Kitabı oku: «The Honey Trap»
The Honey Trap
MARY JAYNE BAKER
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
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HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016
Copyright © Mary Jayne Baker 2016
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover design by Books Covered
Mary Jayne Baker asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International
and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or
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written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780008194581
Version 2016-06-24
To Mark, my very own live-in romantic hero, who deserves this dedication even though he always hogs the covers
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgements
Mary Jayne Baker
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Angel Blackthorne’s dream job wasn’t turning out quite how she’d pictured it.
She lurked behind a Corinthian column in the ornate gilt-and-ivory lobby of the Hotel D’Azur, tugging at the barely buttock-covering Little Black Dress her boss Steve had made her wear. Don’t forget, love, tits and teeth. And then… whatever it takes. She could smell the mint and nicotine breath lacing the gruff Yorkshire accent, gravelled with old fags, as he leaned towards her and spat out lesson one of Entrapment for Dummies.
Not for the first time that night, she wished she was wearing proper underwear. The thin, lacy strips of silken fabric covering her breasts and nether regions seemed far from up to the job of keeping everything in – which was the whole point, of course. How exactly was it she’d let Emily convince her to buy them?
The receptionist behind the white marble front desk, crisp and professional in her gas-blue two-piece and bobbed hair, was starting to eyeball Angel with suspicion. Probably wondering if I’m a ‘working girl’, she thought with a sour half-smile. She pulled again at the hemline of her almost-there cocktail dress and shook a mental fist at Steve, the source of all her woes.
Christ, Angel, grow a pair. Remember, you signed up for this. To the breach…
Steeling herself, she walked over to the heavy mahogany door leading to the hotel bar, gripped the brass rail and leaned her weight against it. It swung open noiselessly. Thank God for the unknown caretaker and his can of WD40!
Angel slipped through and ducked into one of the huge, high-backed armchairs immediately to her left. She noted with relief that not one of the handful of punters had looked up from their drinks.
The chair was vast enough for her to get lost in: a highly polished Chesterfield in quilted red leather that would really require a smoking jacket and fat cigar to be truly enjoyed. Not to mention a penis… The whole bar reeked of a very masculine, gentlemen’s club-style opulence, all carved walnut panelling, cut-glass chandeliers and plush red damask.
Glancing around the room, Angel sought her prey.
She soon spied her man seated at the bar, watching some sort of sporting event on a wall-mounted plasma screen; the one modern touch in the place. She’d only seen one photo, but yes, she was certain that was him: notoriously private Sebastian Wilchester, film-making wunderkind.
The editor of The Daily Investigator had waited a long time to corner Wilchester in a public place so he could spring a honey trap. Tonight was the night – and Angel was the bait.
***
‘I really don’t know what you’re worrying about,’ Emily had said earlier that day while they shopped through their lunch break. Trust her flatmate, Miss Hump-’em-and-dump-’em, to completely miss the point. For Em, sexual hang-ups were something that only happened to other people.
Emily held up a pair of sheer red knickers and eyed them critically. ‘Honestly, Ange, only you could fret yourself to death over an all-expenses-paid night out with a sexy man in a swanky hotel. Lighten up and enjoy yourself. I mean, this is your first big assignment in six months. Isn’t this what you wanted?’
‘I’m not sure what I wanted, except to write,’ Angel admitted. ‘Bedding married strangers certainly wasn’t top of my list, world-famous directors or otherwise. I thought they’d have me on WI flower show write-ups and tea-making for the foreseeable, if I’m honest. I’m only an intern, Em, even if I am a good five years older than the other foetuses on the programme. Honey trapping just doesn’t seem… right, somehow.’
‘Well, if he goes along with it then the sleaze has got it coming. It’s a public service,’ Emily said, brandishing the red knickers like a victory flag from the peak of Mount Moral High Ground. ‘You’ll be doing his missus a favour, Ange, trust me. No one can make a cheater cheat if he doesn’t want to. And if he doesn’t take the bait, then his oh-so-perfect wife’s a lucky mare and we can all hate her in peace. Anyway, it’s not like you’ve got to sleep with him, is it? I thought you were just supposed to get him down to his birthday suit and go.’
‘And yet here I am in a lingerie shop, buying pants that look like a Dairylea triangle attached to a bit of string…’
‘That’s just to give you confidence. You can’t honey trap in granny’s bloomers, sweetie.’
Angel let out a little snort of a giggle. She loved her lunch breaks with Emily, bringing back memories of their days at university. This one was certainly taking the edge off the ordeal ahead. Well, almost.
With her friend’s persuasion she settled on a lace-patterned black satin thong and matching push-up bra, consisting of not more than about five square centimetres of material and carrying the hefty price tag of £32.95. ‘I think we’re both in the wrong business,’ Angel muttered to Emily, watching the shop assistant fold her tiny purchases inside layers of silvery paper before placing them carefully in a glossy black bag bearing the store logo in embossed gold. ‘If we’d gone in for textiles at uni we could be multi-millionaire knicker tycoons by now.’ Her friend snorted appreciatively.
