Secrets of the Rich & Famous (6 page)

He stared at her.

‘You want me to help you trick some unsuspecting millionaire into thinking you’re a rich socialite?’

‘In a nutshell, yes. But not in a direct way. I just want to be able to ask your opinion on a
few things, that’s all. Clothes, locations, that kind of thing.’

He needed time out to think.

‘I think it’s a fair offer,’ she added.

As she put her empty coffee cup down on the table he got to his feet and reached for it.

‘I’ll make some more coffee,’ he said.

She grabbed his hand as he picked up her mug. Sparks of heat tingled through his wrist and zipped down his spine. There was something so alluring about her—and it messed with his body, not just with his mind. Her upturned face was imploring, the blue eyes clear.

‘I’m no threat to you. I honestly have no interest in making trouble for you. And we’re not that different. You told me you started out with ideas above your station and that’s what I’ve got. I just need this chance.’

He looked into the pleading blue eyes. He must be mad.

She took her hand back and he straightened up, made his way back to the kitchen, knowing that he should be ejecting her from the apartment right now.

She was right about selling her story. She could still make life difficult for him if she wanted to.

He had a choice. He could make her move out now, take a chance that any fuel she added to the scandal fire would be short-lived. Or
he could go along with her crazy scheme, get the gag order in place and keep her here with him for the month. The inherent danger in that thought made his pulse-rate climb. He ignored it.

It burned that he was expected to toe the line of the studios, the management, to restrain his private life. After clawing his way up from nothing to get where he was, and having been knocked halfway down again by Susan, being held back in any way now was abhorrent to him. His one failed attempt at family life had been dissected and trampled on by the media. Living the high life was payback for that. He enjoyed spending time in the company of beautiful women, but he never let it get serious enough to have emotional consequences. Let them print that he was screwing this model, or that actress. He didn’t care whether it was true or not.

Jen wanted him to spend a bit of time giving his opinion on clothes and the like? How hard could that be? With his social life reined in he’d have plenty of time on his hands. Let her stay here and work on her mad project. It would give him a few laughs if nothing else. And he’d far rather look at her long legs and big blue eyes than stare at these four walls.

He could tell Mark he’d secured her silence. No need to mention that he’d given in a little on the terms of the agreement. Or that he found
the prospect of spending a month living side-by-side with Jen dangerously attractive.

He refilled their coffee cups and made his way back into the den. He stopped in the doorway. She was curled up in the corner of the sofa, brown hair spilling over the cushion, sleeping. His heart turned over gently. For a split second he toyed with picking her up and carrying her to her bed. And then the memory of the other night drifted back—the thought of her beneath him, his for the taking. He mouth felt too dry all of a sudden.

There was kicking back and there was recklessness.

He put the coffee down on the table and grabbed the hideous patchwork throw she was so attached to. He tucked it around her and left the room.

Every movement around the kitchen jarred Jen’s aching head. She cooked dry toast, took headache pills, then sat on one of the stools and swigged orange juice. All the usual tricks for dealing with a hangover. If she was going to feel this grim at the very least she should have had the luxury of memory loss—the kind where you missed hour-long sections from the previous night as if you’d been abducted by aliens rather than drunk too much champagne.

The humiliation of being escorted from the
exhibition by Alex played on a loop in her head. She’d tossed a drink over a member of the aristocracy. For a professional journalist she knew her behaviour had been pitiful. And the
coup de grâce
that really made her cringe? Collapsing in Alex Hammond’s arms on the gallery steps. Her face burned just at the thought of it. That they hadn’t been swamped by the gawping paparazzi was down to pure luck and Alex’s super-fast driver. Clearly the press had been as surprised as she was to see him at the gallery, and the car had pulled away with seconds to spare.

As soon as her head calmed down she would go and pack. All hope was gone of his letting her stay here. The champagne might have given her the courage to propose they strike a deal, but that had been her big mistake. Alex Hammond would never stoop to negotiate with someone like her. He’d see it as a challenge to his authority. Men like him did what worked for them. He’d wanted rid of her from the moment he arrived and now he’d got his way.

Deep down it wasn’t the leaving that was the problem. Yes, it would be a setback. She had a ton of designer clobber winging its way to this address. A pain, but fixable. No, the thing that really rankled was that he’d got what he wanted despite her best efforts. Another rich man letting nothing get in his way—especially a nobody like her. She knew she could sell a
story about him, but she was in this for the long haul. She didn’t want fifteen minutes of fame for a flash-in-the-pan exposé and a one-off payment. She wanted to make a serious career out of writing, and that meant maintaining journalistic integrity. What if she wanted to interview a celebrity at some time in the future? She would never be trustworthy if she sold Alex out now.

