‘There, Miss King, a quite nice table by the window. All sorted!’ He was mocking Conrad. Such a contrast between the two of them, she realised, such a difference…’Now, there’s no need to apologise for making such a fuss,’ Drew added smoothly. ‘It’s just gratifying to know that you’re capable of making mistakes like the rest of us mere mortals.’
‘Very funny!’ Christy snapped, putting every ounce of cold dislike she could into her gaze, while frantically scanning her brain for some last parting shot, some witty put-down that would help her out of this mess.
It was happening again. Why? Why did her brain always go like stodgy rice pudding when it mattered most—when Drew Michaels was around?
‘Christy!’ Conrad placed a light hand coaxingly on her bare back.
She didn’t move. There were three choices, she decided swiftly. Stay and argue further and look even more ridiculous, go and sit with Conrad and practically choke trying to eat a meal, knowing the whole of the place was gossiping about her, or walk out with head held high and refuse ever to eat in this place again.
Her mind instinctively ran over the last time she had had occasion to meet ‘God’s gift—first to the silver screen and now to the literary world’. The party had been one of the best: well-planned, sumptuous. Full of famous faces. His had been the most famous, of course, an unexpected arrival that had had Vicki, the host, in raptures.
A thoughtful expression spread over Christy’s face as she remembered that night. It had been an enjoyable moment, cutting him completely dead, spearing him with a look of icy aloofness in front of at least a dozen people. He had continued to smile that slow, lazy smile of his, thrown her a look of amusement that had been a little galling at the time, but underneath it all she had just known he was seething. Oh, yes, maybe it had been a small revenge for the way he had treated her, but it had been a sweet one nevertheless.
But it wasn’t enough. And here, here was another occasion. If she didn’t take her chance now, she would never get another opportunity—unless…Christy considered swiftly, running through the newly occurred possibility that maybe, just maybe, if she played her hand very carefully, she could turn everything around.
Three years on. There was just no comparison between the promising young model turned hopeful chat-show host and the sharp, respected interviewer she was today. And she was ready for him this time. Drew Michaels, she thought, aware of her own sudden quickening heart, could surely, with careful questioning, be made to look foolish at the very least.
‘Unless you would both care to join us? Foursomes aren’t generally my thing, but in the circumstances I’m willing to make an exception.’
Christy’s gaze fell to a glass of wine, placed temptingly near to her hand. To throw the contents full in his face appealed to her enormously. Childish, of course, quite out of keeping with her character, but oh, how pleasurable to take that smug look off his face, to still the mobile mouth and dancing eyes for just a moment.
But then, weren’t there far better ways to get her own back, to even the score? Damn it! Why should she allow him to dominate her life? That time, three years ago, needed laying to rest; she needed to settle the score.
She would interview him.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Conrad turn back, hesitate, look pleased about the invitation to join Drew. After all, it was an opportunity not to be missed. He would probably never have the chance of dinner with one of the world’s highest paid, most powerful and most famous men again, and she knew, much to her annoyance, that Conrad was a great fan of the man himself.
Drew pulled out a chair and gestured to it with a deliberate theatrical sweep of his arm. Playing to the crowd, that was what he was doing, making the most of her discomfort, milking the scene for all it was worth—just like last time.
That clinched it.
‘I’ll see you in a week’s time, Michaels, but for now—drop dead!’ Christy hissed, and with a haughty flick of her head and a flounce of her skirts she left Conrad standing alone and vacated the premises with a sharp click of her heels.
CHRISTY frowned irritably and cast narrowed eyes over the vast array of appealing clothes that were housed in her magnificent walk-in wardrobe. Usually she had no problem—no problem at all. But what to wear? What to pack for these damned two days with Drew Michaels—for a weekend that promised to be living purgatory and hell all rolled into one?
He had been irritatingly reticent about the situation of his newest home; secret hide-aways were his speciality—he had a retreat in almost every continent and the exact whereabouts of each one was a wellguarded secret.
Still, Christy decided, determined to be positive, determined not to let self-doubt and fear of what lay ahead eat away at her self-confidence, at her resolution to go through with this no matter what, it was only for two days and it was summer, and she would hardly be roughing it. Drew Michaels was renowned for his good taste in all things. Wherever she would be spending this hateful weekend, it was sure to be in the height of luxury.
The week since the incident in the restaurant had passed all too quickly and as Christy waited with nervous impatience for the car that would take her to his abode she found that not one ounce of annoyance had subsided in that far too short a time. Anger burned away inside, niggling her day and night like an ant bite that simply got redder and more painful.
The sudden blast of a car horn just then made her jump a mile. Silently cursing the driver for disturbing the discreet, tasteful ambience of this most exclusive of neighbourhoods, Christy peered cautiously around one of the ruched lace blinds in her drawing-room and glared at the shiny red Ferrari with scowling irritation. Typical, she thought, that he should employ someone with about the same amount of good manners as himself!
‘Haven’t you heard of doorbells?’ Christy enquired, lowering her head to the open car-door window. ‘Residents around here don’t appreciate a blast of a car horn at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning! Oh!’ She paused and straightened up as Drew Michaels opened the driver’s door and appeared, looking disgustingly fit and healthy. ‘It’s you.’
‘In the flesh.’ He cast her a glance, surveying Christy with a critical eye, and immediately the prickles of antagonism that seemed to spring so easily to the surface whenever she set eyes on him were in action.
‘Something the matter?’ Her voice held enough ice to cause frostbite as she glanced swiftly down at her own attire and picked off a minuscule piece of fluff that was adhering to the finely cut cream trousers she had elected to wear.
Drew shrugged broad shoulders and shook his head with a smile that left Christy feeling a little too uncomfortable. ‘No, not at all. I was just thinking how good, if not altogether practical, you were looking.’ He came around and removed the portable radio equipment and the well-filled holdall from Christy’s reluctant grasp—giving anything at all to Drew Michaels went against the grain. ‘Forget anything?’ he asked pointedly, glancing down at the bulging leather. ‘After all, you are going to be away from home for all of one night!’
Christy threw him a withering look. ‘I happen to take a pride in my appearance—unlike some,’ she added pointedly, casting derisive eyes over his attire of faded denims, battered trainers and a well-worn
