The Honey Trap
MARY JAYNE BAKER

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

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HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

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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.

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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

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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.

‘You’ll join me?’

‘God, yes…’

He lifted her up and she twined her legs around his back as he carried her through the sliding glass panel into the bedroom.

The mirrored cupboard containing the hidden camera was right behind them when they entered. Aware of the great view Steve was getting of her rear, sliced by the tiny thong, Angel wriggled free of Seb’s strong arms. She grabbed one of the white cotton towels that lay folded on the bed and wrapped it around her.

This wouldn’t do. She was supposed to be seducing him, not the other way round, yet here she was in nothing but her knickers, breathless from his touch, while he was still fully clothed. Her backside alone certainly didn’t warrant a front-page story in the Investigator.

‘What are you doing?’ His voice was hoarse and heavy.

‘No more peep show for you,’ she heard herself say in a teasing tone. ‘Not until I get one too. Strip.’

Seb grinned at her. ‘Yes ma’am.’

He unbuttoned the white shirt, now crumpled and sodden, and tossed it to one side. The tight, bronzed skin underneath was gilded with sweat. It screamed out to be touched, stroked, licked. Angel held herself back with an effort, a spasm of arousal humming through her body.

Finally he peeled off shoes and socks, unbuckled his belt and slid off trousers and boxer shorts, allowing his rock-hard erection to spring free.

‘Now where’s my reward, Angel?’ he said in a low voice, coming towards her in the full, exquisite, quintessentially male beauty of his nakedness.

Over on the bedside cabinet, she heard a barely audible buzz from her handbag, where she’d stashed her mobile phone.

Steve. He’d got the photographs. Thank God!

She removed her towel and hung it carefully over the top of the cupboard’s mirrored door so it was completely covered. Steve would have to get his kicks somewhere else from now on.

That was it: no more camera, no more honey trap. Just a man and a woman in a hotel room. If she wanted to make her excuses and leave, then now was the time to do it.

But clearly that wasn’t going to happen.

Reaching up, she took Seb’s face in both hands for a deep kiss, thirsty to taste him again.

He drew her body towards his until she felt their bare flesh meet. Then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her thong and slid it over her hips. Wiggling, she shimmied it to the floor.

‘Come on.’ His breathing was husky now, almost a growl. Taking her hand, he led her to the steaming, fragrant bath, its clear water dappled with soapy bubbles. His erection sprang towards his stomach in silent tribute to the milky curve of her buttocks as she sank into the water.

She could feel the water’s embracing warmth cleaving to her body, holding it tight. Seb turned off the still-running taps and lowered himself in to face her. He took her hips in his hands and eased her towards him in one smooth movement, the water buoying her up until she came to rest between his knees. She felt almost drunk, her thoughts hardly audible through the intoxicating cloud of desire.

He drew her face to him between both his hands and locked his lips into hers. The heat between them almost crackled with raw, unleashed energy while he searched her mouth. She could feel his fingers burrowing into her hair, pressing the back of her skull with an animal intensity. Oh, God, it felt good… She twined herself sinuously around his flesh, gliding her body against his; pressing, wanting.

Finally drawing back from the scorching intensity of the kiss, breathless and flushed, he guided her back into a reclining position against the side of the tub.

He seemed to be everywhere, raining down a flurry of fevered kisses on her neck and shoulders, caressing the contours of her hips and waist with his fingertips, one palm making ripples on the water as it moved along her inner thigh. But he was still in control, teasing her, never quite touching her where she longed to be touched.

His lips found their way to the inviting plumpness of her breasts, unable to resist the way they rose and fell rapidly as her breathing became a harsh pant. She could feel the buzz of his stubble while he nuzzled and sucked a hard nipple and she gave a low, longing moan, drawing an answering moan from him.

He moved below the waterline, kissing the white skin around her belly button, planting wet, lingering kisses along the bones of her hips. He looked up at her, his tawny eyes half closed and glazed with desire.

Move up, the eyes seemed to telegraph, and obediently she eased her hips higher up the curved porcelain at her back, lifting her upper body above the water.

Her breath caught in her throat as she felt his head move down between her thighs. Just like her fantasy in the bar, she looked down at his unruly mop of curls while he flicked his tongue across the soft flesh between her legs and up to where she was waiting, wet and ready for him, crying out for his touch.

She let out a shuddering groan as he lapped his tongue against her, moving its tip in a circular motion, a slow and languorous massage at first, then faster, more urgent. As he heard her pants quicken, he began broad, muffled sweeps up and down, sucking, nuzzling, dipping into her. She reached down and grabbed the hand stroking her thigh, gripped it hard until her knuckles turned white, incapable of letting go until his actions arrived at their now-inevitable conclusion. He brought his other hand up to caress one firm breast, his tongue fluttering faster as she moved her body to the rhythm he set.

‘Ah! Oh… God, Seb!’ Angel felt her body convulse as she surrendered, her orgasm rippling, pulsing, melting through her nerves. She bucked and cried out while the euphoria claimed her, finally sinking limp and spent back into the water.

She heaved a sigh of satisfaction, throwing back her head to savour the soft numbness of afterglow. Her vice-like grip on Seb’s hand loosened and he flexed some feeling back into the fingers while he rested his head against her for a moment, breathless and triumphant.

Goosepimples stood out on her flesh, both from the now-cooled water and the still-fresh sensation of consuming ecstasy. She pulled Seb up into a kiss, tasted herself on his lips, kissed deeper in her gratitude for the pleasure he’d just given her that she longed to return.

‘Over here.’ Taking his hand, she rose from the water and led him over to the bed, where virginal white sheets begged to be violated.

Gently she manoeuvred Seb’s broad, dripping bulk into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. She wrapped her legs around him, kissing him deeply, then guided him down on to the mattress so she was straddling the toned, taut muscles of his stomach. As she looked down at him, his dilated pupils made those overpowering eyes seem almost black. She pushed a few damp chestnut curls away from his face and leaned down to kiss his muscular neck, one hand sliding along the broad expanse of his chest and massaging a nipple tenderly.

Her eyes flickered to the cabinet by the bed, wishing she’d thought to bring some condoms so she could feel him inside her, their bodies moving together to the same rhythm. It hadn’t occurred to her to come prepared. She’d never expected it to go this far.

Seb’s gaze followed hers. ‘You have some?’

She gave her head a regretful shake. ‘There’s the bar toilets. I could –’

‘No. Don’t go. I can’t wait any more, Angel,’ he panted into her ear, his breath harsh and rasping. ‘Please.’

She understood. Reaching down, she took his full, swollen length in her hand. He moaned, blinking hard, as she lightly moved her hand up and down in a smooth, fluid motion, caressing the hot tip with her thumb. Moving his hand to the back of her head, he pulled her lips on to his for a kiss that startled her with its intensity, it was so raw and wildcat savage. It told her he needed this release, at least as much as she had.

She moved her mouth downward on a journey across his wet, shining torso, peppering hot and heavy kisses in her wake. She dragged a groan from his lips, tracing one nipple with the tip of her tongue and half kissing, half sucking at its hard peak. Continuing her journey down, she reached her target.

She felt him shiver as she took him into her. She could feel him, every inch of him, sliding back and forth in the snug, wet grip of her willing mouth while she moved her tongue in a circular motion around his ridge. With the flat of her nails she brushed his inner thigh, matching her speed to the buck of his hips.

