Secrets of the Rich & Famous (8 page)

There were only two other tables occupied
besides theirs. No one gave them a second glance. She forked up some fries.

‘So your father left when you were small?’ he asked.

Jen felt the age-old defiance kick in.
Do not feel sorry for me
. ‘Before I was born,’ she corrected, and flashed back an I’m-not-bothered smile.

‘That can’t have been easy.’

She shrugged.

‘You’re assuming that he would have been someone worth knowing.’

‘You don’t know who he is?’

‘Oh, I know,’ she said, attacking her steak and slicing it into minuscule pieces. ‘I just don’t care.’

He looked questioningly at her and she put her knife and fork down, sat back for a moment, knowing she should just kill the conversation right there and then. She didn’t have to tell him anything about her background. She found she wanted to. Maybe just a little.

‘I was the result of a relationship my mother had with him,’ she said. ‘Well, I say relationship. It was a few nights, nothing more. He was her boss. He was married.’

She looked down at her meal, pushed the steak around a little with her fork, remembering.

‘When she found she was expecting me,
you can imagine it went down like a rat sandwich.’ She grinned up at him ruefully but he only looked at her. ‘As far as he was concerned he already had a family and a career. He didn’t want to complicate any of that. My mother refused to have a termination so he dealt with it his way. Withdrew from her completely, never acknowledged me, went back to his comfortable life as if I never existed.’

‘Your mum didn’t spill the beans at all, then? To his family?’

She shook her head. ‘She wanted to bring me up herself, without worrying about his intervention, so she never stirred things up.’

She felt a pang of love as she thought of her mother. How dignified she was. She’d accepted a one-off payment and that was an end to it as far as she was concerned. But Jen didn’t want to go into that with Alex.

‘And he’s never tried to get in touch?’

She took a sip of her coffee and thought about the question for a moment, ran her mind back down the years when she’d struggled with that lack of interest from her father.

‘No,’ she said, and considered how she felt about that. ‘It probably bothered me most when I was school age. Only because you don’t want anything then that makes you stand out from the crowd. And I wondered if I might hear from him when I hit eighteen.’

‘Bit of a milestone?’

She smiled bitterly.

‘Also the age when you stop needing maintenance payments. I thought he might show his face. But nothing. So when I hit twenty-one I didn’t expect anything, and it turned out I was right.’

‘And if he turned up out of the blue now?’

‘I couldn’t be less interested.’

She forked up some steak and onions and carried on eating her meal, not looking at him.

He watched her. All bravado. No wonder she was so set on proving herself, so desperate for personal success, to show herself as worthwhile. Despite the impression of indifference she gave, it must hurt terribly that her father had never even been intrigued enough about her to get in touch. Not even once.

‘Back to the grindstone after this, then?’ he said, groping for matter-of-fact conversation, wanting to lighten things up for her. And to distract himself from the compelling need to ask more, dig deeper behind the façade to find the true Jen Brown.

She sighed. ‘Yes. Shame, really. I could have spent all day in the park.’

‘What’s next up on your mad agenda, then? Now you’re done with sorting out the clothes and hair?’

‘Next I put it all into practice. Get myself
into the same room as the target. I’m still on a budget, so I’ve thought up some ways of throwing myself into the path of eligible men without having to bankrupt myself on gallery tickets.’

Her voice became animated as she talked about her project. Alarm bells began ringing. What the hell was she cooking up now?

‘What ways are you talking about?’

‘There’s a nightclub I thought I might try tonight. Christmas cocktails—that kind of thing. The younger royals hang out there sometimes. It’s at the cutting edge of nightlife for the rich.’

He felt as if a bucket of sleet had been sloshed over him. The thought of her putting herself out there in some cattle market nightclub by herself, looking the way she did, filled him with cold horror. No man in his right mind would pass up the chance to spend time with her.

‘You are
not
going out on your own to some nightclub,’ he said before he could stop himself. ‘I don’t care if the Queen herself is a patron. You’ll end up dead in a ditch somewhere.’

