conquest.

  Without even trying, he had swept Rosie off her feet. Not difficult when he had been an experienced twenty-five and she an ingenuous seventeen.

  For four months she had lived in a fool's paradise, convinced that her feelings about him must eventually be reciprocated. Then he had walked out of her life, leaving her to face the painful truth that she had meant nothing to him.

  Dropping the magazine on to the bath mat spread in readiness for her by Clare, who had also filled the tub while Rosie was undressing and taking off her make-up, she reached for her drink. Ten years ago, when she and Nick had been working on the same newspaper, she as a trainee journalist and he as the best reporter on one of the most admired provincial morning papers in Britain, she had drunk only fruit juice. Ten years was a long time, especially the years between seventeen and twenty-seven. In ten years' time probably she wouldn't look or be much different from her present self. But a decade ago she hadn't begun to get her act together. Presently, rising from the water and leaching for the thick white towel Clare had a mug over the heated rails at one end of the bath, Rosie looked with satisfaction at the cammisted reflection of her small-waisted, lender figure in the mirror on the opposite wall. At seventeen, overfed by a mother who had given up the battle with her own weight and delighted in baking cakes and serving fattening sweets, Rosie had been far too plump. It was only when she left home to live in a bed sit that she had begun to slim down and to improve her appearance in other ways.

  Mum was a dear, in some ways an ideal parent. But it ha
d to be said that she knew nothing about dieting and less about clothes. On the other hand she was unfailingly sympathetic and helpful when anyone was in trouble and Rosie knew that her own ability to get on the same wavelength as almost everyone she met, from a bishop to a bag-lady, was a gift inherited from Mrs Middleton.

  As she finished drying her ears, neck and shoulders, she pulled off the shower cap which had kept her hair out of the way. It fell into a silky bell several shades lighter and infinitely more sophisticated than the mid-brown over-permed mop she had had in her first job. Fortunately most of the things she couldn't change—her basic bone-structure, her eyes, her mouth—were not bad. Transforming herself from the naive teenage lump Nick had known had been largely a matter of making the best of her natural assets. Even her eyes, always her best feature, looked larger now her face was thinner, and a more striking grey since she had learnt to use liner and shadow with greater subtlety.

  The telephone rang. Wrapping the towel round her, Rosie stepped out of the tub and picked up the receiver.

  'Hello.'

  'Rosie? Hi! How are you?' The publicity director of Bury & Poole had a distinctive voice which made it unnecessary for her to announce her identity to people who knew her as well as Rosie did.

  'I'm fine, Anna. How are things with you?'

  'All go as usual. Have you heard about our latest coup?'

  'You mean the Winchester book?'

  'I do indeed. Everyone's over the moon about it. You should be too. We want you to handle his tour.'

  That's a great compliment, Anna, but I'm not sure I'll be free. I've a lot of commitments lined u p.' 'Oh, come on, don't play hard to get. You'd give your eye-teeth to do it. Never mind that the book can't fail to bestsell, the man is a dish and what's more he's unattached. No ex-wife, no permanent girlfriend... but definitely no boyfriends. He's the answer to a maiden's prayer.' A contralto chuckle. 'If I weren't a faithful wife, I'd take him on tour myself.'

  'Have you actually met him, Anna?'

  'Not yet, but I've seen him on TV, exuding charisma in situations which would have me sweating with terror and screaming, "Get me out of here!" Don't tell me he doesn't switch you on. I shan't believe you.'

  'It's a long time since I last saw him. I don't often watch the news on TV. I pick it up on the radio late at night or in the morning. Most of my viewing is videos of the breakfast and prime-time chat shows. That way I can whizz through the parts I don't want to see and just watch the interviews we've lined up... or our competitors have lined up.'

  'I do that too, but John likes to catch the news—' Anna's husband was a political agent'—and although one gets sick of seeing the same old catalogue of wars and disaster night after night, year after year, I always perk up and pay attention when Nick Winchester comes on. I think I should quite enjoy being stuck in a tight spot with him, and I bet a lot of other women feel the same way. Let's have lunch early next week? I'd like to talk through our marketing strategy with you. How about Tuesday?'

  At Clare's suggestion, Rosie had her supper of smoked salmon with scrambled eggs and a small green salad on a tray in bed. When she had finished eating she looked through Hello! to see if this week's issue of the magazine included Sasha's photos of an article about a well-known actress.

  While Rosie was training to be a reporter, Sasha had been a trainee photographer on the same paper, with the advantage that her father was chief photographer on another provincial newspaper so she had already learnt a lot from him.

  The two girls had often worked together and had remained close friends after Rosie had decided to change to PR work and Sasha had given up staff work to turn freelance. When the telephone rang again, it was Sasha on the line, calling from Scotland where she had been taking pictures for a brochure about a new country house hotel.

  'It's been a tough week. I'm having an early night to iron out the bags under my eyes for our party tomorrow. I suppose Clare's got everything organised with her usual efficiency,' was Sasha's opening remark.

  'I should think so. I haven't asked yet. I was late home tonight and we haven't had much conversation. Why have you had a tough week?'

  'The weather has made it difficult to get good outdoor shots and also the chairman of the company is a bottom-patter,' said Sasha. 'The sort who ignores a polite brush-off. This afternoon he got really overheated. I suppose I ought to be used to fighting my way out of unwelcome hugs and treat them as an occupational hazard. But it always makes my blood boil, a middle-aged Casanova assuming, without a shred of encouragement, that I can't and won't resist him. Oh, well, c'est la vie. How was your week?'

