hair back from her face with one hand, drew in a composing breath.
‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘Black, no sugar.’
He opened one of the many cupboards and took out two mugs. She waited, wondering if he was going to pick up where she’d left off last night on the eviction thing, but he didn’t mention it. He simply filled the mugs with coffee and handed one of them to her. Then he leaned back against the counter, mug in hand, watching her.
Even on a couple of hours’ sleep he looked fantastic, it was so unfair. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he was dressed casually—just jeans and a dark grey polo shirt that on its own probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. She folded her arms defensively across her own cheap white shirt and jeans and took a sip of her coffee.
‘You checked my contract out with your lawyer, then?’ she asked.
He grinned wolfishly. ‘Of course I have.’
Of course. Men like him left nothing to chance. She wasn’t the least bit surprised. She waited, ready to argue her point. He probably had the best lawyers in the world, more than capable of pulling apart a standard rental agreement, but she knew she’d touched a nerve when she mentioned the press even if it had been just a bluff. She was just a reporter on a small country paper, not a tabloid entertainment correspondent. Her last story before she’d started interning had been about a cat who’d hopped on the bus and travelled from Littleford to the next village all by himself. That was the level of celebrity she was used to dealing with.
He didn’t say anything else, just carried on looking at her with that appraising expression in the green eyes which made her self-conscious no matter how hard she tried not to be.
‘And?’ she prompted, when he didn’t say anything.
He sipped his coffee.
‘While I could break the contract—and I’m sure the house-sitting agency would be prepared to be reasonable about it …’ His tone made it obvious who he considered the troublemaker to be in this scenario. ‘You’ve told me how important it is to you that you keep this address. And, as I’m all in favour of enterprise, I’m prepared to be the bigger person here and honour the agreement. I wouldn’t want to make things difficult for you.’
She bridled a little at his taking the moral high ground but kept her irritation under wraps. She didn’t believe a word of it. He needed to keep his nose clean. That much was clear from the newspaper article and his turnaround since last night. Any sniff of scandal and he’d be back on the front pages. She had no intention of going to the press—she just wanted to concentrate on her article, on not letting her big chance, her only chance, slip through her fingers—but she didn’t need to tell him that.
Let him think she had the editor of every London tabloid on speed dial.
‘That’s really good of you. Thank you,’ she said through gritted teeth.
He raised his mug in acknowledgement.
She waited until he began scrolling through his mobile phone.
‘Will Viveca be joining you for Christmas?’ she asked pointedly.
His expression as he looked up from the phone was dark and inscrutable. She saw a flash of the arctic coldness from the previous night.
‘No, she will not!’ he said curtly. ‘It’s a working relationship, nothing more.’
‘That’s not what the papers say,’ she said.
‘And of course they are always right about absolutely everything.’ He slammed his mug down, slopping coffee across the granite counter. ‘It was a few dates and it was months ago. Can’t I go on a couple of nights out without the world reading God knows what into it?’
Clearly not. She would give him her standard live-in-the-public-eye-at-your-peril lecture.
‘That’s the thing, though. You’re happy to court publicity when it suits you. When it’s good publicity. When there’s a film to promote. You can’t then say it’s unacceptable when people want to know more about you.’
‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ he said. ‘Seeing as you belong to the vulture camp. Hoping to get the scoop, are you? Well, there’s nothing to scoop. I’m single. I only date when I have to, and I don’t see that it’s anyone else’s business. There’s a line between public and private. Who I date and why I date them is private.’
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