Back at the office, Angel stashed her purchases discreetly under her desk and wiggled the mouse to wake up her Mac. The brushed aluminium screen flashed twenty-three new emails, all face-achingly dull corporate press releases passed on to her to filter by ‘real’ journalists who had better things to do. Rock and roll…
‘Good lunch break?’ Savannah, her fellow intern, beamed at Angel from her desk in the semi-enclosed corner of the office they both occupied. She was tucking into a princely meal of what looked like two pieces of lettuce and a cube of feta. Angel thought about the eight-inch meatball sub she’d just eaten.
‘Nothing special, Sav. Just a bit of shopping and a sandwich, that’s all.’
Blonde, flawless, clever, twenty-one-year-old, cloyingly sweet Savannah: film studies graduate, hotly tipped to be a future high flyer. Now here was a girl who could spring a decent honey trap. Why would Steve give Angel this assignment when he had the perfect candidate right under his nose?
‘What do you know about Sebastian Wilchester, Savannah?’ Angel asked. ‘Have you seen many of his films?’
‘God, yes, I’ve seen them all! He’s incredible.’ Savannah’s reply was breathy and gushing with reverence. ‘A genius, I think. I chose my dissertation topic after I saw his first film, Unreal City. ‘Sin and redemption in the British Gangster genre.’ Wish I could meet him.’
Don’t I wish you could too…
‘Oi, sugar tits!’ came a rasping voice from behind her. Angel spun in her chair to see Steve at the door of his glass-fronted office, jerking a thumb over one shoulder to indicate her presence was required. ‘In here for a briefing.’
‘Ever the charmer,’ she mumbled to herself, following him in and taking a seat at his curved IKEA desk. He sat down on the other side and swung his chair around to face her.
‘Right, my little honey trap, plans for tonight.’ Steve Clifton, editor of The Daily Investigator, didn’t do small talk. Now, as ever, it was straight to business. ‘Here’s a pic of Wilchester. Memorise it, but don’t take it with you. That could blow the whole gig.’
Angel squinted at the photo he’d handed her. It showed a tall, lean young man, good looking but apparently shy and nervous as he faced photographers on a red carpet.
She raised a quizzical eyebrow at Steve. ‘This is him? I thought he was in his thirties.’
‘That’s at the premiere of Unreal City eight years ago, couple of years before he married Beaumont. Man’s a bugger to get on camera, hates the press. Anyway, it should be good enough for you to identify him.’
‘If you say so, boss…’
‘We’ve booked you a suite at the Hotel D’Azur. I’ve emailed you the address and your reservation number. Classy place so tart yourself up a bit, Blackthorne.’ Steve took in her stone-washed jeans and yellow v-neck top combo with a sneer. ‘You can finish early and take your stuff over there to get changed. Don’t forget to chuck a few pairs of your undies around the room, make it look lived in. We don’t want him getting suspicious.’
‘Nothing sexier than a total slob, eh, Steve?’
He ignored her. ‘He’s flying back from filming in New Zealand today. Based on what we know about his habits he should be in the hotel bar some time between 7 and 8pm. Now, I don’t care how you do it or what you tell him, but whatever it takes you have to get him back to your suite.’
Angel wondered if she should be taking notes. Seduction techniques for absolute beginners.
A thought occurred to her. ‘Why’s he staying in a hotel anyway? He lives in Kensington, doesn’t he? Why not just go home to his wife?’
Steve shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me, love. All we know is, he always spends the night at a hotel when he flies back from filming. Trouble in paradise, maybe.’
The editor rifled around the pile of papers on his desk, pulled one out and thrust it towards her.
‘Here. Plan of the suite. When you get him back there, the most important thing to remember is there’s a hidden video camera behind this two-way mirror in the bedroom’s cupboard door. I’ll be watching the camera feed from the computer in my home office. No mikes so I won’t be eavesdropping.’
She cast a suspicious eye over the room plan in her hand. ‘And this is all legal, is it?’
‘Don’t be daft, it’s breaking every privacy law in the book. No need for you to worry though, it’s my sexy little carcass on the line, not yours.’ He broke into a wide, leering grin. ‘Now, before you leave that room, I want a couple of compromising shots and a solid full frontal to the camera I can montage on a front page. From him, not you, although if you fancy joining the peep show I won’t complain. When I’ve got what I need, I’ll send a text. It’ll just say ‘Done’. Then you’re free to make up an excuse and leave – or not, eh?’ He winked at her unpleasantly.
‘Do you really think I’d have sex while you’re perving at me through a hidden camera?’ Angel wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Bloody hell, it’s staggering the respect I get in here.’
‘Don’t know, don’t care. You do what you like, love. It’s no skin off my todger: just so long as you get me my story. Whatever it takes, remember.’ He reached under his desk, pulled out a parcel wrapped up in brown paper and handed it to her. ‘And while we’re on the subject, you’ll be wearing this. It’s your size, I checked with Leo.’
Angel tore open the parcel and pulled out something flimsy, black and slinky. One eyebrow jumped up as she unfolded the dress and held it against her.
‘This is a top, right?’
‘It’s a dress. Make sure you fill it. Remember, Princess, tits and teeth. And give him plenty of leg while you’re at it: I’m told he’s a leg man.’
Angel was seething now. She knew Steve was callous, misogynistic, morally bankrupt and generally a scumbag of the first order, but even by his standards this was skimming a new low.
