Authors: Jo Carnegie
Naked Truths
Life isn't fun without a scandal
Newly-weds Caro and Benedict
have swapped country life in Churchminster for an exclusive London mews. It's blissful . . . until Benedict's sister arrives, bringing with her a dangerous secret.
Fashionable
socialite Saffron
lives next door. She always thought the countryside was boring, but when she's invited to Churchminster she is shocked to learn just how
dirty
rural life can get.
Saffron's boss,
workaholic editor Catherine
, is fighting to save her ailing magazine. But her scandalous past threatens to destroy everything, especially when rugged builder John Milton strides into her life.
Following a sexy, colourful cast through city and country,
Naked Truths
is an addictive, funny, feel-good romantic romp.
Contents
Jo Carnegie
To Emma Messenger, my ideal âideal reader'
Chapter 1
SAFFRON WALDEN PEELED
open a mascara-clogged eye. High above, a dusty lampshade dangled precariously from a peeling ceiling. Where was she? Saffron blinked and tried to focus. Her head pulsated unpleasantly, and fuzzy snapshots of last night danced through her mind. Oh God, it was all coming back to her now: she should never have let Fernando talk her into buying that last round of tequila slammers.
Saffron groaned loudly and struggled to sit up. As the duvet fell off she caught sight of herself in the cracked mirror opposite: alabaster white skin, small pert breasts, and a mop of peroxide blonde hair sticking out like it belonged to Worzel Gummidge. The remnants of last night's Amy Winehouse-inspired eyeliner were streaked halfway down her cheeks.
âYou look like shit,' she told herself, which wasn't strictly true. Twenty-four-year-old Saffron Walden had an effortless cool that made her look cutting edge no matter how monumental the hangover.
âYou look pretty good from where I am,
cariño
,' crooned a voice lustily. Saffron turned to find the glorious tanned physique of Fernando stretched out beside her. He was a beautiful Mexican barman she'd met in a club and been dating a whole six weeks.
Saffron looked round the bedsit distastefully. âHave you never heard of a Hoover? This place is a shit hole.'
âI thought you liked it dirty,' he breathed. Despite the pounding against her temples, Saffron resisted the urge to giggle. He'd clearly been watching too much cheap porn recently. Fernando smiled back at her, and looked pointedly downwards. A large bulge was forming like a mushroom cloud under the duvet.
âI'll give you something to look happy about,' he said, suddenly pulling her on top of him. As he started grinding his hips against hers, Saffron could feel his erection burrowing underneath her like an overexcited ferret.
âI feel like crap!' she protested.
âShut up.' Fernando kissed her, his tongue working into her mouth. He smelt of sweat and sex, mixed in with the faint tang of alcohol and aftershave. As his hands started running expertly over Saffron's body, she started to respond.
âMmm . . .'
Miraculously, Saffron's headache was starting to disappear. Fernando wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, she reflected, but he
was
a bloody good shag. He looked up from enthusiastically sucking her left nipple. âI told you I'd make you feel better,' he murmured throatily. One hand slid down and roughly pulled her legs apart.
Succumbing to the moment, Saffron sighed happily and reached for the bumper box of condoms on the bedside table. Her jaw dropped. âFuck me!'
Fernando groaned theatrically. â
Yeah
, baby!'
âNot you, idiot!' Snapping her legs together like a vice, Saffron grabbed the alarm clock. The red digits glared back accusingly: 10.10 a.m. âShit, I am so late for work!'
Disentangling herself from Fernando's amorous grip, she tumbled from the bed in a heap of long limbs. Her lover watched in disbelief as she retrieved a minuscule G-string from the floor.
âBaby, you can't leave me like this, my balls are gonna burst!'
But Saffron had already disappeared into the bathroom.
Exactly thirty-seven minutes later, Saffron flew through the doors of Valour Publishing, a gleaming modern tower just minutes away from the designer heaven of Bond Street in central London.
âLate again, Saff?' called out the cheery cockney security guard on the front desk. Saffron rolled her eyes as she rushed towards the lifts.
The middle doors opened to reveal the welcome form of Harriet Fraser, laden down with exquisitely wrapped parcels. Harriet beamed at Saffron. âJust on my way up from the post room. I think Catherine's been sent another Cartier watch.'