The sheet tightened under her body as he knotted the cotton in a fist. It felt like his whole broad frame was ready to pop, needing her to unleash the primal energy pent up inside.

‘Don’t stop… ah! For Christ’s sake, Angel, please don’t stop now,’ he pleaded, choked with delicious agony.

His moans became louder, more ragged, more vital, and his back arched as she pushed him past the point of no return. She felt his whole body convulse and he let out a groan that seemed to contain his life’s essence as he fell into the oblivion of climax.

She paused a moment, then slid panting back up his body to where he lay, breathless and satisfied, on the pillow. He tilted his head to kiss her, the lips soft, tender, the bestial intensity of before now banished.

‘Oh God… that was incredible. You were incredible,’ he whispered, wrapping her in powerful arms.

‘Not so bad yourself.’ She planted a small kiss on the end of his nose. He smiled at her in the dim light and returned her kiss sleepily.

She snuggled into him, exhausted, satiated and happier than she’d been in an age. Silencing the nagging voice of conscience, she dismissed all thoughts of Steve, work, Carole Beaumont and the honey trap, letting herself fall into dreamless sleep in Seb’s reassuring embrace.

Chapter 4

Angel woke with the taste of Seb still on her lips. The bed was warm, but he wasn’t there.

Had he gone into the other room? She called his name. No answer.

She rolled over on to her back and examined the carved white cornice around the ceiling as she took stock of herself. She had some idea she should feel guilty after the complete obliteration of her inhibitions last night, yet the thing had seemed so natural, somehow.

The whole experience felt dreamlike, looking back. Surreal. The second man she’d ever slept with and under such bizarre circumstances…

She’d known Leo for over a year before they’d started going out and it was months again until they’d started sleeping together. Yet last night she’d given herself to a stranger, another woman’s husband, who’d made her feel her needs completely synchronised with his. It had felt almost empathic, the way he’d touched her and anticipated everything she wanted from him. She hugged herself, thinking back to his touch on her skin, a dream now in her memory. And it seemed the dream and its subject had dissolved into nothing.

She snapped back to reality. What time was it? She pushed herself over on to her side and reached for her handbag to check her mobile. 10.15, shit! Checkout was at 11.00.

Swiping across the touchscreen, she read the text from Steve that had been waiting in her inbox since last night:

Done. And nice arse by the way.

Angel felt a sickening jolt as she remembered what was coming. It was Saturday today. Steve had told her the story would break in the Monday edition.

She thought of Seb’s electrifying touch, the comforting warmth of his body as he held her while she drifted into sleep, and of the pain he’d feel when he saw himself on the front page of the Investigator – how he’d despise her. She blinked hard, trying to hold back the tears she felt welling at the thought of the touch she’d never feel again and the man she was about to destroy.

Her gaze fell on a sheet of hotel notepaper next to her bag and she unfolded the note he’d left her:

Sorry had to shoot off, didn’t want to wake you. Loved spending time with you last night. Give me a call some time. Seb x. PS Make it soon.

And then a mobile number she knew she could never dial.

Get a grip, Angel. He’s married, for Christ’s sake. Just another cheating scumbag who can’t control himself. Now put it behind you and move on.

It was true; she knew it was. And yet she gave in and sobbed convulsively, pushing her face into his still-warm pillow until it was soaked through with her tears.

***

‘Hello?’ Angel called out, pushing open the door of the cheap-for-London two-bed flat she shared with Emily. She’d managed to shove everything into her overnight bag and check out of the hotel with minutes to spare, closing the door on the suite she’d come to both love and hate. She’d shot off a quick report to Steve from her mobile on the train home, a few observations on Seb’s mannerisms and behaviour, trying to keep it as brief and free from sordid detail as possible.

Her flatmate popped her head out of the kitchen and smirked, before pursing her lips into an expression of mock disapproval.

‘Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. And in the same clothes as she was wearing last night, no less. Just where do you think you’ve been, dirty stopout? I’ve a good mind to send you straight to your room.’

But her face fell as Angel burst into tears and flung herself forward into a hug.

‘God, Ange, what happened? Are you okay? Did he do something to you? Did Steve –’

Angel let out a bitter snort through her sobs. ‘Not them. It’s – it’s me. I’ve ruined everything.’

Emily made soft shushing sounds to her and stroked the back of her hair. Angel managed to choke back the sobs as her friend guided her to the black-leather sofa and sat down beside her, one arm around her shoulders.

‘Okay, drama queen, tell me the worst. How have you ruined everything?’

Angel sniffed and blew her nose into the tissue Emily passed her from a box on the coffee table. ‘God, it was the weirdest evening. I… slept with him, Em.’

‘Yeah, I’d kind of got that far on my own, sweetie. Not with that sleazoid Steve watching, though, I hope?’

‘No, I covered the camera after I got his text. Jesus, Em, it was unbelievable. It’s never been like that before, not even before me and Leo started having all the problems.’

‘That’s my girl.’ Emily gave the auburn head a fond pat. ‘Don’t you think you deserve a night of hot slutty sexifying after your gajillion years of being a born-again virgin? Why beat yourself up about it? You had a great night, you got your end away, minds were blown, the end. Put it behind you and get on with the rest of your life.’

Angel gave the pretty, hazel-eyed girl an envious glance. Ever since Emily’s marriage had broken up three years ago, it seemed like she’d decided life was too short for insecurities and done just exactly what she liked.

‘It’s not that, Em. It’s him. Seb. He was so… oh, I don’t know. It’s like there was this connection, or he could read my mind or something. And on Monday it’ll be all over the bloody Investigator and he’ll hate me forever. God, it’s a horrible idea, him thinking I was just some call girl sent to set him up.’

‘God, is that all?’ Emily gave her ash-blonde curls a disapproving shake. ‘You’re being too sentimental, sweetie. That’s what comes of swearing off men for two years. As soon as you finally let yourself have a bit of fun, it has to be bloody true love or something. Look, who cares what he thinks? Okay, so he’s earth-moving in bed, hung like a stallion, buttocks like two boiled eggs in a hanky, can push your every button, whatever. That doesn’t change the fact he cheated on his wife. Nice guys don’t do that: trust me, I should know. Just be grateful he won’t be in any position to break your heart, unlike that poor cow he’s married to.’

‘I guess… I mean, I know you’re right, but…’

Emily took Angel’s face in her hands and looked straight into her face. ‘Listen, Ange. You’re too good for creeps like that. And no offence, but you’re not tough enough for them. Look what happened with Leo. He was a nice guy, issues aside, but you spent so many years trying to ‘save’ him you nearly ruined your own life. I can’t see that happen again. Not to my best friend. Just chalk it up to experience and move on.’

Angel managed a watery smile. She could always trust Emily to give her better advice than she gave herself.

‘What do you mean, not tough enough? Bet I could kick your arse.’

‘Yeah, and don’t I know it? Look, here’s Groucho come to cheer you up.’

The big black cat leapt into Angel’s lap with a plaintive mawk of greeting. He must be the only cat in the world who mawked instead of mewed. Angel tickled him behind one ear and he purred happily, pawing her with his claws in a way that was not doing her now very much worse-for-wear dress any favours.

‘And I hereby declare this Saturday night to be girls’ night, with enough wine and chocolate to drown all woes,’ Emily said, brandishing her box of tissues like a snotty Statue of Liberty. ‘No boys allowed except for you, Groucho, and maybe a Hemsworth brother or two if they care to beat down our door.’