‘Christ, Steve! Dressing me, seriously? What are you now, my editor or my pimp?’ She glowered across the cluttered desk at the smirking, overweight Yorkshireman, quivering with anger while she faced off against him. ‘And there’s one thing you don’t seem to have considered here, by the way: he might not fancy me! I’m no Carole Beaumont. She’s been voted sexiest woman in the world – twice. Why don’t you ask Savannah? She’d be perfect. She’s gorgeous, she’s bright, she’s ambitious, and she was just telling me what a big fan of Wilchester’s work she is. She wrote her dissertation on him.’
‘Yeah, yeah. She’s a fan, I’m a fan, my missus is a fan: the world and his bloody dog’s a fan. Of course they are, the man’s brilliant.’ Steve turned away from her, spinning his chair around to face the large window that looked out across the grey London cityscape. A recent fall of rain had mingled with the grease and oil of the metropolis, giving the streets a pearlescent sheen. ‘You know why I need it to be you, Blackthorne? Because you’re not a fan. Wake up, love. Sebastian Wilchester lives in a world where everyone’s blonde, everyone’s beautiful, everyone’s a fawning sycophant or yes-man just dying to hump his leg. I picked you because you’ve got a nice arse and a good pair, and because you’re not a part of his world. Trust me, I know people: that’s why I shift papers. And my hunch tells me you’re our best shot.’
It was true, Angel had never seen a Wilchester film. She knew she must be one of the only remaining people in the world who hadn’t. He’d been notching up awards and critical acclaim ever since Unreal City, but he only made gangster movies. She hated gangster movies. Snuggling up with something vintage and classic was much more to her taste.
Still she resisted. ‘Flattered as I am you put such faith in my sex appeal, boss, aren’t there professionals who do this sort of thing? Private investigators? Escort girls?’
He shook his head. ‘It needs to be a journalist, one I can trust. I need a report to go with the pics, and I need someone with a keen eye for detail who knows what’s worth reporting.’
Even through the red mist of her anger, she felt a twinge of pride. So he did rate her journalism skills – and whatever else he was, he knew his stuff there.
‘Why are you so desperate to set Wilchester up? Just out of curiosity. Is this a personal vendetta or what?’
Steve grinned, showing stained, yellowing teeth through his grizzled beard. ‘I’ve been a newspaper man a long time, pet, and I know what the public wants,’ he said with a touch of triumph, rubbing the overspilling belly under his striped shirt. ‘I started in newspapers as an office boy, fifteen and straight out of a secondary modern in Bradford. Twelve years later I was deputy editor of this rag – youngest ever. I’ve been thirty years in the editor’s chair now. I doubt anyone knows what sells a paper better than me.’
Angel wondered where he was going with this extended pat on the back. He was clearly building up to a big finish.
‘You know what people love even more than a rags-to-riches success story, Blackthorne?’
‘I’ve got a feeling you’re about to tell me.’
‘A riches-to-rags plummet. A failure, and a spectacular, crashing failure at that. They adore seeing someone built up only to be torn down.’
Angel curled her lip, appalled. ‘Lovely picture you paint of human nature, boss.’
‘Not just my opinion, love, the stark truth. And you know it. That’s why we have the highest circulation of any national daily. I sell to the darkness in people – their schadenfreude. And this scoop is going to sell me a lot of papers.’
‘God, you’re a piece of work, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve had my eye on Sebastian Wilchester and Carole Beaumont for a long time,’ he went on, ignoring her. ‘The so-called saviour of the British film industry and his beautiful A-lister wife, childhood sweethearts, six years married with never a whiff of scandal? I mean, come on. No one’s life is that perfect. And I’d bet my right bollock there isn’t a man alive who can keep his trousers on when sex is offered up on a plate by any half-attractive bird.’
Seeing her shocked expression, Steve manoeuvred his bulky frame to where she was sat and put a plump, sweaty arm around her shoulders, leaning in close in a manner he probably thought was reassuring.
‘Relax, love, just be a professional about it. Look, we all had to start somewhere in this business and it wasn’t pretty for any of us, believe me. Enjoy yourself tonight. Have a few drinks, let your hair down. You’re not doing anything wrong. If he doesn’t want to betray his wife, he won’t. And if he does then he deserves all he gets, and Beaumont’s better off for knowing the truth while there’s still time for her to chuck him out on his arse and move on.’
Angel remembered Emily’s words in the lingerie shop: no one can make a cheater cheat if he doesn’t want to…
‘Do a good job on this and I’ll see if I can get you some decent assignments in the next couple of weeks, a few byline pieces for your portfolio.’ Steve massaged her shoulder, sensing she was weakening. ‘And next time a staff job comes up, you can be sure your name will be top of the shortlist. For someone with next to no experience, that’s not something to be sniffed at.’
She heaved a resigned sigh. ‘Okay, Clifton, you pervy old bastard. This once, I’ll do it. But this is the last time. Next time you can do your own dirty work.’
‘Not got the legs for it, love. The tits, maybe,’ he said with a grin. ‘Just remember, Blackthorne: relax, have fun and give it all you’ve got. You’ve all the makings of a great reporter. I know you won’t let me down.’