He had no idea what it had cost her to agree to the gag order. The only way she’d been able to stomach it was to throw in some terms of her own, to try and hang on to some control. Well, much good it had done. Was this what it had felt like for her mum when she’d been pushed into signing the piece of paper that had let her father buy his way out of her future? As if she was painted in a corner with no other option left?

She glanced up and her heart began to thud as Alex walked into the kitchen.

‘Morning, Genevieve,’ he said.

She flushed. He’d got what he wanted. She’d be moving out. She didn’t need to put up with him teasing her too. She jumped down from the stool, grimacing as the sharp movement jerked her head, and made for the door.

‘When do we start, then?’ he called after her.

‘When you said you’d need a few pointers, I didn’t expect to have to read women’s magazines,’ Alex muttered, flipping through the pile
of glossies she’d handed him with a dubious expression on his face.

They were sitting opposite each other in the main sitting room on the leather sofas, a roaring fire burning in the enormous fireplace. A low coffee table separated them, upon which was a jumble of her handwritten notes, magazines, photos and a coffee mug each.

She wasn’t about to let him off the hook now. Initially amazed that he’d agreed to her request, she’d quickly forged ahead with her plans before he could change his mind, booking proper slots in his diary so he couldn’t make excuses. This was the first—deliberately late that afternoon, so her hangover headache had had the chance to dissipate completely. She felt totally alert and focused again.

‘I think it’s important you understand the kind of article I’m pitching. It isn’t some serious literary thing, it’s meant to be light-hearted and fun.’ She took a slug from her coffee. ‘And, anyway, you should be thanking me instead of complaining. These magazines are an insight into the mind of the modern woman.’

‘“Christmas party make-up for every skin-type …”‘
he read aloud. ‘Very insightful.’

She ignored the teasing.

‘I’m talking about the stuff on relationships, not the make-up column. Articles on what women really think about foreplay. How to decipher
what he really thinks of you by studying his behaviour.’ She jabbed her pen towards him. ‘There’s a whole underground conspiracy between those pages that men just aren’t aware of. A sisterhood. A sharing of information that arms us against the wiles of the opposite sex. Did you know that the majority of women at some point fake orgasm?’

‘The minority who sleep with me don’t,’ he said.

Sparks tingled up and down her spine as he deliberately and firmly held her gaze, the heat clear in his expression. She picked up another of the magazines and began to flick through it, not seeing the content, just using it to deflect the moment. It didn’t help that she knew exactly what it felt like to have his body held hard against hers. Without conscious effort her mind wasn’t above taking that scenario further step by step. What it might feel like to be kissed by him, touched by him. She wasn’t about to let him play with her the way he undoubtedly played with all the women in his life. She knew his type. What possible interest could he have in someone like her, besides amusement?

‘Men have magazines, too, you know,’ he said, apparently giving up on getting a reaction from her. ‘Women don’t have the monopoly on this stuff.’

She flapped a dismissive hand at him, glad to be back on task.

‘You can’t possibly compare lads’ mags with the serious issues covered in women’s magazines. They’re just an excuse to show pictures of scantily clad women with the odd article about cars and football thrown in.’

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ he said, grinning.

He wasn’t going to take this seriously, was he? She should have just launched straight into the stuff about image. Gathering up the magazines, she stacked them in a pile under the table and picked up her notebook.

‘There’s two areas where I need your input,’ she said, keeping her tone efficient. ‘Firstly, background on the kind of men I’m writing about. It should be easy. Just tell me about yourself. Where you go to socialise, what you wear, what subjects interest you, what sports you like—that kind of thing.’

He leaned back on the sofa, arms behind his head.

‘You want to know about what makes me tick?’

The question was loaded. She could feel it. It made her stomach feel soft and squiggly.

‘In as much as it relates to my article, yes,’ she said, trying to keep her focus.

‘And the other area?’

‘My own image,’ she said. ‘I’ve ordered a
stack of second-hand designer clothes. I just need you to give me a thumbs-up or down as to whether or not they would do it for you.’

‘
Do it
for me?’

She felt heat rise in her cheeks. This would be so much easier if he was middle-aged, short and dumpy. It was hard to keep things businesslike with him looking like an Adonis. She didn’t relish the thought of asking his opinion on her looks, but she was determined to give her absolute all to this article. She was more than capable of crushing any stupid embarrassment in the interest of the bigger goal.