‘Don’t you have a date with Danny the tattooed love god?’

‘Oh, forget him, I’ll ring up and cancel. You know the rules: sisters before misters. Tell you what, I’ll even let you watch one of your soppy old films.’

‘The Apartment?’

‘Alright, alright, if the last 500 times weren’t enough for you to have learnt all the words off by heart. We’ll get the duvet from your room, get into our PJs and “chillax”, as I believe all the cool kids are saying nowadays. You go run yourself a bath. Give me a few hours to finish what I’m working on, then I’ll phone the pizza guy and we can crack open the booze.’

Thank God for Emily. Angel had no idea how she’d cope without her, but she knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

***

Groucho’s mournful wails the next morning created a throb of searing white light in Angel’s brain. She clutched her temples and groaned.

‘Alright, mawky, just give me a second.’ She reached blearily for the packet of cat biscuits on top of the fridge and spilled a load into and around his food bowl. ‘You have to be gentle with Mummy today. Nasty Aunty Emily’s given her the mother of all hangovers.’

The black cat showed what he thought of this state of affairs by fixing her with an intent stare for a second before turning around and starting to wash his crotch.

‘Disgusting moggy,’ she muttered, tickling his neck as she pushed past him into the sitting room and plonked herself down on the sofa.

Empty wine glasses and pizza boxes littered the pine coffee table in front of her. She groaned and pushed away the stray slice of half-eaten pepperoni offending her tender morning-after nostrils. Bleurghh. It felt like a woolly mammoth had crawled into her mouth a couple of millennia ago and gone extinct.

Emily had popped round the corner to the newsagents to get a couple of cans of Coke and some Alka-Seltzer, tripping off brightly into the sunshine while her friend flung four-letter curses at her and her sodding alcohol tolerance.

The buzz of Angel’s mobile sounded from somewhere and she flung away the detritus on the table until she found where it was hidden under an empty Maltesers packet. Emily. Probably ringing to tell her there was no Alka-Seltzer. That would be just about par for the course this weekend.

‘Ange, it’s in!’ She sounded panicked.

‘In? What do you mean, in?’ Then realisation dawned. ‘God, already? But the story wasn’t supposed to break until tomorrow! Steve must have rushed it through last night for the Sunday edition.’ She let out a heavy groan. ‘Break it to me gently, Em: how bad is it?’

‘Um, I think you’d better see for yourself. I’ll be back in five… my flame-haired temptress.’ Angel could almost hear her friend smirking down the phone. She frowned. Flame-haired temptress? What details exactly did this exclusive include?

Emily burst breathless through the door a few minutes later and chucked her over a copy of the Investigator. ‘Sorry, Ange, I know it’s probably the last thing you want to see in your delicate state. At least your face is hidden in the photos though. Not even your best friend would know it was you, present company excepted.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘Looks like you had one helluva night…’

Angel’s heart pumped in her throat as she scanned the front page.

Not one of Steve’s best headline efforts. He’d gone with ‘Unreal Titty’ – a pun on the name of Wilchester’s first film, Unreal City – emblazoned across a woman’s naked back. Hers. She winced deeply. A sub-head read ‘EXCLUSIVE: married director in steamy romp with mystery girl’.

You could see Seb’s face, contorted with passion, over her shoulder as she straddled him on the bed. She felt a zing through her body, remembering the thrill of sitting astride him and guiding him down into the crisp white sheets, panting and wet after their bath together –

Hang on.

‘Shit! Shit shit shit!’

‘Oh come on, it’s not as bad as all that –’ Emily began.

‘No, you don’t get it!’ Angel groaned. ‘That shot – how did he get that? I hung a towel over the mirror! It must have fallen – that perve!’

Emily’s eyes widened as she caught on.

‘Jesus, you don’t mean Steve watched it all!’

Angel bunched her fists into her eyes and moaned. As if anything was needed to make her humiliation more complete. Not only did she have one stonking bastard of a hangover. Not only was her bare backside splashed across the front page of a national newspaper for all to see. Not only had she, Angel Blackthorne, spent her Friday night having oral sex with a married stranger in a hotel room. But now it turned out her letchy old boss had watched the whole thing!

‘Oh God. I feel like I’m going to be sick.’

Emily patted her hair, putting on her best comforting tone. ‘Look, sweetie, it might seem like you want the earth to open right now, but give it a week and this’ll all be forgotten, I promise. Just tomorrow’s chip paper, right? And as for Steve, he’s sleazy, but he’s professionally sleazy. I’m sure it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, if that makes you feel any better.’

‘How the hell is that supposed to make me feel better?’ Angel gave another long, muffled groan, hiding her face in her hands. ‘Just leave me, Em, leave me to die…’

‘Oh come on. I didn’t spend my hard-earned wine drowning your sorrows just so you could have a relapse next day. Look, I’ll get some coffee on. That at least might help deal with the hangover part of your symptoms.’

Fighting the surge of nausea, Angel pulled the paper towards her and began to read with kamikaze resignation:

Film-making wunderkind Sebastian Wilchester – husband of top actress and former child star Carole Beaumont, best known for her role as little Caroline in ’90s sitcom Something About Sally – was last night caught on the other side of the cameras, romping with an unidentified redhead, possibly a vice girl, in a swanky London hotel suite.

The pair spent the evening glugging champagne and indulging in a marathon sex session in the hotel bath, while Beaumont was at home alone in the Wilchesters’ Kensington mansion.

Angel felt her cheeks blazing with anger and mortification. If she’d been in any doubt Steve had stayed for the whole show, it was now utterly squashed.

A red flash in the corner promised ‘MORE SAUCY PICS INSIDE! Continued on p26 and 27’.

She flicked in panic to the double-page spread and experienced a surge of relief when she saw that none of the photos showed her face or anything that could identify her. Steve may be a scumbag, but he had principles of sorts, and an absolute commitment to protecting his sources was foremost among them. Thank Christ she’d wimped out of getting that tattoo on her bum at uni, though.

Inset was a photo of Seb and his wife Carole on their wedding day, the bride glowing in a creamy silk and Seb beaming as he curled a protective arm around her. Angel felt a twinge of shame and guilt when she took in the couple’s bright, happy faces.

The article continued:

The Palme D’Or-winning screenwriter and director, pioneer of the East End Noir genre, has been dubbed the saviour of the British film industry and a modern-day Orson Welles since his breakthrough film, Unreal City, was released to critical acclaim when he was just 22.

Neither he nor his wife of six years, former childhood sweethearts, were available to comment when contacted by our reporter. However, their lawyer has issued a statement asking for the couple’s privacy to be respected at this difficult time.

Wilchester, 30, and Beaumont, 28, had just completed work on their forthcoming film, The Milkman Cometh – a rare foray into black comedy for the director and his wife/leading lady.

‘I didn’t realise who he was when he ordered a drink at the hotel bar,’ said our source, a hotel employee who witnessed the encounter between Wilchester and his flame-haired temptress. ‘But I saw him meet up with this girl and they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other. I don’t know but it looked like it had been arranged in advance, and I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He bought her a drink and they were flirting for a bit, then he went upstairs to her suite. The maid said he left looking dishevelled the next morning.’

Et tu, Brad the barman?

