Charlotte Phillips – Secrets of the Rich & Famous (страница 5)

She gave her suddenly pricked-up ears a mental slap. The fact that he was single was definitely of no interest to her. She didn’t care that he was utterly, heart-stoppingly gorgeous. Firstly, she’d be wasting her time. Even in a ketchup-smeared photo Viveca was nothing short of exquisite. He’d never look twice at someone like Jen. And secondly, the only circumstances in which she would look at a man who paved his way through life with his wealth would be false ones—as demonstrated perfectly by her undercover article. She wasn’t about to repeat the mistakes her mother had made. No way.

She shrugged. ‘You’re just too newsworthy. That’s the problem. You need to keep your head down a bit more. Perhaps if you dated someone a bit more run-of-the-mill for a change?’

He raised his eyebrows and gave her a suggestive grin that sent a curl of unwelcome heat through her body. ‘Someone like you, you mean?’

The kitchen felt too warm. The look in his eyes took her right back to the previous night again.

‘I don’t consider myself to be run-of-the-mill, actually,’ she said.

She felt his eyes follow her as she crossed the kitchen. She could tell just by the heat in her cheeks that her face was currently approaching tomato-red. No way was she letting him see that he affected her. She opened a stainless steel door and stuck her head into the cupboard where she’d stashed her food. She took a few calming breaths and when the flustered feeling was gone took out a loaf of bread.

She’d done a big supermarket food shop during a fleeting visit home a couple of days ago, left half the food in the house for her mum and brought the rest back to London with her. She had enough on her plate here trying to track down millionaires without also having to track down budget food.

She put a couple of slices of bread into the gleaming toaster. His attention was back on his phone again as he leaned against the counter.

She hauled her mind back on task. Sparring with Alex Hammond was all very well, but she needed to concentrate on work.

Thankfully, her accommodation remained sorted. She mentally ticked it off. Now for the next step. Somehow she needed to work out how the hell a girl whose most expensive item of clothing was a fifty-pound pair of shoes could identify whether a men’s jacket cost a hundred pounds or a few thousand pounds? She needed to build up a sketch of the kind of man to target, and she had to admit there was a certain satisfaction in the idea of fooling a man of her father’s ilk. Someone driven by money and reputation and success, who held all the cards in life and had no qualms about playing them.

Her first proper undercover expedition was tomorrow night. OK, maybe she was running before she could walk—she hadn’t even got her wardrobe together yet—but a ticket to the first night of an art exhibition had fallen into her lap via the middle-aged arts correspondent of the Littleford Gazette. It turned out boring Gordon was a real culture vulture in his spare time, hanging around galleries and getting himself on exclusive mailing lists. When he’d heard about her planned article he’d thrown a spare ticket her way. She suspected he had a bit of a soft spot for her and feared he might expect a bit more than a cream cake as a thank-you if she had to go back to work at the Gazette. There was a lot riding on this project in more ways than one.

The opportunity to attend a champagne reception which would undoubtedly be stuffed with rich singletons was too good to pass up. If nothing else she’d be able to observe, and if she was really, really lucky she might be able to highlight a couple of suitable men to target. She hadn’t had time to source any designer clothes yet. Instead she was intending to wear her trusty little black dress and blend into the background—use the evening to get an idea of the image she needed to build for herself.

But the thought of going straight from comfort zone to such a glossy affair was terrifying. She somehow needed to ease herself into it. A bit of people-watching would be just the thing to get her in the right mind-set. But knowing where to start was the problem. Where did the beautiful people hang out in London on an average weekday?

A sudden movement from Alex made her glance around to catch him checking the huge gold watch on his wrist—probably worth more than her car. Somewhere in her mind a penny dropped.

Standing in front of her was a walking, talking information source on every aspect of the lifestyle of a wealthy single man. Unfortunately with a messy and very expensive divorce in his past he was unlikely to see the funny side of an article on landing a rich bachelor, no matter how tongue-in-cheek it was meant to be. She’d have to find an underhand way to tap the information out of him.

He looked back up at her, a questioning frown knitting his brows in response to her sudden beaming smile.

‘Would you like a slice of toast?’ she asked him.

Ten minutes later they were seated on stools next to the granite counter. Alex watched Jen finishing her second slice of toast. A few crumbs clung to her full lower lip and he found himself staring at them until the movement of her hand as she brushed them away snapped him out of it. He gave himself a brisk mental shake. He was meant to be keeping on her good side, not ogling her. Mindful of Mark’s warning to keep her sweet, he’d only agreed to the toast to appear friendly after snapping at her about Viveca. He surreptitiously pushed the remains of it to one side of his plate and took a large slug of coffee.

He looked up at her to see that she’d finished eating and was now staring at his wrist. She leaned forward on her stool to get a better look.

‘That’s a lovely watch,’ she said.

He smiled distantly. What was she up to now?

‘Thanks.’

‘Would you mind if I took a closer look?’

Before he could answer she’d jumped down from the stool and taken a step closer. She took his wrist in her slender hands and turned the watch this way and that, examining it.

‘Cartier …’ she murmured.

He realised that she was the perfect height for him right now, standing next to him as he sat on the stool. This close he could see the big blue eyes, the frown touching her brows lightly. The curve of her top lip above the full pink lower lip was adorable. There were fine tendrils at the nape of her neck where she’d pulled her light brown hair up from her shoulders into a messy ponytail. He was reminded suddenly of the last time he’d been at eye level with her—last night, with her slender wrists in his hands, lush body pinned beneath him on the bed, close enough to kiss her with one short movement of his head. Heat sparked on his skin at her touch and seemed to pool deep in his abdomen.

This was not a good sign. Less than four days since he’d sworn off women and he was mentally wondering what she might taste like. He debated for a moment if he should have ignored Mark’s advice and evicted her, anyway.

He tugged his wrist away sharply.

She looked up in surprise, her hands left empty in mid-air.

‘I’ve got a conference call in twenty minutes that I really ought to be preparing for,’ he lied.

She took a step back, still eyeing the watch.

‘OK, not a problem. I’m planning on going out, anyway, so you can have the place to yourself.’

Honestly, she had more front than Blackpool. Acting as if she was the one doing him the favour when it was his own damned apartment.

She tossed his cold toast in the bin and stacked their plates together in the sink.

‘Can you recommend somewhere good for lunch?’ she asked, her back to him. ‘I need to get a bit of background on the area. The kind of people who hang out here, what they wear—that kind of thing.’

He shrugged. ‘Depends what you’re after. Coffee and a sandwich? Or something a bit more substantial? What do you want to spend? Some places are pretty exclusive and expensive.’

She turned back from the sink in time for him to see the sudden shadows in her blue eyes.

‘Not that I’m implying you’d be out of place there,’ he said, wondering why he was worried about hurting her feelings.

‘Why don’t you just tell me where you would go?’ she said. ‘If you were hypothetically going out for lunch in South-West London.’

He thought for a moment, trying to come up with somewhere she might enjoy.

‘La Brasserie,’ he said. ‘French-style place. It’s very popular—decent food.’

‘Great, thanks!’

‘Don’t thank me until you’ve tried it. We might not like the same kind of food.’

She left the room. Just as he was insisting to himself that she was having zero effect on him he realised he was watching the graceful way her legs moved in the slim-cut jeans. He’d have to find a way of getting her out of here.

The globe lights, the ceiling fans twirling above her, the framed French posters on the walls and the marble-topped bar made stepping into La Brasserie feel like stepping into a little corner of Paris in the middle of London. Strings of white fairy lights and Christmas greenery added a warm festive touch. At a corner table, Jen thought it really was the perfect place to while away an hour or two people-watching.