‘Make me look like I’d fit into your social circle without standing out,’ she rephrased. ‘Like I have plenty of money of my own.’

‘Got you,’ he said. ‘I assume that’s what the name-change was about, then, Genevieve.’

He seemed determined to keep a blush on her face.

‘You have to agree that Jennifer Brown doesn’t sound rich.’

‘You could double-barrel your surname,’ he suggested. ‘What about adding your mother’s maiden name?’

‘Brown is my mother’s maiden name.’

‘OK. Add in your father’s name, then.’

‘I’ve got to twenty-five without using anything of his. I’m not about to start now,’ she said, more forcefully than she’d intended. The
fact that her father’s name could open doors had only made her even more determined not to use it. She was determined to prove that money and string-pulling weren’t the only way to get where you wanted in life—something Alex Hammond could do with remembering.

He raised his eyebrows but made no comment.

‘Street name?’ he said. ‘Add your street name to your surname.’

‘That would be Farmer-Brown.’

He burst out laughing and she couldn’t help grinning back. He looked absolutely heart-stopping when he laughed. Maybe if she got to know him she could talk him into giving her an interview somewhere down the line.

She marvelled at herself. Here she was, country mouse Jen, career-building and networking without even thinking about it.

‘Maybe it’s a sign. I think I’ll just forget the name thing for now and concentrate on the way I look and speak. Having a name like a princess isn’t going to convince anyone if I look and sound like trailer trash.’ She frowned. ‘Not that I do.’

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ he said. ‘And next time you might want to lay off the champagne.’

‘A
RE
you sure this will have worked?’ Jen asked dubiously.

‘Relax. It’ll be a piece of cake. You followed my instructions, didn’t you? You can’t go wrong.’

Elsie’s face, her hair in a new upswept bouffant style with a pink fabric flower pinned at one side, filled the screen of Jen’s laptop. Alex
was out for the afternoon and she’d taken over his dressing room. Mainly because there was a sink available and the floor was tiled, so any splashes of hair colorant would be easy to clean instead of carpet-ruining.

She’d stashed her laptop to one side of the sink unit and had mixed the colour under Elsie’s virtual supervision before painting it onto her head. That had been a while ago and now it was time to rinse.

Alarm bells began ringing as soon as she began pouring jugfuls of hot water over her head.

‘Er … Elsie?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Is the water meant to be this colour?’

Water the shade of what could only be described as fluorescent carrot swirled down the plughole, and she felt a pang of dread as she pulled the towel tighter around her shoulders and steeled herself to take a glance in the mirror.

Dark shock descended and she felt suddenly as if there was a brick in the pit of her stomach.

The aimed-for delicate shade of kissed-by-the-sun-blonde had turned out a rancid head-in-a-bucket-of-sick neon orange. Worse, the usually soft, silky texture of her hair seemed to have ended up somewhere between straw and candy floss.

Her reflection in the mirror gaped at her, lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace of horror.

‘Elsie, what have you done to me?’ she howled.

Elsie put down her nail file and peered from the laptop screen.

‘Oh, dear. That’s a bit intense, isn’t it? You can’t have followed my instructions properly.’

‘Don’t you dare blame me for this! I’ve done everything you told me to do.’

‘Perhaps it’s the colorant,’ Elsie said, pursing her lips thoughtfully. ‘I know it had been lying around for a while but that shouldn’t have made a difference. There isn’t much call for sunkissed blonde in Littleford. Maybe it’ll tone down a bit when it’s dried. Mind you,’ she added, ‘it does look quite festive.’

So, under the guidance of her so-called friend, she’d just plastered her hair in out-of-date chemicals.

‘Festive?’ she yelled. ‘The brief was myself, but better. Not
Sesame Street
!’

‘What the hell is all the noise about?’ Alex snapped irritably, banging the door open.

She saw the expression of annoyance on his face change to one of shock as he caught sight of her hair. She scrabbled frantically to hide it by throwing the towel over her head. Oh, please, not him—not now. Humiliation burned in her
cheeks, turning them a shade of beetroot that clashed horribly with her new hair.

‘Is that him?’ Elsie squawked excitedly over Skype. Her face was suddenly enormous on the screen as she peered closer to the camera. ‘Is that Alex? Oh, my God, I’m such a fan. You can’t possibly imagine! Jen, could you budge to the left a bit so I can see him properly?’

Jen reached out in exasperation and slammed the lid of the laptop shut.

Alex stared at her, aghast.

‘Who was that?’ he asked. ‘And what in the name of hell has happened to your hair?’

She burst into tears.

He took a step backwards.

‘There’s no need to cry!’