But the editor’s words couldn’t quite calm the sickening feeling in her stomach as she left his office.
Chapter 2
Angel examined the man at the hotel bar carefully, mentally comparing him with the blurry photo of the shy young director at the premiere of his first film. Yes, it was certainly Wilchester, but eight years had made a big difference in his appearance. The man in front of her was athletic, tall and broad. His skin was tanned nut brown from foreign travel, chin flecked with designer stubble and he was soberly dressed in a navy-blue suit with a white cotton shirt open to the neck. The curling chestnut hair was just a little too long, its owner carelessly pushing back a stray tendril that was repeatedly falling into one eye.
She drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly through puckered lips, psyching herself up. This was something she hadn’t prepared for. She’d expected someone good-looking, yes, but this man wasn’t just handsome, he was hot: seriously hot, like a heavily Photoshopped model out of an upmarket menswear catalogue. Or that Diet Coke Break guy from the old ads. What a waste to have him behind the cameras instead of in front!
Suddenly aware of her own appearance, Angel reached up and smoothed the thick auburn hair tortured into what she hoped was a sophisticated up-do, pushing an escaping hairpin back into place behind one ear. It was pretty plain that if Sebastian Wilchester was bored of his superstar wife, he could probably have his pick of the gorgeous starlets he worked with every day. What could the skinny little newspaper intern in the too-obvious LBD have to offer that he couldn’t get anywhere else?
Well, nothing to lose except her pride…
Right, how did they do this sort of thing in the movies? ‘Buy a girl a drink, cowboy?’ Oh yes, very saloon-bar hooker. She couldn’t remember any of what Steve had told her in the briefing, except an echo, constant and repetitive, tapping out its own rat-a-tat rhythm in her brain: whatever it takes. A reporter gets her story, whatever it takes.
She’d just have to wing it. Hopefully something would come to her as she went along.
She glanced longingly at the door. It still wasn’t too late to make a bolt for it before he noticed her…
No, not an option. Steve had said there could be a staff job on the horizon for her if she got this right. After years working in dreary admin, dreaming of breaking into journalism, she couldn’t afford to throw the opportunity away.
Gathering her nerve from somewhere around her ankles, she rose and tottered over to the bar on the three-inch killer heels she’d bought for the occasion, slightly swaying her hips in what she hoped was a sexy wiggle rather than a duck waddle. It felt like all eyes were on her, and she could feel her skin prickling against the taut, slinky fabric of the dress as she made her way to Wilchester.
Signalling to the liveried bartender, Angel dumped her black sequinned handbag on the bar and slid up into the empty stool next to her target.
‘Double gin and slim, please. On the rocks.’ That sounded pretty sophisticated, didn’t it? The sort of thing a Bacall-esque femme fatale might drink. Angel cast a sly glance sideways, wondering if Wilchester had noticed.
He seemed to have abandoned watching sport on the big plasma screen in favour of staring morosely into his Scotch. God only knew what he saw to fascinate in the amber liquid: his own reflection, perhaps? It would be hard not to stare with a face like that. She tried not to let her eyes wander over the stubbled lines of his perfect jaw, the firm-sinewed skin of his neck showing through the open collar of his shirt.
Wilchester wasn’t paying any attention to her but someone at the bar was more alert to her charms, she noticed with a stab of annoyance. A ruddy-cheeked young suit with a noticeable absence of chin was swaggering over to her, a smug air of certain conquest illuminating his features. Angel cursed under her breath as he oiled up to her and leant on the bar by her elbow, reeking of self-assurance.
The barman had returned with a gin on ice and a miniature bottle of Schweppes, which he placed in front of her. ‘Your gin and tonic, Madam.’
‘Let me get that.’ City Boy – probably a Giles or a Dom, if she had to guess – had fixed her with a one-sided smile he clearly thought was dripping with irresistible charm. ‘A beautiful woman should never have to buy her own drinks.’
Angel grimaced, trying to settle her churning stomach. Seriously, that was the line he was going with?
He waved a fifty-pound note in the air in front of the barman. ‘No change, mate, sorry.’ Angel could practically feel her lady parts recoiling in horror.
‘That’s very kind of you but I, er, I’m waiting to meet my date,’ she said, thinking on her feet. ‘He’s due here any minute.’
City Boy looked around the nearly empty bar with an air of exaggerated showmanship. ‘Well, he’s not here now,’ he purred. ‘And here’s a man on £140k a year offering to buy you a drink. Come on, darling. You know which side your bread’s buttered, eh?’
She curled her lip and gave the hand that had found its way to her knee a rough push. ‘Look, mate, I said I’m not interested, okay? Now piss off, can you?’
‘Don’t come over all coy with me, darling. No one in a dress like that can say they’re not interested.’
‘Excuse me,’ said a smooth, brushed-velvet voice at her side. Sebastian Wilchester had turned to watch the scene before him with wry amusement. ‘Are you, er, Claire’s friend? I think I might be your blind date. I was supposed to meet a girl here at eight.’