Angel sank down against the arm of the sofa and moaned softly. What an almighty mess she’d managed to make of her life, her love life and her career, and all in the space of one weekend! God only knew what the next day at work would bring, but a massive bollocking piece of her mind was definitely on an unstoppable collision course with Steve’s face.

Chapter 5

Angel flicked on the TV as she got ready for work the next morning. She’d spent the evening ranting to Emily about Steve, professional ethics and the male sex in general, all worms of the lowest order, until her friend had begged her to stop before she either signed up for the nearest convent or took out a contract on Angel’s life.

Okay, what delights did breakfast telly have in store for her today while she straightened her hair? Sex secrets of the over-nineties? How to make the perfect quiche using nothing but powdered custard? A dog that could bark the theme tune to The Great British Bake Off?

She switched to her favourite breakfast show. A heavily botoxed blonde presenter was delivering a piece to camera, her make-up-thick face full of one hundred per cent artificial concern.

‘Theirs was the fairytale romance that helped movie fans feel true love wasn’t something which only happened on the silver screen,’ the presenter began in a light, trilling tone. ‘Sebastian Wilchester and Carole Beaumont were childhood sweethearts from the time their parents, all four showbiz royalty, became neighbours when the children were four and six years old. Wilchester’s mother was the Oscar-winning actress Abigail Carruthers, while his father was her second husband, film-score composer Hugo Wilchester. Rick and Sally Beaumont are still well known from their hit sitcom of the 1990s, Something About Sally. Their daughter appeared as a regular character from the age of six, and in roles such as Little Nell in an acclaimed film version of The Old Curiosity Shop, but retired as a child star at the age of fourteen.’

Angel stared with car-crash fascination at the TV, her straighteners immobile in her hand, as the presenter continued.

‘Wilchester and Beaumont married in a quiet ceremony while filming in Paris six years ago, two years after the success of Wilchester’s breakthrough film, Unreal City, in which Beaumont played the lead, made them household names. But on Sunday their happily-ever-after began to disintegrate when photographs of Wilchester appeared in a tabloid newspaper, apparently showing him enjoying a sleazy romp with a vice girl in an upmarket hotel.’

Angel felt a sickening sensation in the pit of her stomach as the camera cut away to the front page of Sunday’s Investigator and she saw her own naked body once again, the picture zooming in ever closer on Seb’s lust-contorted face over her shoulder.

‘The couple have so far refused to comment on the allegations,’ the presenter continued, “but we go live now to their home in Kensington as they prepare to deliver a statement.’

The camera cut to a shot of Seb, his arm around Carole’s shoulders at the door of their mansion. Both looked tired and drawn. Carole’s eyes were red-rimmed, her white face sort of sunken in on itself like a deflated balloon. A rolling banner at the bottom of the screen announced ‘LIVE: joint statement from Sebastian Wilchester and Carole Beaumont – hotel sex-romp director and actress will not split’.

It felt strange to see someone with whom she’d shared something as intimate as lovemaking, felt to be a living, breathing force while she’d coiled herself around him, trapped in miniature within the impersonal pixels of a TV set. As if he’d somehow ceased to be a human being and become something cold and unreal, a tiny character in a drama Angel had to keep reminding herself involved her too.

‘My wife and I are very much still together,’ she heard Seb say in that deep, brushed-velvet voice of his. ‘I am as much in love with Carole as I ever was, and I am grateful and humbled that she has found it in her heart to forgive my moment of weakness and give me another chance.’

It was Carole’s turn to speak now. She seemed to have forgotten what to say, and was staring with glazed eyes and fixed smile straight ahead. Angel saw Seb give her shoulder a barely perceptible squeeze.

‘I am very proud of the personal and professional relationship Seb and I have built up in the six years we’ve been married – or perhaps I might say in the twenty-four years we’ve been close friends,’ Carole blurted out, gabbling her words as if reciting from a script. She gazed at her husband with a sad but loving look that really did seem genuine. Then again, she wasn’t one of Britain’s most celebrated actresses for nothing…

‘I wouldn’t be such a fool as to throw that away on my husband’s single indiscretion,’ Carole continued in that tinkling voice of hers, now oddly weak and emotionless as she read the words off from inside her head. ‘However, this incident has shown us we need to spend more time together. We have both been working too hard on our careers; now it’s time to do some work on our marriage. We would like to announce that after the launch of The Milkman Cometh in October, we will be taking a partial break from public life as we spend some time looking at the issues in our relationship. I would like to thank the press and public for respecting our privacy while we do so.’

Poor cow. There but for the grace of God…

Angel flicked the switch to turn off the TV. God, she could wish Seb Wilchester had never come into her life, or Carole Beaumont’s either, for that matter.

***

‘Alright, heartbreaker?’ Leo was waiting for her at the top of the stairs, a big grin on his boyish face, when she arrived at work. ‘Flame-haired and tempting as ever. Boss wants to see you when you’ve got a minute.’

Angel groaned, furnishing him with an exasperated eyeroll. ‘Don’t you start. Emily’s been jumping between comfort and tease mode all weekend. This flame-haired temptress thing isn’t going anywhere, is it?’

‘Newp. Never till the day you die. Nice pics, by the way. Just how I remember you.’

She punched him on the arm, though not without the hint of a smile.

It was always hard for good friends who became a couple who became an ex-couple to ever go back to being just good friends again. Angel was proud she and Leo had managed it spectacularly and in style, with no lingering embarrassment or jealousy. They were the same friends they had been in that first year at uni, before they got together. In fact it was Leo, the Investigator’s best photographer, who had recommended her for the internship in the first place.

‘Morning. Do anything nice at the weekend?’ Savannah said, watching Angel dump her handbag under her desk. ‘As if I didn’t know.’

Even she knew! Bloody hell! Had Steve sold tickets or what?

‘Erm…’

‘Blackthorne! My office, now!’

Urghh. Steve. Well, she had to get it over with sooner or later. At least he’d saved her from Savannah’s knowing smirk.

‘You’ve got some brass balls, Clifton!’ she hissed once the door had swung shut behind her. ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at, splashing those photos across your cheap little rag? You knew I tried to block that camera, and if you had any respect at all for me, any sense of human decency, you’d have turned it off yourself. Christ! I can’t believe I put my arse on the line for you!’

Steve smirked. ‘No pun intended, eh love? Look, don’t get your thong in a twist. I didn’t watch the whole show, tempting though it was. Just skimmed through the vid on Saturday and took a few stills for the story. At the end of the day, I am a family man. We had the grandkiddies in the next room. Your jiggling bum cheeks are not something I fancy them walking in on, still more explaining to their nan, thanks all the same.’

Angel felt a small twinge of relief. He was probably lying, but if she could delude herself even ever so slightly, that was better than nothing.

‘And no offence, Princess, but you pays your money, you takes your choice. You didn’t have to shag him senseless, I said you could go. But if a job’s worth doing it’s worth doing thoroughly, eh?’ His mouth curved wickedly. ‘You know, that’s what I like about you, Blackthorne: you always see things through to the, er, bitter end.’

She winced with embarrassment. No one but her should know this much about her sex life – or, more usually, her lack of one.

‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled,’ Steve continued. ‘I got a much better story out of it thanks to you. You should get the horn more often.’

‘Okay, okay, so I didn’t have to bloody sleep with him,’ she growled back. ‘But you didn’t have to go into quite so much detail either! You were perfectly prepared to run a story based on nothing but a couple of staged photos the day before. And vice girl, Steve, seriously? What the hell was that all about?’