‘There aren’t any ditches that I’m aware of in Chelsea,’ she said. Her excitement seemed to have slipped into obstinacy. ‘And what’s it to you where I go, anyway? I’d have thought you’d be pleased your part of the deal is finished. I’ve had the makeover, you’ve given me free rein to look through your wardrobe, and you’ve given me some pointers. I’m really grateful for all
your input but I can manage on my own now. I’ve honed my skills and I’m confident I won’t be throwing myself at any man worth less than a million.’

Alex was absolutely furious, and not inclined to explore too carefully where that level of feeling was coming from. He struggled to stay calm. He knew her well enough by now to be certain that if he forbade her to do something she’d press ahead with it all the harder. What he needed was something to divert her.

‘Actually, I’ve got a better idea,’ he said, thinking on his feet. ‘And it would give you a lot more material for your article than you’d get hanging out at some nightclub.’

She looked at him suspiciously.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a Christmas ball tonight—for the Youth in Film charitable trust,’ he said. ‘I’m a patron. It’s at a five-star hotel in Mayfair. There’ll be a champagne reception, dinner, dancing. And an open charity auction. There’ll be a big presence there from the film and media world. How about I get you a ticket there instead? You won’t be able to move without falling over an eligible bachelor.’

And that way he could keep an eye on her from a distance. Make sure she was safe and not getting herself into any trouble. Surely that was the only reason he wanted her there?

Her eyes widened. ‘Those events are way above my budget. They don’t let just anyone in. In fact, it’s probably not in keeping with the tone of my article—Miss Ordinary would never be able to afford to go.’

He rolled his eyes. Not this again.

‘We’ve been through all this when I booked you in with Marlon. You need to start seeing past your principles if you’re going to get the most top-quality material you can and write this thing. Who cares if you don’t stick to the letter of the idea as long as you come up with an entertaining article that will blow their socks off? You keep telling me it’s tongue-in-cheek. No Miss High Street from the back of beyond is really going to come to London armed with your article and intending to land a rich bloke. It’s just meant to be entertainment.’

‘I suppose so,’ she said. Then she frowned suddenly.

‘How come you didn’t mention it before?’ she said. ‘I thought you were meant to be keeping out of the spotlight for a while? I know you’ve made a break for it today, but Kensington Gardens is hardly a paparazzi hangout.’

‘I was in two minds about going, because it’s a bit of a sensitive subject in light of the recent press stories about me.
Patron of charity that helps youngsters into film in casting couch scandal
—I can see the headlines now. But this
way I’m showing I’ve got nothing to hide. Plus the charity relies on my profile, and it’s a great cause. It would have made a massive difference to me when I was starting out if I’d had access to resources like that.’

She was practically jumping up and down with excitement now.

‘Are you sure you can get me in? I can’t believe this! I’ll be able to get loads of background material.’

She tugged at his arm and leaned forward suddenly, gave him an impulsive quick peck on the cheek. Her skin was against his for a split second, but it was enough to send dizzying sparks sizzling from his skin to his abdomen via his spine. His heart began to race in his chest.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a credit in the article.’

He leaned back deliberately in his chair, as if physically distancing himself would have the same effect on his mind.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ He tried to keep himself on task. ‘And there will be ground rules. I won’t be able to spend the evening with you—you understand that, don’t you? This isn’t a date.’

She chuffed out laughter and he felt a little piqued. Was it really so outrageous a thought to her?

‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘Last thing I need is
you
hanging around me, cramping my style.’

They finished their meal and began walking back to the apartment. Jen upped her pace considerably.

‘Come on!’ she called over her shoulder.

‘What’s the rush?’ The crisp air caught in his throat after the warmth of the restaurant as he stared after her.

‘Are you kidding me? It’s going to be the poshest night of my life. I need to get back home and start getting ready.’

He checked his watch.

‘But it’s only mid-afternoon.’

‘And your point?’

‘The ball doesn’t start until seven thirty. How much time do you need, for Pete’s sake?’

She walked back to him impatiently, grabbed his hand and began walking backwards, pulling him along.

‘You know what your problem is? You’re just such a man. I have to look perfect.’ Her voice rose excitedly. ‘Ooooh, I get to wear my cocktail dress—yippee!’

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! ‘

E
VENING
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 menacing 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.