Livid with herself for making such a fuss, Jen unwound a large corner of the towel from her head and wiped it furiously over her face, swallowing hard to get herself under control.

‘I’ve ruined everything,’ she said, between snuffles. ‘I might as well throw in the towel on the whole project right now. What’s the point in wearing designer clobber when you’ve got radioactive hair? Looking like this, the only way I could trap a millionaire would be by drugging him. And it’s all my own fault for thinking that someone who spends their days putting curlers in pensioners’ hair could turn me into Viveca Holt!’

‘Viveca?’

Why the hell had
that
particular name sprung to mind? There was absolutely no reason why she would want to look like Viveca. Alex would think this was some sad attempt to make herself attractive to him. She quickly flapped a dismissive hand at him.

‘Figure of speech.’ She clenched her hands in exasperated fury. ‘Oh, if I’d just been a bit more restrained online this would never have happened.’

Clearly confused, he held up a hand.

‘You’re not making any sense. Calm down and tell me what’s going on.’

She took a deep breath.

‘I’m on a minuscule budget for my whole project,’ she said. ‘I’ve ploughed all my savings into it, but it isn’t like I’m made of money. Every penny counts. I went a bit mad buying designer clothes online and realised I had hardly any money left for a makeover. Elsie agreed to show me how to do the whole lot for free,’ she said, nodding at the laptop. ‘Hair, make-up, nails, fake tan. Only I might as well have entrusted the job to Laurel and bloody Hardy!’

Her temper was on the rise again as her tears dried.

Alex pulled out his mobile phone and began scrolling through it. The bitter reality of what this meant hit home. The final straw.

‘Oh, yes, go on—ring the lawyer again!’ she said. ‘I can’t even blame you. Who needs this kind of chaos in their life? I think you’ll find there’s nothing in that agreement that says you can evict me because of comedy hair!’ She raised her voice to a shout. ‘I read the small print!’

Frowning, he held up a hand in a shushing gesture. She sank into a chair by the sink and put her head in her hands.

‘Marlon?’ he said into the phone. ‘It’s Alex. Great, thanks, and you? Good, good. Listen, can I arrange an appointment? Hair, make-up, styling, the lot. Soon as you can? We’ll come to you. Sorry it’s out of the blue but it’s a bit of an emergency.’

Jen peered out at him from between her fingers, ears pricked up, heart suddenly racing.

‘First thing tomorrow? Perfect!’

He hung up.

‘Marlon?’ she asked.

‘Marlon Cobelli. He’s the stylist I use when I’m shooting in London. He does a lot of work on my film projects. Bit of a drama queen but he knows his stuff. He’ll soon sort you out.’

She saw his eyes dart upwards to the towel on her head. Hope rose as she realised what he was saying, only to be dashed again as the implications clicked into her mind.

‘I can’t afford London prices!’ she wailed miserably.

He rolled his eyes in exasperation.

‘I wasn’t expecting you to,’ he said. ‘I’ll throw it in with the accommodation. Call it a Christmas bonus—whatever you like.’

Her long-held principles held steady even against the current vile situation. Alex Hammond, cruising through life on a bed of cash. Well, she didn’t
do
charity—she did it alone. She slowly shook her head even as her heart plummeted.

‘Thanks, but I can’t possibly accept that. I’ll have to think of something else.’

Maybe she could sell something. She had some jewellery with her—not that it would fetch much.

‘Why on earth not?’

‘It’s nothing personal. I just don’t like to rely on other people, that’s all.’

‘You relied on Scary Laptop Girl.’ He nodded at the computer. ‘Why such a problem with me?’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

‘Because she’s an old friend who owes me a favour. And you’re throwing money at someone you don’t even know.’

‘But you’ve just said you’ll have to throw the towel in. You’d rather do that, give up on
your dream, than accept a bit of help?’ His tone was incredulous, making her feel like a stupid amateur.

‘This article’s all about proving myself, showing that I can make my own success,’ she said. She didn’t want that principle diluted. She shrugged. ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’

He was watching her intently.

‘Do you think the fact that I roped my friends into helping with my first film for free makes me any less of a success now?’ he asked her. ‘Or that I borrowed five hundred pounds from my college tutor to buy props?’

‘That’s different.’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s fine to accept help sometimes. Everyone needs a friend.’

The expression on his face was unexpectedly sympathetic. It made her stomach feel soft and she felt tears approach again.

