magazine has named you their most eligible bachelor in their annual list.’
He clasped his hand to his chest in mock surprise. ‘What? Again!’
Oh, great. Self-deprecating as well as shy and retiring. This guy was going to be a blast to work for. Just as well Charlie had said he spent the greater part of the year travelling or in endless meetings.
He stopped smiling and looked deep into the reporter’s eyes. ‘Well, somebody had better just hurry up and marry me, then.’ He looked around the crowd. The grin made an encore. ‘Anyone interested?’
The reporter blushed and stuttered. Was it just Ellie’s imagination, or was she actually considering vaulting the barrier? And Ellie didn’t think she was the only one. Something about the scene reminded her of a Sunday night nature programme she’d seen recently—one about wildebeest. A stampede at this moment was almost inevitable.
She flapped her book closed, ignoring the puff of crumbs that flew into the air, and let out a snort.
The reporter stopped simpering and suddenly smoothed her hair down with her free hand. Her spine straightened. About time too, Ellie thought. This woman was supposed to be a professional. How embarrassing to catch yourself acting like that on national television.
This time when she fired her question, the reporter’s voice was cool and slow. ‘Was it hard to rebuild your career after such … difficult beginnings, both in your professional and personal life?’
Her face was a picture of sympathy, but the eyes glittered with a hint of ice. Ellie almost felt a tremor of sympathy for him. But not quite.
Something other than lazy good humour flashed in Mark Wilder’s eyes.
‘Thanks for the good wishes.’ He paused as his stare hardened and turned to granite. ‘Good evening, Ms Morgan.’ And then he just turned and walked away.
The reporter’s jaw slackened. It was as if she’d been freeze-framed by her own personal remote control and all she could do was watch him stride away. The camera shook a little, then panned to include Mr Wilder’s companion. Miss Silicone pouted a smile and trotted after her man, leaving the floundering reporter to find another celebrity to fill the gaping space in front of her microphone. She turned back to the cameraman, looking more than a little desperate, and then the picture cut to a long shot of the red carpet.
Ellie shook her head, punched the button on the side of the TV and flapped it back into place under the cabinet. She was starting to fear that this whole new job idea was one of the random impulses that had plagued her since the accident—just another one of her brain’s little jokes.
She tucked the cookery book under her arm and tossed the empty biscuit packet in the direction of the bin. It missed.
With a few long strides Mark put as much distance as he could between himself and the trouble his smart mouth had caused him. Flashguns zapped at him from every direction. Suddenly his expensive suit seemed really flimsy. No protection at all, really.
He’d been bored enough to welcome the devilish urge to tease Melissa Morgan, but he’d forgotten that behind the batting eyelashes was an intelligent reporter—one who didn’t hesitate to go for the jugular where a morsel of celebrity gossip was concerned. She’d done a number on quite a few of his firm’s clients in recent years, and the opportunity for a little payback had just been too tempting. But it had backfired on him, hadn’t it? The story he’d wanted her to focus on tonight was Kat and her award nomination, not his own less-than-glorious past.
He glanced at the crowd bulging against the barriers as he overtook an up-and-coming British actress in a long, flowing gown. He should be loving every second of this. It was the life he’d always worked for. What most people sitting in front of their TVs with their dinners on their laps dreamed of—red carpets, beautiful women, fast cars, exotic locations, more cash than they knew what to do with …
So what was wrong with him?
He shook his head to clear the baying of the photographers, the screaming of the crowd, and became aware of determined footsteps behind him.
Oh, heck. Melodie. Ms Morgan must have got him more rattled than he’d thought. He gave himself a mental slap for his lack of chivalry and turned and waited for her. She was only a few paces behind him, and as she came level with him he placed a guiding hand on her elbow.
Melodie’s agent had called his PA a couple of weeks ago and asked if he would like to meet her. This was what the love lives of the rich and famous had come to. Relationships were practically conducted in the third person. My people will call your people …
He didn’t normally respond to requests like this, but he’d needed a date tonight at short notice, and Melodie was young, sexy and stunning—just the sort of woman he was expected to have on his arm at a bash like this. It didn’t matter that he suspected she didn’t have any romantic yearnings for him when he’d called to ask her out. And that the industry grapevine had confirmed that a certain C-list model was looking to kick-start a pop career.
It was all very predictable. But predictable was good. At least he knew what to expect from this self-serving approach, even if his choice in female companions only inflamed the tabloid gossip about his private life. He hadn’t even met half the women the papers had paired him with. And the ones he did date were just like the woman walking next to him: happy to use him for their own ends.
Good for them. It was a dog-eat-dog world and he’d learned one vital piece of wisdom early on: the woman who talked of love and commitment was the one who turned and bit you on the butt when you were least expecting it. He had the scars to prove it.
They moved inside the old theatre. Had they redone the décor in here? It had seemed opulent and elegant last time he was here, but now the crimson walls screamed at him, and the gold leaf everywhere just hurt his eyes.
He hadn’t planned on coming to the awards this evening, but duty had called. Or, to be more accurate, duty had cried and pleaded down the phone in the shape of his newest and youngest signing, Kat De Souza.
They reached a flight of stairs and he held back and let Melodie walk up the sweeping staircase in front of him. Her dress was shimmering silver, backless, with a neckline slashed almost to her navel. It clung in all the right places. And Melodie certainly had places. Mark did his best to appreciate the view, but his pulse was alarmingly regular. Just another indicator that he was out of sorts tonight. Must be the jet lag.
An usher led them to their table at the front of the auditorium. Kat was already there, with her boyfriend du jour. This one was a drummer, or something like that. Mark pulled out Melodie’s chair for her and made the introductions, then leaned across to Kat.
‘Nervous?’
Her head bobbed in small, rapid movements.
‘Sorry I woke you up and snivelled down the phone at you the other day.’ She paused to twirl one of her long dark ringlets around a finger with a bitten-down nail before looking up at him again. ‘The time differences are so confusing, and I was in a bit of a state.’
He remembered. Technically, although he’d been the one to ‘discover’ Kat, after he’d walked past her busking on the Underground, he wasn’t her personal manager. He was careful not to get too close to his clients nowadays, normally leaving the legwork to his junior associates. He’d been in the business long enough to pay his dues,
