Charlotte Phillips – Secrets of the Rich & Famous (страница 1)
‘I could do with a new approach, I’ll admit,’ she said slowly. ‘So how about we strike a deal?’
‘Go on,’ he said slowly.
‘What I need right now is an adviser. To help me get my article back on track. Someone who knows the world I’m writing about and can give me a few pointers.’
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.’
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.
CHARLOTTE PHILLIPS has been reading romantic fiction since her teens, and she adores upbeat stories with happy endings. Writing them for Mills & Boon® is her dream job.
She combines writing with looking after her fabulous husband, two teenagers, a four-year-old and a dachshund. When something has to give, it’s usually housework.
She lives in Wiltshire.
Charlotte Phillips
For my family, with love and thanks.
Table of Contents
JEN BROWN stood rigid behind the bedroom door in the dark, arm raised, the vase in her hand poised to be broken over the intruder’s head the second he entered the room. As the door swung open one last thought dashed through her mind before cold panic set in and impulse took over. She wished, not for the first time this week, that she was back in her mother’s cottage in the country, where you could leave your door on the latch all night and still not be murdered in your bed.
A state-of-the-art security system and a massive front door was apparently not enough to guarantee that here in Chelsea.
As the door opened and the light snapped on she leapt with a yell from her hiding place and swung the vase with every ounce of her strength. If this were a movie she would have knocked him out with one crash and then waited smugly for the police to arrive and pat her on the back. But this was reality. And she wasn’t movie heroine material.
And so it was that before she could connect vase with scalp, before she had the chance so much as to kick the man in the shins, she was soaring backwards through the air to land with a thump on her own bed. Her wrists were immediately held in an iron grip on either side of her head, and as the intruder loomed above her she drew in a lungful of air and screamed as long and as loudly as she could.
She surprised herself with how loudly, in fact. He recoiled a little at the sound, his face catching the light, and she realised with a flash of disbelief just who she was staring at. Last seen yesterday morning on the front of her newspaper, in the flesh he looked even more gorgeous but a lot angrier.
She’d just tried to crack the skull of the most influential figure in British film-making.
‘Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you!’ he shouted over her, exasperation lacing the deep voice.
Famous or not, he had her pinned to the bed, so she ignored him and began to suck in another enormous breath.
He took advantage of the break. ‘Drop the damn vase and I’ll let you go!’
His dark green eyes were just a couple of inches above her own. The sharp woody scent of his expensive aftershave invaded her senses. Hard muscle was contoured against her body as he used his legs to pin her down effortlessly. She struggled, trying everything to move her legs and kick the stuffing out of him, but she couldn’t move an inch. The eyes looking into her own were determined, and his breath was warm against her lips.
Drop the vase? She gave it a split-second’s consideration. If her hands were free and he tried anything she could grab something else and bash him with that. The place was full of heavy minimalist ornaments—she’d be spoilt for choice.
‘Let me go first,’ she countered. Her heart thundered as if she’d just done the hundred-metre dash. She held his gaze obstinately.
He made no move to release her but his voice dropped to a
‘You’ve just tried to brain me with it. Let the vase go and then perhaps you’d like to tell me what the hell you think you’re doing in my house.’
Fear slipped another notch as her mind processed that last sentence.
She should have known the only person who could get past the Fort-Knox-style security system in this place would be the person who’d put it there. And if it had been daylight instead of the dark small hours she might have listened to her common sense instead of turning the situation into a movie plot. No wonder the house-sitting agency kept their property owners’ details confidential. She could imagine women queuing up round the block to get this gig. It would be a stalker’s dream.
She’d built up a mental picture over the last two days of the person who owned this beautiful apartment:
She congratulated herself on her powers of deduction. She was in the wrong profession. Perhaps she should swap journalism for the police force.
Alexander Hammond. Film producer. Award-winner. Millionaire playboy.
She let the vase drop from her fingers. He followed it with his eyes as it rolled away, the look on his face thunderous, and the next moment she was free as he released her hands and stood up.
He straightened the jacket of his impeccably cut dark suit. A pristine white shirt was underneath, open at the collar and devoid of a tie. His thick dark hair was cut short. Faint stubble against a light tan highlighted a strong jaw. He looked as if he’d just stepped off the set of an aftershave commercial. One of those ones filmed in black and white, showing the hero on his way home at sunrise, a glass of champagne in one hand and the perfect woman in the other.