The fact obviously didn’t escape him, because he gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake. I’m under contract to help you with your image, aren’t I? Terms negotiated by you in return for which you signed away your beloved freedom of speech. Just look at this as me delegating my responsibilities. Trust me, you’ll do a lot better with Marlon on the case than you would with me. I mean, do I
look
like an expert on women’s clothing?’

She looked down at her hands, thinking
it through. It was this or hightail it back to Littleford. Back to covering country fêtes and dog shows. The thought filled her with despair. And what he’d said made her feel somehow less as if it would be accepting something for nothing. It wasn’t a failure to take him up on it. Failure would be to go back. She slowly allowed blissful relief to bubble through her. Before she knew it excitement was back, and without thinking what she was doing she stood up and threw her arms around him.

‘Thank you!’ she said into his shoulder.

She was suddenly aware of his hand sliding around her waist in response. It sent simmering heat flying up her spine. And the delicious smell of his aftershave made a lovely replacement for the horrendous pungent odour of hair chemicals.

‘No need to thank me. I’m doing it for me, really, not you,’ he said over her head. ‘I’m not sure I could face living with a Muppet for the next four weeks.’

The local hair salon in Littleford where Elsie trimmed Jen’s ends every couple of months had a row of hood hairdryers along one side, a waiting room full of gossiping pensioners, a tin of traditional biscuits and a stack of years-out-of-date magazines on the side table. Jen couldn’t help comparing it to the glossy mirror-lined
walls and spotlighting of Marlon Cobelli’s cutting-edge studio. A spiky black Christmas tree stood in one corner. The salon was clearly at the cutting edge of Christmas as well as everything else. It was a world away from anything she knew.

Jen’s stereotype of a stylist to the stars involved someone impossibly trendy, bossy to the point of offensive and brutally honest in pointing out things like saddlebags and bingo wings. In pre-emptive self-defence she pasted a don’t-care expression on her face and clung to the hope that he would also be the polar opposite of Elsie when it came to styling skills, and this hideous embarrassment would all be worth it.

Marlon turned out to be all of these things. He was also camp as Christmas, and greeted Alex with a smacking kiss on both cheeks. She noticed Alex returned the embrace without an ounce of self-consciousness.

She couldn’t help feeling a touch of admiration. Now,
there
was a man who was comfortable with his sexuality. Her ex-boyfriend Joe, who worked as a farm hand and who’d put up with her for six months—a personal relationship best—would have deepened his voice and launched into a football anecdote before running a mile.

‘This is Jen,’ Alex said, pushing her forward
and holding her there, as if he could sense she wanted to bolt back into the background.

The firm slide of his hand around her waist as he stood just behind her made her stomach flutter with more than just nerves. He was close enough for her to pick up the scent of aftershave on warm skin. She swallowed hard and tried to focus her attention on the stylist.

Marlon wore a slim-cut shirt with a flower print over skinny black jeans, and his shoes had the sharpest toe-points she’d ever seen. His eyes widened in surprise as she removed the baseball cap Alex had lent her and shook her horrific neon hair free.

‘Oh, my darling!’ he exclaimed sympathetically. Then, to Alex, ‘We definitely start with the hair.’ He bustled over and looped his arm through hers.

She threw a backward glance at Alex as Marlon propelled her from the room. He was settling into the lounge area with its leather sofas and complimentary wi-fi. As she watched he gave her a supportive grin and a wink. Her heart gave a warm and fuzzy little leap in return. He was impossibly gorgeous, and now he’d turned out to be less self-centred than she’d given him credit for. As he opened his laptop she looked away and caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors. She grimaced. That had to have been a sympathy wink. The man dated
the likes of Viveca Holt. He wasn’t about to be making eyes at Ronald McDonald.

Marlon patted her hand comfortingly.

‘Don’t worry, sweetie,’ he said. ‘I like a challenge.’

If that was intended to make her feel better it failed miserably.

Ushered into a swivel chair in the hair salon and swathed in a protective gown, she was assigned a hairstylist who was intimidatingly young and trendy but who turned out also to be very sweet.

‘I did a season on that reality talent show,’ she confided reassuringly. ‘Transforming contestants for the live performances. It takes more than a dodgy dye-job to faze me.’

A couple of hours and a make-up lesson later and Jen couldn’t believe the girl in the mirror was her. Her new hair colour was gorgeous, with multi-layered tones of toffee and gold, and long layers made it swingy and glossy. The make-up was subtle—a bit of mascara, bronzer and pink-toned lippy. She could blend in easily with the girls at La Brasserie. Excitement bubbled in her stomach. After everything that had gone wrong, she finally felt as if she might be able to pull the article off, after all.

Marlon reappeared as she stood up and took off the gown.