‘Yes!’ she almost barked, seizing on the lifeline Wilchester had thrown her. ‘Yes, she told me to meet you here. I guess I should’ve asked to see a photo but, well, I’m an idiot. So lovely to finally meet you. Our friend – er, Claire – she’s told me all about you. Obviously.’
City Boy was edging away now, his gaze lingering on Wilchester’s six-two frame and the broad breadth of his shoulders. ‘Sorry, pal, my mistake. Didn’t realise the lady was meeting someone. I’ll leave you to your drinks.’ Angel smirked as he turned tail and sloped back to his table.
‘Here, let me get your drink. Least I can do after your ordeal.’ Wilchester turned to the barman. ‘Put it on my account, Brad.’
Angel noticed him examining her with guarded but obvious interest while he spoke, his glittering eyes skimming over her body. She didn’t know whether the sensation she was feeling in her belly was surprise or elation. He couldn’t actually be attracted to her, could he, this professional connoisseur of beauty?
‘It feels like I should be getting you one after that,’ she said with a laugh. ‘But thanks.’ She topped up her gin with a small amount of tonic, glad to have something to occupy her faintly trembling hands. The ice cubes clinked against the glass as she took a sip, the liquid’s zesty coolness creating a pleasant tingle over her lips and tongue. She hoped the refreshing drink would cool her down and tackle the blush rising fast to her cheeks, while the alcohol took the edge off her nerves.
‘And thanks for saving me,’ she said, looking up at Wilchester from over the rim of her glass. ‘That guy didn’t look like he was going to be put off easily.’
‘Oh, there’s a chancer like him in every bar, testing the gag reflex of anyone in a skirt. They usually give up after a few knock-backs.’ He flashed her a smile. ‘Anyway, glad I could help.’
She felt a shudder run through her, watching the smile light up his face like a fruit machine about to pay out. An attractive dimple appeared in the hollow of one cheek and his sparkling tawny eyes crinkled warmly. For some reason, Angel found herself looking down at her shoes, fighting against the ever-deepening blush.
Things were going well, though. At least she seemed to have got him talking. With a valiant effort, she forced herself to remember her brief before his attention drifted off somewhere else.
Tits and teeth. That was it, wasn’t it? Looking up, she beamed at him and leant forward a little, giving him a premium view of everything her dress was failing to conceal. She saw his gaze dart over the cleft and swell of her partially exposed breasts, then quickly away again.
‘Who do I owe my rescue to, then? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Sebastian. Well, just Seb usually. How about you?’
‘Angel.’ She grinned as he cocked one eyebrow. ‘Yes, really. I know, ridiculous isn’t it? My parents were just about the last of the flower children. I thought about changing it once when I was a teenager but, I don’t know, Angel kind of grows on you after a while…’
Was she waffling? It felt like she was waffling. She stopped, an awkward laugh escaping from her. Smooth, Angel, very smooth…
His eyes scanned her face, dwelling on the tilted nose surrounded by a cluster of pinhead freckles, the large green eyes just a little too far apart, the flushed cheeks now almost bubblegum pink. His approving gaze lingered on each feature, drinking her in until she dipped her chin in embarrassment. Angel swallowed hard. Maybe Steve had made the right choice for this gig after all.
‘Go on.’ He seemed entertained by her discomfort.
‘Um, that’s all there is to it really. Not much of a story.’ She managed a weak smile, twisting an escaping lock of hair around her little finger.
Her gaze flickered to the plasma screen, clutching for a topic of conversation that might get him talking before she bored him to tears with her life story. ‘How’s your team doing? I saw you watching the game.’
‘Not really watching so much as staring aimlessly.’ He laughed, taking another sip of Scotch. The glass was almost empty now. ‘Just got back from a business trip, so I’m a bit spaced out. Jet lag, you know? Sorry. I’m not very good company this evening.’
Okay, strike two. Angel took another mouthful of her drink, the alcoholic tang of the gin blunted by the fast-melting ice. A pleasant fuzz had started to fill her brain and she relaxed a little into the role of seductress extraordinaire.
Leg man, was it? Right. Time to bring out the big guns.
She shifted a little on her stool to face him and crossed her legs languorously, showing off their full, silken length as she did so and just barely brushing his shin with the tip of a leopard-print stiletto. She saw him give a slight jerk as he felt her touch.
Ha! It was working! She must be better at this seduction business than she thought…
‘Well, I’m enjoying your company all the same,’ she heard herself say in a provocative purr, looking at him from under lowered lashes.
She leant towards him, put out her hand and rested her fingertips on his wrist with a light touch, a thrill slamming through her when she felt the throb of his quickened pulse and the warmth of flesh on flesh. At least there was no band of gold on the third finger to provoke any pangs of conscience. Was he old-fashioned, she wondered, or did he just prefer not to advertise the fact he was married?
‘Listen, I really was supposed to be meeting a date here, but it looks like I’ve been stood up. Would you like to… I mean, do you have any plans for tonight? Here I am all dressed up with no place to go and I’d rather not be alone. Maybe we could grab coffee somewhere and, um, I could waffle on at you a bit more.’
For a split second he hesitated before shaking his head. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit late for me. Still on Kiwi hours. Maybe some other time, though.’ Sliding his arm from under her fingers, he drained the dregs of his Scotch and set the tumbler back on the bar, fished in his jacket pocket for his wallet.