  'Not bad... until about thirty minutes ago. Then Anna rang up and dumped a dilemma in my lap. She wants me to handle the promo of a book they've just bought for a lot of money.'

  'Where's the dilemma in that?' asked Sasha.

  'The book is by Nick Winchester.'

  There was a pause before Sasha said, I—I'm... yes, I see. But that was long ago and I in away. You're not the simple soul you were in those days, Rosie. Surely you can't still have a weak spot for him?'

  'No, no... of course I haven't,' Rosie said thickly. 'But I'd rather not meet him and—and . .

  .be reminded how stupid I was.'

  'Not stupid at all. If I hadn't been in love with Tom at that time, I'd probably have fallen for Nick myself. What sort of book has he written? Part one of his autobiography?'

  'No, it's fiction...a thriller. Don't know much about it yet. Sounds like what's known in the trade as an airport novel. Something to take the travelling executive's mind off his doubles en route to a conference in Tokyo or LA.'

  'When is it coming out?'

  'Don't know that either. But I'm lunching with Anna on Tuesday... which doesn't give me long to think up a convincing reason why I can't take it on.'

  'Don't be crazy: you must take it on. Big-budget stuff means a fat rake-off for you. Apart from the money, think of the kudos. You'd be mad to turn it down, Rosie. Anna would be narked... and with reason. I know you're good at your job, but so are your rivals. If you put Anna's back up, she might never throw another plum in your direction.'

  'I could tell her the truth,' said Rosie.

  'The truth wouldn't make any sense to her. You had a teenage crush on a man a long time ago, so you're scared of meeting him again. What does that make you sound like? An idiot, that's what.'

  'I suppose it does rather,' Rosie conceded. 'But the fact is I'm scared, Sasha. No, not s c a r e d . That's too strong a word. Apprehensive is nearer the mark. Falling for Nick, as I did, was the first bad thing that ever happened to me... the worst experience I've had. Isn't it natural not to want to revive all that foolish anguish?'

  'Why should working with him revive it? You're not a starry-eyed seventeen-year-old anymore. You're an achiever, a success. It doesn't seem to have struck you, but this is an opportunity to turn the tables on Nick.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Make him fall for you. Why not? You don't seem to realise what a knockout you are these days. Somehow, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, somewhere deep down in your subconscious you still keep an out of date image of yourself as you were way back. It's high time you junked it, Rosie. The Rosalind Middleton other people see bears no resemblance to the way you were then. If you really put your mind to it, you could have Nick's scalp on your belt with no trouble at all.'

  'How you exaggerate. OK, so I can afford to buy better clothes and my hair looks like hair, not a bird's nest. That doesn't make me irresistible. Anyway I don't want Nick's scalp. I don't want anything to do with him.'

  'We'll talk about it tomorrow. I'll be back by mid-afternoon, which will give us plenty of time for a heart-to-heart before the party. Now don't lie awake agonising. Think about where we might go for this year's main holiday. See you tomorrow. Bye.'

  Not long after Sasha had rung off there was a tap on the door and Clare came into the bedroom. While Rosie was having a bath, Clare had taken away the suit and
shoes her co-employer had worn that day and now was bringing them back, the suit pressed and spot-checked, the shoes polished and stuffed with tissue paper. It was likely that Rosie's underwear and tights had already been rinsed out and her silk shirt carefully hand-washed and rolled in a towel.

  'Clare, I've told you before about working overtime. Those could have waited till tomorrow. You're supposed to relax in the evenings,' she remonstrated. Their housekeeper flashed a smile at her before hanging the suit in the wardrobe. 'There's nothing worth watching on TV and I've finished the sweater for Angie. Tomorrow I'll have Sasha's clothes to sort out. Is there anything else I can get you?'

  'No, thanks. That was delicious. How was your day?'

  'Much less pressured than yours. I spent the morning cooking for the party and this afternoon I went to the new exhibition at the Tate Gallery. A very nice day,' said Clare. Wondering if the older woman really was as contented as she appeared to be, Rosie asked some questions about the exhibition before saying, 'Sasha rang a few minutes ago. She expects to be back around three. I hope you know how much the way you look after us is appreciated, Clare. We never stop thanking our lucky stars that you answered that advertisement in the Lady'

  'It was lucky for me that I saw it. There aren't many housekeeping jobs which would suit me as well as working for you two. Would you like breakfast in bed as you don't have to go to the office tomorrow?'

  'You'd spoil me rotten if I let you. No, tomorrow I'm getting up early and going for a workout at the club. Then I'll give you a hand with moving the furniture for the party before my hair appointment.'

  Clare picked up the supper tray. 'I'll say goodnight, then.'

  'Goodnight.'

  After the door had closed quietly behind her, Rosie spent a few minutes wondering, as she had many times before, about Angie's father and the reason why he and Clare weren't together. She had come to them with excellent references, which they had checked, from two employers in the country, both of whom had been loath to lose her when she had wanted to change jobs in order to be near her daughter, now a music student in London. But although she was unquestionably a treasure, who ran their house as if it were her own home and who was an inspired cook, Rosie and Sasha knew little about Clare's background. They knew she had been orphaned early in life and, having neither husband nor family to help her, had taken to housekeeping as the only way to support herself and her child, born when she was nineteen, the age Angie was now. But those were the only personal details she had confided.