The editor shrugged. ‘Just sounds better, doesn’t it? The public loves a vice girl. Look, I kept your face out of it, didn’t I? You haven’t had Mummy and Daddy ringing up to ask why their little Angel’s gone on the game?’

She ignored that comment. ‘And what about the office? Even Savannah seems to know! I’ll never hear the end of it!’

Steve waved a dismissive, liver-spotted hand. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Blackthorne. You’ve not been here long, have you? Something like this happens every few months in this game. It’d make you blush, the things I could tell you about the staff on this paper. Jez in accounts has got a coke habit that must be putting his dealer’s kids through uni. One of our longest-serving sub-eds, sixty-four and due for retirement next year, is so addicted to high-class prozzies he’s had to mortgage his flat. Even your innocent-looking little mate out there, Lord bless her, has got her dirty secret. I caught Cal, the film critic, giving her one in the stationery cupboard last week.’

‘That’s not the point! The point is – what, seriously, Savannah and Cal? Him with the little bum-fluff moustache?’

‘The very same. Everyone’s on the ladder looking to get a leg up – or a leg over,’ Steve said with a leer. ‘See, lass? Nothing to worry about. You’re not the only one with something to be ashamed of around here. By next week no one will remember your little indiscretion, or whatever you want to call it.’

‘Fine, have it your way then, you sleazy old son of a bitch. I’m dirty, you’re dirty: we’re all dirty, scummy little human beings. But I won’t forget this, Steve. Never.’ She jabbed an accusing finger at the editor’s corpulent frame across the desk, her voice low and dangerous. ‘You betrayed me. Those photos were… private. They weren’t part of what we agreed. And you knew it.’

‘Did I betray you, Princess? Or are you just taking it out on me because you feel like you’ve betrayed yourself?’

Trying not to consider if there was a lick of truth in his words, she drew up what dignity she could muster and turned to leave.

‘Blackthorne. Wait. Before you go.’

She spun back, still seething. ‘What? Have you got another assignment for me, boss? Maybe head down to Battersea and kick a few puppies? Get my tits out for the Chancellor of the Exchequer in time for budget day?’

‘Maybe next week. Look, I just wanted to say you did a good job on that sting. You picked it up like a pro and you really came through. I was proud of you. That was our fastest-selling edition for years. You’ll make a cracking journalist one of these days, lass.’

She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. She didn’t even know if being a journalist was something she wanted at all any more. Turning on her heel, she stormed out of Steve’s office and back to her desk.

***

It was three weeks before Angel set foot in the editor’s office again.

She flung open the glass-and-steel door and slammed both hands palm down on Steve’s desk. Eyes and cheeks burned crimson fury as she faced off against him with an expression of thunderous defiance.

‘What the hell was that email all about, Clifton? Are you deliberately trying to humiliate me or what? Is this punishment for something?’

To her shock, Steve actually looked surprised.

Could he really think he was doing her a favour, assigning her to report on next month’s premiere of The Milkman Cometh? All she wanted to do was forget about Sebastian Wilchester, forget about the honey trap and get on with her life, such as it was. And now here was Steve flinging her straight into the man’s path.

‘Are you tugging my chain, Blackthorne? Your mate Leo had to beg me to let you take this job, with your lack of experience. Flat-out refused to work with anyone else on it. Don’t you know what an opportunity it is, a lowly intern being assigned to cover a Tigerblaze premiere? If you hadn’t done such a great job on that last assignment there’s no way I’d send a rookie for this.’

‘But Wilchester will be there!’ she hissed, refusing to be mollified. ‘What if he recognises me? It’s both our reputations on the line, Steve, mine and yours.’

‘Relax, he won’t see you. These things are always packed out, and he goes out of his way to avoid the press. Hates them. Now more than ever after the stunt we pulled on him, I’d guess. You’ll never even come close to him.’

Angel opened her mouth to speak, but Steve was just getting into his stride.

‘And what if he does see you? He won’t do anything, the story will have been out there for nearly two months by that point. Him and Beaumont are just starting to put it all behind them, he’s not likely to want reminding of it. That’s if he recognises you. For all we know he’s Johnny Yo Yo Boxers seven nights a week. He’s not going to remember one tight little arse out of hundreds, love.’

Angel felt a pain she quickly tried to smother. She wasn’t allowed to be hurt by thoughts like that. She was moving on with her life. It was almost as if the whole thing never happened. It was almost as if she’d forgotten the irresistible feel of Seb against her flesh, the way his expressive eyes fired when he gave himself to her, the way he could be so tender and yet so demanding as he brought his lips down on to hers. Yes, almost.

‘Fine,’ she snapped, fighting the warmth surging through her gut. ‘I’ll do it. And I’ll do a bloody good write-up as well. But I want my own byline and when Sarah goes on maternity leave next week I want my CV top of the pile for the temporary showbiz editor job.’

‘It’s already top of the pile, love.’

Chapter 6

The black cab slunk through the bustle of London’s nightlife before pulling into the shadow of the Odeon Cinema in Leicester Square, where the world premiere of The Milkman Cometh was all set to take place.

On the back seat Angel skimmed her smartphone, looking again through the brief Steve had emailed her. It was the standard showbiz supplement stuff: describe what and who stars were wearing when they arrived on the premiere’s red carpet, who they were with, how they looked and behaved, a brief write-up of the film itself and finally a report on the main part of the evening, the after-party. The opulence, the entertainment, and above all, the gossip. For the Investigator, of course, the dirtier the better.

She turned to Leo in the seat next to her, trying hard to calm the frenzied thump of heart against ribcage.

‘Do I look okay, Leo? Is my hair alright?’ She’d tried out a new style for tonight, sweeping the thick auburn mass into a debonair chignon and finishing with a vintage diamond and pearl teardrop pin that had belonged to her grandmother.

‘Fit as a butcher’s dog, Ginge,’ Leo said, putting an arm around her and giving her shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’m this close to ripping your clothes off.’

‘Sweet boy.’ She gave his hand an affectionate pat.

Not for her the slinky little dress and gravity-defying heels, not this time. She knew the chances of Seb seeing her were slim to none and she certainly intended to go out of her way to avoid him, but if by any chance he did catch sight of her then she wanted to be oozing pure class.

With some help from Emily, the undisputed queen of good taste when it came to matters of dress, she’d spent the best part of a week’s wages on a full-length backless gown in floating silver taffeta. ‘Silver will be great with your colouring. Bring out the green in your eyes,’ Emily had told her. The dress had hung on her bedroom door for weeks, where she could look at it and occasionally touch it, until Groucho’s evident desire to shred it up into comfy bedding for himself had forced her to put it away until the time came to wear it.

Angel seemed to be spending most of her meagre salary on clothes for assignments at the moment, and she wondered idly whether she should be putting in expense claims for them. ‘Thong x 1, black satin. Push-up bra x 1, 34C…’ Well, maybe not, although no doubt Steve would get a cheap thrill out of signing them off.

Emily wasn’t wrong about the taffeta. When Angel had tried it on in the changing room, her irises had looked almost emerald set off by the silvery sheen of the material. She’d spent nearly quarter of an hour staring at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that so she could wonder at the way the light caught in the dress’s glistening folds and dimples. A ruched, beaded bodice hugged the curves of her breasts and hips, extending down to her upper thighs before flowing mermaid-like into a lustrous ruffle skirt. It was stunning and she loved herself in it.