The mountain of packages started to slide, and a small pink box fell out of Harriet's arms. âOh cripes!' she gasped, but Saffron had dived into the lift and caught it. The doors slid shut.
âOuch, that hurt,' Saffron winced, clutching her head.
âBig night?' Harriet's eyes twinkled.
âWasn't meant to be. Do I smell like a brewery?'
âNothing a Polo mint can't cure. I've got some in my desk if you want.'
Saffron exhaled loudly and surveyed her wild-looking reflection in the mirrored wall. âI can't believe I bloody overslept again. Catherine's going to give me such a bollocking.' Her face dropped even further. âOh God, I've just remembered â I was meant to be doing a phone interview with Stella McCartney at 10 a.m.!'
The lift door pinged, and the doors slid open on to the fourth floor. As they got out, Harriet turned to Saffron, who was looking distinctly green round the gills. âDon't panic,' she said kindly. âCatherine's still at her editors' breakfast, and Stella's PR called. She's been struck down with some bug, so the interview's been rescheduled for next week. I've left a Post-it note with the details on your computer.'
Saffron grinned at her. âDearest H, where would I be without you? In fact, where would any of us be without you? I can't believe you've only been here six weeks.'
Harriet's cheeks went pink. âReally?'
âTotally! And the other day I overheard Catherine saying to the art desk that you're the best PA she's ever had. You're like, a million times better than that useless old trollop Miranda. She only applied for the job because she thought she'd get to shag loads of male models.' Saffron snorted. âAs if!' They reached the office doors, and Saffron glanced through the porthole window. âI've got to go and change in the loo. I had to make an emergency dash to Top Shop; otherwise everyone will know I'm a dirty little stop-out. Will you cover for me?'
âI haven't seen you,' said Harriet, smiling.
âYou're a star!' Saffron placed the pink box in Harriet's arms and rushed off down the corridor towards the ladies.
Harriet watched Saffron go, flushing with pleasure. They really liked her! When she'd applied for the position at renowned glossy magazine
Soirée
, she'd never thought she'd get an interview, let alone the actual job.
Her father, Sir Ambrose Fraser, hadn't been able to understand why she wanted to leave her quaint little cottage in the gorgeous Cotswolds village where she had grown up. âLeave Churchminster? To move to London? What the bloody hell for?' he had bellowed during their weekly Sunday dinner at Clanfield Hall.
Her mother, Lady Frances, had been more understanding. Harriet had been through some life-changing experiences in the past few years. As well as going travelling, she had been very involved in organizing the Save Churchminster Ball and Auction. The event had been put on to raise funds to buy a piece of the village under threat of development, and it had been a roaring success. It made her realize she really was good at something.
At the age of thirty-two, with no real career track record apart from occasional secretarial duties for her father, Harriet had known life was passing her by. So when the job as
Soirée
PA/events coordinator had been advertised in the Media
Guardian
, she'd immediately sent in her CV. Two weeks later she'd been offered the job.
Sir Ambrose had retired to his study and refused to speak to her for three days. But thankfully her mother had taken her side. âChurchminster will always be here, darling,' Frances had told her as they'd walked arm-in-arm round the grounds of the Hall one fresh spring evening. âThis job opportunity won't.'
So six weeks ago, at the start of June, Harriet had packed up the Golf, put her beloved Puffa waistcoats in the attic, and left. Driving away from the little cottage she lived in on her parents' estate had been dreadfully hard, especially when they, along with Cook and Mrs Bantry, the housekeeper, had come to wave her off.
Blinded by tears, Harriet had reversed over Sir Ambrose's foot by accident and nearly crashed into a ditch. Then halfway down the M4, she had been gripped by a sudden terror. It had taken all her strength not to come off at the next junction and flee home. What if she wasn't right for London, and
Soirée
? Everyone had seemed so stylish and together when Harriet had gone for her interview. Where on earth would her Laura Ashley wardrobe fit in?
To her immense relief, the team had been a down-to-earth lot, who were so pleased to have someone efficient after the disastrous Miranda that Harriet was given a hero's welcome on her first day. She enjoyed working for the editor, too, the formidable Catherine Connor. Tough but fair, Catherine set high, exacting standards, and Harriet was relishing the challenge of meeting them.