Okay, that was strike three. All out.
She couldn’t understand why he was resisting. It was obvious from the way his eyes flickered with interest over her body that he liked what he saw. Even Brad the barman seemed to have noticed him checking her out. Angel could see the man smirking while he polished a shot glass, watching the pair from under veiled lids.
And yet here was Seb turning down an offer of coffee so he could catch an early night. Was the thought of his wife Carole, the porcelain-blonde screen goddess, holding him back? He must know ‘coffee’ was an internationally recognised euphemism for – well, any normal man would have been tearing her clothes off on one of the Hotel D’Azur’s king-sized beds by now.
At her elbow she saw Seb rise and hand Brad a wad of notes to settle his account, telling the barman, to his obvious approval, that he could keep the change.
Last chance, Angel. Stall him. Cue the emergency backup plan.
Reaching for her drink, she knocked her bag to the floor with deliberate carelessness. Credit cards, lipstick, coins, hairclips and other detritus spilled out drunkenly around Seb’s feet.
‘Shit, I’m so sorry! What an idiot.’
‘Here, let me get it.’ Kneeling down, he started reclaiming her possessions from the deep-pile Persian carpet, shovelling them back into the bag’s satin-lined maw haphazardly.
She could see the top of his curly head at her feet, shining burnished bronze in the mellow lamplight of the bar. Unruly locks whispered soft against her calves and she felt his breath, hot and heavy, on her ankles.
Oh God, who was seducing who here? Muscles she barely knew existed spasmed as a surging heat throbbed through her, beginning at the point where his curls unwittingly met her bare flesh.
Angel bit down hard on her lower lip to stifle a telltale gasp, surprised by her body’s reaction to his touch. Squirming on her barstool, she moved her legs away from the kiss of the torturing, teasing strands.
She stared fixedly at a mirrored panel behind the bar. It shot her own flushed face, parted lips and wide, glazed eyes back to her as she struggled to regain control, to banish the too-vivid image that had risen unbidden of gazing down at Seb’s tousled chestnut hair, running her fingers through those curls while he nuzzled her from ankle to thigh, flicked his tongue across the naked, yielding flesh between her legs until he reached the flimsy film of her underwear, slid his hand upwards to delve into the wetness beneath, the wetness she could feel rising now just thinking about his touch as desire shot through her nerves and hit her square between the thighs…
Jesus, where had it sprung from, this raw, unexpected need for another human being? It had been a long time now since she’d been with anyone: two years since she’d broken up with Leo. And she wasn’t in the habit of having one-night stands – had never had one, in fact, even in her carefree student days. Yes, that must be it. It had been too long, and now her treacherous body was rebelling, trying to convince her she wanted to do things she knew she shouldn’t.
Steve had made it clear she only needed to get Seb in a compromising position for the cameras and then it was job done as far as his story was concerned. Once the filmmaker had been papped with his trousers down she was free to make her excuses and leave before it went any further. But there was something else guiding her now – a deep, primal urgency, different from anything she’d experienced before.
Suppose she went through with it. Suppose she couldn’t stop herself. Got the pictures, covered the camera and then just… let herself be with him. Could she do that? A complete stranger… a married complete stranger?
Although, of course, she’d have to get him there first.
She gave a visible jerk as Seb pressed the bag’s silver clasp shut with a click and handed it up to her, dragging his gaze appreciatively along the line of her legs while he pulled himself upright.
‘Thank you.’ She hoped he wouldn’t notice how flustered she was; the feverish cheeks, the slight breathlessness in her voice.
‘No problem. Well, I guess this is goodnight then. Nice to have met you… Angel.’ She felt a jolt of electricity as he tried out her name for the first time, let it linger on his tongue while his eyes, alive with golden fire in the lamplight, probed hers.
‘Wait.’ Okay, one last try. If this didn’t work, Steve could sod his story and she’d go home and drown her humiliation in a bottle of wine. ‘Look, I’ve got a suite upstairs and there’s a pretty well-stocked mini bar in the lounge. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come up for a nightcap before bed? I mean, no worries if you’re tired; there’s always another time…’
She looked straight at him with an expression half pleading with him, half daring him to accompany her.
Seb was silent for what seemed like an age. Head slightly cocked, lips curving at one side, he appraised all her tiny dress revealed until she felt almost naked before him.
‘Yes,’ he said, giving in. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
Whatever it takes…
Chapter 3
The hotel suite was heavy with art-deco-style white bevelled panelling and opulent silver detail. The designer had obviously channelled the Roaring Twenties and the room shrieked decadence, from the grey crepe curtains to the massive Salvador Dali print on the wall. Two huge windows across one wall offered panoramic views over the lights of the city, dotted against midnight blue. A sliding panel of frosted glass led to the quilted-ivory bedroom, with its emperor-sized bed and sunken corner bath.
It probably cost more for one night’s stay than Angel earned in weeks on the internship scheme. Thank God she wasn’t paying!
She delved into the mini bar, hidden away inside an inlaid wood cabinet.
‘Champagne okay?’ she called to Seb, who was sat with one leg crossed over his knee on the plush velvet corner suite, admiring the view over the city. What the hell, the Investigator was picking up the bill.