Stepping out of the taxi, Angel could taste the close air, tangy with expensive perfume, sweaty bodies and cigarette smoke. The intoxicating scent of glamour, apparently.

She understood now exactly what Steve had meant when he’d said the event would be packed out. Extending out around a fenced-off area was a deep throng of fans, reporters and photographers at least ten-deep, a sea of flash bulbs ready to blind the celebrities as they walked up the red carpet to the venue. She breathed a sigh of relief. No need to hide from Seb here, at least. This was a crowd it would be easy to get lost in.

‘Brace yourself, Ginge. We’re going in.’ Gripping his press pass between his teeth, Leo grabbed Angel by the shoulders and started fighting his way through the crowd. She held up her skirt to keep it safe from the crush of bodies as conga-like they barged their way through. ‘Excuse me, coming through, Investigator, coming through…’

Eventually Leo managed to manoeuvre Angel into a vantage point not far behind the mesh fencing forming the cordon. He slid himself in beside her to a spot where he could join the flash-bulb ocean. It was this winning combination of great pictures and sharp elbows that meant Leo had been Steve’s photographer of choice at film premieres for over a year now.

‘It’ll be over faster than you think,’ he shouted to Angel through the noise of the crowd. ‘Better get yourself ready.’

Angel rummaged in her handbag for her notebook and waited, pen poised, for the guests to arrive. She had a pretty clear view of the carpet between the shoulders of the two photographers jostling each other in front of her. Thank God she was in heels: the inch or so they added to her usual five-six were just what she needed to guarantee her a good view, or at least the best she was going to get in this mob.

First on the carpet was a perma-tanned face Angel recognised as belonging to some reality TV rent-a-celeb, who simpered and pouted gamely for the photographers. The young woman had poured herself into a skin-tight, salmon-pink strapless dress, her surgically enhanced bowling-ball breasts bursting from the low-cut V that extended down almost to her crotch. ‘Christian Dior, naturally,’ she purred, twirling for the gathered press.

Angel jotted down the Z-lister’s name and a description of her outfit as per her brief from Steve, wondering if there was honestly anyone who wanted to read about this stuff.

Next came the lead actor in The Milkman Cometh, a big name known for his portrayal of Regency fops in period dramas. This role was his first foray into comedy and he looked suitably nervous as he faced the wolfpack, which had the power to make or break him with a word.

The thrilled-looking older lady on his arm was introduced as his mum, beaming while she posed alongside her son. ‘My biggest fan,’ he said. The crowd ‘ahhhhed’ appreciatively.

Angel scribbled away as a succession of stylish celebrities, from chefs to soap-opera stars, made their way up the carpet, those used to the limelight striding forward with unflappable confidence, others shy and diffident in the face of the blaze of cameras.

An expectant hum went through the pack and she heard Carole Beaumont’s name spoken in hushed tones by the people around her. Craning her neck to get a better view over the pony-tailed photographer in front, Angel saw the film’s elegant, dainty little star stepping from a chauffeur-driven limo at the other end of the carpet. A shiver slammed through her, despite the heat from the press of bodies on every side. Would Seb be with his wife? Or had he sneaked in through the back entrance? Leo said he almost always did at premieres, to avoid the gaggle of press.

Unsure whether the vibrations shooting up her spine came from fear or excitement, or perhaps a touch of both, Angel bent her strappy shoes into a tiptoe position to get a better view. She wasn’t worried now about being seen. The flashes from the wilderness of cameras were as good as a smokescreen.

Her stomach did a double somersault when she saw Seb follow his wife out of the limo, his tall, athletic frame breathtaking in a classic but immaculately cut dinner jacket and black tie. The wild, curly hair Angel remembered so well running her fingers through was gelled smartly back. He gave the crowd a half-smile, but she could tell he was bored.

She hadn’t realised how deeply it would affect her to see him in person again after the two months that had passed since that night at the hotel. Still on tiptoes, she almost reeled backwards into another reporter. She clutched at Leo’s arm for support while she struggled to regain her footing, knocking the hand he was using to operate the flash as she did so. He shook her away with an impatient gesture.

Really, Angel, knocked off your feet? Eurghh. You are such a bloody cliché.

The glamorous couple swept hand in hand along the red carpet and Angel wondered with a wave of cynicism if their in-your-face togetherness was genuine or a stage-managed show of affection for the benefit of the gathered pack. She assumed the sharp-suited man waiting for them with arms folded at the end of the walkway was, as everything in his appearance seemed to suggest, some sort of public-relations advisor.

Seb kissed his wife on the cheek and took a step back as they neared the top of the carpet, letting Carole take centre stage. The slight scowl on his handsome face told Angel these kind of events were a duty rather than a pleasure, and only pressure from the stern PR man had convinced him not to slink in round the back as usual.

Carole more than made up for his standoffishness, however. She smiled and waved for the press, kissed adoring fans across the barrier and signed autographs until she held the crowd in the palm of her hand. She was every inch the consummate professional, the former child star who had been wowing fans almost from the cradle.

She was wearing a simple but dazzling backless dress in cream chiffon, ending in a floor-sweeping transparent train with a hemline rising in front to skim her knees. An embroidered peacock motif picked out in sparkling aquamarine beads curled down one side of the bodice. Angel felt a twinge of something – jealousy? – as she noted the shapely legs, remembering Steve’s description of Seb as a ‘leg man’ and the way the director had seemed to approve so much of hers that night in the hotel bar. For some reason she found herself blinking back tears, recalling him scanning the curve of her crossed legs when he’d stood up to hand back her bag, and the heat that had slammed through her when she’d felt his soft curls brushing against her calves…

Carole’s platinum-blonde bob was flawless as always, the fair skin was set off perfectly by delicate pencilled lashes and a slick of baby-pink lipstick, yet there was a childlike air of fragility to the diminutive actress that couldn’t help but make an onlooker feel protective. Angel noticed the bruised circles indicating sleepless nights around her eyes, almost but not quite hidden by the make-up artist’s skill. But Carole didn’t let her tiredness show while she laughed and chatted with the assembled crowd.

‘Who am I wearing?’ she said in answer to a reporter. ‘Why, myself, darling, of course. I make nearly all my own dresses.’

Well, of course you do. It seemed Carole Beaumont really was practically perfect in every way.

‘But I do wonder why that’s always the first question I’m asked,’ the actress went on. ‘Usually followed by a request for details of my beauty routine, while my co-star is asked about his role in the movie.’

Carole spoke lightly, with a little tinkling laugh, but her smile had a hard edge, making it clear this particular question was an irritation she’d encountered before. And it was true, her leading man had been asked just moments earlier how he’d prepared for his part in the film by the very same reporter. Angel felt her respect rise for this woman, gracious but firm, who refused to let the press reduce her to a glorified clothes-horse.

‘Do you have any comment to make about your husband’s recent infidelity, Ms Beaumont?’ yelled a pimply young man close by Angel’s elbow. ‘Will you be seeking a divorce?’ called someone from the other side of the carpet. But Carole Beaumont was suddenly deaf as she took Seb’s arm.

She nudged him slightly and as he began to speak Angel was overcome by a sudden, vivid memory of his woodsmoke-chocolate aftershave when he drew his face in close to hers, eyes kindled with a flame that seemed to spark from his tawny irises into her green ones. She scrunched her eyes tight shut, trying hard to rid herself of the memory. The seductive embrace of his tongue with hers as he expertly explored her mouth, drawing her arched, willing body into his…

Once again she felt tears rising and blinked hard to fight them back. This pathetic habit of crying whenever she thought about Seb had got to stop.