He nodded assent and she dug a couple of crystal flutes out of the cabinet’s lower compartment. She opened the champagne bottle with a dramatic pop that made her jump and poured them a chilled glass of golden bubbles each.
Angel handed Seb his drink and sat down a little apart from him on the sofa, the memory of the heat she’d felt in the bar still fresh in her mind. She couldn’t afford to lose control again, not yet. She had to make sure Steve got those pictures.
His brow puckered slightly. It was clear the distance didn’t please him, but he quickly smoothed his frown.
‘So what do you do when you’re not getting stood up in hotel bars, Angel?’ His cheeks dimpled with the hint of a smile while he sipped the sparkling liquid, which irritated her. Nice to know he found her lack of success with men so amusing. Even if they were imaginary ones. ‘Do you work?’
Did she work? What a question! Obviously she bloody worked. She had to pay the rent like all the other average joes, didn’t she?
‘Yes, I –’ She scrambled around for a job that might sound vaguely plausible, mentally slapping herself for not thinking up a backstory in advance. ‘I’m a, er, reflexologist. Staying in town for a conference,’ she added helpfully.
She hoped that sounded obscure enough to be believable. Reflexology was Emily’s chosen career and it had been the first thing that popped into her head.
‘You don’t look like a reflexologist.’
She laughed. ‘Why, how are reflexologists supposed to look?’
Seb crinkled his eyes. ‘I don’t know, just… not like you. Not quite so…’
‘Ginger?’
His voice was soft when he answered, tangling her gaze in his. ‘I was going to say hot.’
Angel’s stomach lurched in pleasant surprise as the words sank in. She felt a deep-pink blush creeping up from her toes, crawling along her neck and into her cheeks.
She took a deep breath, struggling to compose herself. ‘Well, I’ll just have to prove it to you,’ she said, attempting the bright and flirty. Putting her drink down on the glass-topped coffee table, she shuffled closer and took his free hand in hers.
A crackling pulse of energy slammed through her body when she touched him. She caught her breath sharply and looked up at him, but his eyes were cast down and he didn’t raise them to meet hers. If he’d felt anything, he wasn’t letting on.
Okay, down girl. Rein it in…
His hand was large, tanned and smooth, with a sprinkling of downy hair. Angel turned it over so his palm was facing upwards and started circling gently with the tip of her thumb, just where his hand joined his wrist.
‘You see, this is what we call a pressure point. When I rub just there, it’s guaranteed to relieve stress and cure all known symptoms of jet lag.’
He laughed, revealing perfect straight, white teeth. God, it was an incredible laugh. Deep, bold and unrestrained.
‘What I could really use for that is a shower. I’ve been travelling all day and this suit is starting to feel decidedly lived-in.’ He closed his fingers around her hand and fixed her with a significant gaze. ‘Is it okay if I use yours, Angel? Saves me having to leave you.’
She flushed, looking down at the hand now holding hers. Should she pull her fingers away? She had to find an excuse to leave the room, cool off for five minutes…
‘Um, there’s a pretty fancy bath in the suite. I can run it for you if you want?’
‘Thanks, I’d appreciate it.’
Angel felt a surge of relief as he loosed her fingers. Standing up, she slipped through the sliding glass panel to the other room.
Okay, this certainly made things easier for her. A bath meant he’d be naked in front of the camera without her having to get too close. Too easy. All she had to do was follow him in and make sure he looked good and compromised.
Whatever that meant…
In the bedroom, she turned on two polished brass taps and watched dreamily while jets of water started to fill the corner bath. The round porcelain tub was surrounded by tiles of white marble, with small lights embedded into the stone. She flicked a switch and they illuminated the room with a candle glow.
There was a little bottle of hotel bubble bath on one side, so she threw some of that in too. The room began to cloud with fragrant, spicy ribbons of steam.
That wouldn’t do: the cupboard mirror would mist over and block the camera feeding back to Steve at home. She turned the cold tap up a little and dabbled in the water with her little finger to check the temperature. Perfect.
She walked over to the cupboard now, opened it to see if the camera was doing its job. Yes, there it was, mounted at the back, an innocent-looking little black box. She gave Steve a sarcastic wave and closed the door again.
Her own reflection blinked back at her, showing her apparently now permanently pink cheeks. She noticed her hair had started to escape from its twist and, pulling out the jewelled pins holding it in place, shook it free around her shoulders. Wearing it up had given it a bouncy wave that suited her more than her usual poker-straight look.
Angel could picture Steve’s look of disapproval at the other end of the camera as she kicked off the leopard-print heels and stashed them under the bed. Well, heels might be sexy, but her feet were starting to lose all feeling. She flexed the liberated toes with relief.
She knew she had to go back to the lounge and face Seb. He seemed to be relaxing now, enjoying her company with all the confidence of a man who sensed he was on a promise, but the more he relaxed, the more tense she felt. She just didn’t know if she could control herself with him. If she managed to get him in a compromising position for the camera, how could she stop herself from going further? Just touching his hand had sent her shooting straight to boiling point. Two years of celibacy meant she was coiled tight as a spring, and this was easily the most magnetic man she’d ever met.
Angel went through to the en-suite and splashed cold water on her face in an effort to cool down. She stared at herself in the mirror, willing herself calm, cool, in control; fought the fluttering in her stomach and the bubbling in her nerves. Okay, she could do this…
Slicking on a fresh sliver of lipstick, she slid back through the glass panel to join Seb.
He’d taken off his suit jacket, which was now draped over the back of the sofa. He looked younger in just the white shirt – designer, she was guessing – and far less formal. He shot an approving glance at the loose auburn hair cascading around her shoulders as she walked towards him.
‘Sorry, it’s a pretty big tub. Could take about fifteen minutes to fill,’ she said, plastering on a bright smile. ‘More bubbly to go with your bubbles?’
Reaching out, he took her hand and drew her down next to him on the sofa. ‘Actually I think I’d like to learn more about this ancient art of reflexology,’ he said, his voice soft and low. ‘Maybe I can discover a few of these pressure points for myself.’
She could feel her nipples puckering underneath the skimpy bra as he shifted sideways to face her and cupped both her shoulders in his powerful hands.
‘For example…’ He brushed her hair back over her left shoulder, running gentle fingertips across her warm cheek and down her neck. ‘Here…’ He pressed a delicate kiss under her ear. ‘And here…’ He planted another in the curve between her neck and shoulder, this time letting it linger, leaving his hot, wet lips against her skin for a moment before pulling away. She sucked in her lower lip, stifling a gasp.
Responding on instinct to the warmth surging through her body, she allowed herself to do something she’d been longing to do all evening. She reached out and combed her fingers through his unruly curls, brushing them away from the handsome face. She brought her other hand up to trace the rigid contour of his jawline with her fingertips, felt the taut skin, the coarse sandpaper stubble, the sculpted lips she was longing to feel on hers.
‘We barely know each other…’
‘We both want this, Angel. We’re grown-ups. Does it really matter?’
In answer, she tilted her face up to his, mouth slightly open, inviting his kiss. He brought his lips down to meet hers, kissing her softly as her arms went up around his neck.
Angel felt her body spark into life as the kiss became deeper, hungrier. She parted her lips for him, giving him full access; relished the erotic embrace of his tongue with hers. He explored her mouth with expert skill, his arms reaching out to enfold her and draw her body in towards his.
She was half kneeling on the narrow sofa, her right foot on the floor and the other tucked under her thigh. Shifting a little, she hooked her right leg behind Seb’s so she could move in closer to him. She could smell the musk of his aftershave, distinctive notes of woodsmoke and chocolate. Drawing back from the kiss, she moved her lips down along the sinews of his neck and under the open collar of his shirt.
She pushed her body into his with a little sigh, crushing the breasts that begged to be released from their satin prison into his chest. To her delight, a small moan escaped him when he felt the press of her hardened nipples. He slid his hands down her back to her buttocks, pulled her right up against him.
She knew what he wanted. Bringing her other leg up from the carpet, she planted one knee on each side of his athletic frame, straddling him.
Angel lowered her body to meet his, gasping when she felt the hard arousal through his clothing. Feeling him pressing into her, ready for her, the last remnant of her self-control slipped away.
Seb’s fingertips were caressing her back with a delicate touch, tracing the lines of her shoulder blades before homing in on the fastening of her dress. Dragging the zip down, he slid the flimsy thing up her body and over her shoulders, helped her wiggle free and she sat astride his broad thighs in her underwear, too aroused now to feel embarrassed. He held her back from him for a moment while he scanned the creamy skin, the curves and undulations of her slim frame, and she felt his appreciation for her body stirring between her thighs.
He ran smooth, wet lips along her ears and neck. Pushing her upwards into a kneeling position until his face was level with her chest, she felt her body stiffen as his mouth found its way to the ripe swell of her breasts. He set them free, unhooking her bra and flinging it away to join her dress on the carpet.
She bit down on her bottom lip in appreciation as she felt him clamp his mouth first around one hard, pink peak, then the other, massaging gently with his tongue.
A gasp escaped her when he ran his palm down her body and began brushing a teasing thumb back and forth under the waistband of her thong with the lightest of strokes. Angel leaned forward to kiss him but he held her back, his keen gaze darting over her face to see the effect of his touch. He pressed her parted lips lightly with one fingertip, felt their moisture and the heat of her ragged breath.
His hand slid down further until it slipped between her legs. He groaned with pleasure, feeling the wetness he’d created there, how ready her body was for him. Firmly, rhythmically he moved his fingertips against her, circling and pressing with intuitive skill, smiling with satisfaction as her lashes flickered and her head fell back. She heard a low, soulful moan and realised it was coming from her.
Her brain was fogged now with a hungry need for him. She pressed herself against his hand, groaning as, insistent and unrelenting, he continued to explore her. White-hot climax simmered on the edge of every nerve ending. Oh God, she couldn’t hold it back any more…
No. Too fast. It was all happening too fast.
This was no good. She had to get him to the bedroom so Steve could get his pictures. Summoning her self-control and willing it through her body with a mammoth effort, she pulled away from the feverish, exploring fingers.
‘What about… your bath?’ she panted. She was surprised to hear how different her voice sounded, thick and dripping with lust.
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