‘I’d like to thank you ladies and gentlemen of the press for turning out to the premiere of The Milkman Cometh,’ the director said, taking care there should be no trace of emotion in his polished tones while he delivered the obviously rehearsed speech. ‘This black comedy is something different for Carole and myself, but a project that has long been close to our hearts. It is also the first release to be entirely filmed at, and distributed by, our studio, Tigerblaze. Now there is nothing left for us to do but throw it on your mercy, and I hope you will not stint in either your praise or your criticism as the curtain lifts on our newest baby.’

This gave the up-and-coming reporter at Angel’s elbow a new idea. He chose this moment to shout out his next question.

‘Why do you think you and your wife have never had children, Mr Wilchester? Isn’t a family something you want in your lives?’

Angel shrank back as Seb’s gaze flickered over to the unfortunate young man beside her with a sneer of dislike. But Carole’s selective deafness seemed to be catching. The question remained unanswered, hanging in the air as the couple were escorted by their PR man into the cinema.

Chapter 7

‘Right, that’s your lot,’ Leo said, taking hold of Angel’s elbow and guiding her away from the fenced-off area along with the rapidly dispersing crowd. ‘Come on.’

‘Where do we go now?’

‘Servants’ entrance, round the back. The stars all get shown into the VIP area, then we humble Newsround presspackers are allowed to go occupy the cheap seats. Have you got your pass? You’ll have to show it to the security bods to get in.’

Angel reached into her handbag for the press pass. It did have a little clip to attach it, but she couldn’t bear the thought of doing any damage, no matter how tiny, to her dress. Not that she’d ever admit such feminine weakness to Leo. She’d never hear the end of it.

She pulled out her phone too, scanned the screen. One new message.

Cal can’t make it. Need review for Monday. Take notes and let’s see what you can do with it.

Great, thanks Steve. So now she was supply film critic and supply showbiz editor. Did no one else do any work on this paper?

‘Looks like I’m reviewing for the arts section as well as the summary for the showbiz supplement.’ She showed Leo Steve’s text. ‘Cal’s off sick or something. Typical. Come on, let’s get round the back and try to get some decent seats.’

Leo’s eyes saucered with surprise. ‘Bloody hell, that’s huge, Ginge! I’m impressed: from intern to film critic in well under a year. That’s some jump, you know.’ He gave the elbow he was holding a swift squeeze. ‘Steve must think you’re the dog’s wotsits or something. At this rate you’ll be deputy editor by this time next week. Listen, you will remember the little people who put you there, won’t you, and make sure my name’s in the hat for director of photography?’

She linked his arm as they joined the end of the queue snaking down towards the cinema’s rear entrance. ‘No worries, little person. Shame there isn’t any extra money in my rapid rise to the top, though, instead of just twice the work for the same salary. I’m about one taffeta ballgown from the breadline at the moment.’

Ten minutes of very British queueing later, a beefy security guard eyeballed them as they arrived at the entrance and flashed their press passes.

‘Paper, mag, blog?’

‘The Investigator,’ Leo said. ‘Angel Blackthorne and Leo Courtenay.’

The guard glared at them with lowered brows. It didn’t take a big stretch of the imagination for Angel to figure out why.

‘That stunt you pulled was a new low, even by your rag’s rock-bottom standards,’ he growled. ‘I don’t know how you hacks have got the balls to show your faces here. Really top couple, the Wilchesters. I’ve worked with them for years.’

Angel examined her feet carefully, feeling the tips of her ears starting to burn. ‘Look, we just work there,’ she mumbled. ‘The editor decides what we run…’

Oh yes, the old ‘just obeying orders’ defence. Always a winner.

But the guard was just getting warmed up. ‘A real lady, Mrs Beaumont, and she’s looked just about ready to break her heart these last few months. I mean, ‘mystery girl’? Come on! One of your hired whores, more like. You know as well as I do the whole thing was a set-up. Otherwise how would you have known to plant the bloody cameras in the first place? Your white-van-men punters might have a reading age of six but even they can’t be that thick.’

Behind them, the impatient queue started to rumble at the hold-up. Angel felt nauseatingly conspicuous, her cheeks blazing with shame and embarrassment.

‘Listen, mate,’ Leo said to the security guard, his mouth setting into a firm line. ‘You’ll have to take any complaint up with our editor. I’m more than happy to give you his email address. Christ, you can even have his private mobile if you want. By all means ring him, any hour of the day or night for all I care. The man’s a first-class prick and you’d have my blessing. But me and this lady have got a job to do, and if your boss wants to promote his film in the country’s biggest daily then you’d better tick your little box and let us in. Or you can explain to him why ours is the only paper not carrying a review, and he doesn’t look like a man you’d want to cross.’

The guard’s brow lowered like thunder but Leo’s words did the trick. With muttered oaths and imprecations, he looked the pair up on his guest list and waved them through the barrier.

‘God, Leo, how long is this thing going to haunt me? I feel awful. I deserve to feel awful,’ Angel murmured when she was slumped into the uncomfortable vinyl upholstery of a cinema seat.

‘Well, don’t. Feel awful, I mean,’ he whispered back. ‘That guy was bang out of order. There’s nothing wrong with exposing a cheater for being a cheater. It’s not like you made Wilchester do anything he didn’t want to, and in the end the only person responsible for Carole Beaumont’s bleeding heart is her husband. He’s the one who promised to love and snuggle her till death do they part or whatever, not you. You don’t even know the woman.’

‘Yeah, maybe, but…’

‘Anyway, they were both of them brought up in the public eye,’ Leo continued, warming to his subject. ‘They know how the game’s played, the extra caution you have to take when you’re a celebrity. You’d almost think from his willingness to give it up he wanted to get caught – or at least that he didn’t care if he was.’

‘That doesn’t change the fact I set him up and then humiliated his wife by spending the night with him when I was never supposed to take it that far. You can’t tell me you think that’s okay because we both know it bloody well isn’t, and if I wasn’t your best mate you’d admit it in a heartbeat. Anyway, it’s not a ‘game’ I ever want to play again, Leo, not with people’s lives…’

But Leo shushed her as the lights dimmed and the curtain came up. ‘We’ll talk more after, okay?’ He gave her shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. Between him and Emily, she felt like ‘reassuring squeeze’ was likely to be listed on an autopsy certificate under ‘Angel Blackthorne: Cause of Death’ any day now.

As the opening credits started scrolling across the screen, Angel fished the notebook and pen from her handbag and began scribbling away in shorthand, listing the names of the principal actors, the setting for the opening scene, some brief notes on the performances. But half an hour later the same pen hovered motionless over the page as she stared, open-mouthed, at the screen.

Steve, Savannah, everyone had been right. Wilchester was brilliant. Perhaps even a genius. The writing, the direction, the casting: it was all spot on.

The plot was original and yet somehow quintessentially British: a bored, ditzy 1970s housewife, Beaumont, seduces the local milkman and then convinces him to carry out a hit on her philandering businessman husband. Seb’s script was the perfect combination of farce and thriller, with the audience laughing, gasping, and on one occasion, screaming on cue in all the right places. Angel couldn’t tear her fascinated eyes away, watching the plot twist and turn with dizzying speed, keeping her guessing until the very end.

And Carole Beaumont! Who could have predicted the icy, regal blonde would have such perfect comic timing, delivering one sparkling line after another, or such a talent for physical comedy? She might have the looks of a Grace Kelly but her performance reminded Angel of Lucille Ball in her prime.

As the end credits rolled Angel heard a round of applause start to ripple through the press area, becoming a standing ovation as those around her rose to their feet. Angel and Leo joined them, clapping wildly with the rest.

‘Does that happen a lot?’ she whispered to Leo, sinking into her seat again.

Leo shook his head. ‘First time I’ve seen it. First time it’s ever been earned. He’s a talented bastard, I’ll say that for him. I was doubtful when he announced the next Tigerblaze film would be a comedy, but it seems like everything that pair touches turns to gold.’

Angel nodded her enthusiastic agreement. ‘God, it was unbelievable. Like Ealing in its glory days, but with a dark modern edge that really gave it bite. If Carole Beaumont hasn’t got a best-actress BAFTA heading her way next year I’ll be amazed.’

‘You were certainly paying attention.’ Leo looked impressed by her insight. ‘Sounds like you’ve got a great starting point for your review, anyway. A fresh perspective too, which I guess is a rare thing in critic circles. You’ve not seen any of their other work, have you? I forgot you were a Wilchester virgin –’

Leo grimaced. ‘Oh God. Forget I said that, will you? I can’t believe I just said that.’

‘Let’s just pretend I didn’t hear you,’ Angel said, flinching in her turn.

But it was too late: she’d seen his mouth start to curve. Before she could help herself it had affected her too and she was lolling back in her seat, giggling uncontrollably along with Leo. Other journalists squeezed past them, shooting odd-but-I’ve-seen-it-all looks in their direction.

Angel snorted helplessly into Leo’s shoulder for a solid two minutes until the tears stung. ‘Come on,’ she said at last, wiping the corners of her eyes and catching her breath. ‘Let’s get out of here to somewhere I can sort out my mascara. I must look like a reject from an eighties pop video.’ People were pouring down the aisles out of the cinema now and they were the last two left in their seats.

She gazed through the open doors of the fire exit to the freedom of the brightly lit square. ‘I don’t suppose we could just go home, could we?’ She angled a pair of hopeful, pleading eyes up to Leo. ‘I’ll buy you a Domino’s on the way? It’s emotionally draining, this film-reviewing lark.’

‘Wish we could, Ginge. A slice of stuffed-crust double cheese and I’m anyone’s under normal circumstances, as you well know. But Steve’ll have my goolies for garters if we don’t turn in some photos and a report on this after-party. When it comes to selling papers, that’s the most important part of the night. It’s where all the dirt is anyway, which you must have worked out by now is all the boss cares about.’

He grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the exit. ‘Look, we don’t have to stay long if you’ve had enough. It’s a great opportunity for you to get a really class piece into your portfolio. Come on, I’ll call a cab to take us over to the club.’

***

The lavish Luxe nightclub announced its status as the official after-party venue for The Milkman Cometh with a large plasma screen mounted over the door showing clips and trailers for the film. The building’s black mirror façade was illuminated with electric-blue strip lighting. Another plush red carpet, bordered by plaited ropes suspended between highly polished brass stands, guided guests up to the entrance. It looked like exactly the last place Angel would ever choose to be if her time was her own.

‘Shouldn’t you be crouching somewhere, taking leggy shots of celebrities as they get out of limos?’ she asked Leo.

‘Yeah, I actually should.’ He pulled a face. ‘Hey Ginge, do you think we can ever leave this gutter-press lifestyle behind us and go work somewhere really classy, like Big Jugs Monthly?’

‘We can dream.’

Leo screwed the lens on his camera and prepared to dash off. ‘Go on, you get inside. I’ll meet you at the bar.’

It didn’t take long for Angel to discover film premiere after-parties were everything she hated about nightclubs, with an extra coating of awful. Or rather, it took ages to discover that. She had to queue for twenty minutes to get through the security checks, watching her bag turned inside out and the assorted debris that made up the contents scrutinised by three different security officers, plus another ten minutes for them to ring head office when they discovered it was Sarah, the Investigator’s heavily pregnant showbiz editor, and not Angel whose name was on the guest list.

When they were finally satisfied she wasn’t a terrorist with a vendetta against the British film industry and let her through, she’d spent another fifteen minutes in a cloakroom queue so she could see her favourite jacket thrown into a pile with a raffle ticket pinned precariously to the collar. By the time she made it to the black gloss bar, trying to do a bit of subtle spying into the roped-off VIP area where she knew Seb and Carole would be seated on the way past, Leo was already there with a pint of something amber and a white wine served in a miniature milk bottle. Nice touch…

‘For the lady,’ he said, nodding towards the wine. ‘Probably a bit warm by now. I see you made the rookie mistake of bringing a coat.’

She threw herself on to a barstool. ‘Yeah, could’ve warned me, couldn’t you? Plus they insisted I had to be Sarah or the computer would apparently get very upset. Steve forgot to get the guest list updated.’ She looked at the pint in his hand, already half gone. ‘How’d you get through security so fast anyway?’

He shrugged. ‘They should know me by now; I’ve been to a few of these things. Just had to hand my camera in at the door until the end. They don’t like press photographers creeping about trying to catch out the celebrities. There’ll be an official Tigerblaze camera chimp somewhere around here.’

Angel sighed and took a long swallow of wine. ‘You know, I’d expected this thing to be all Ferrero Rocher pyramids and free booze, not just a glorified clubbing trip.’

She flung a worried look at the pint glass in Leo’s hand then yanked her gaze away, but he’d already caught her eye.

‘Just apple juice, Ginge. Still on the wagon, eighteen months and counting.’

‘Em said you’d stopped going to meetings…’

He knitted his eyebrows and angled his face away from her, staring down into his drink. ‘Will you girls ever stop worrying about me?’ he said, swirling the liquid around the sides of his glass. ‘I’m fine, honestly. I’ve just been busy with work stuff. Look, I’ll go back just as soon as I’m on top of things again, promise.’

She put a hand on his wrist and twisted her face around to his to look into those dark brown eyes, always so mournful even when they crinkled with laughter.

‘There’s no cure, Leo,’ she said, her voice soothing and gentle. ‘Only control. Remember what you had to go through, how hard it was in those early days of cold turkey? You couldn’t have done it without the meetings to support you. I think after everything we went through together trying to get you off the stuff, you can trust me on that one.’

Leo jerked his hand away and stood up, his eyes flashing with resentment. ‘Yes, and you’re always ready to remind me, aren’t you? Still trying to ‘fix’ me. Well you’re not my girlfriend any more, Angel. Is it really too much to be allowed to forget and move on?’ Grabbing his drink, he stormed off into the crowd.

Great. Angel Blackthorne, man poison. First Seb, now her ex the recovering alcoholic, who she’d managed to take on an emotional rollercoaster from hysterical laughter to growling rage in the space of just under two hours. You’re on fire tonight, girl…

Man poison of sorts anyway, she thought, clocking the pinstriped specimen eyeing her with interest from across the bar. Picking up guys in bars was clearly something for which she had an innate talent. If only she’d realised earlier in life, while she was still choosing her future career. She could have earned a small fortune in folded fivers as a pole dancer by now.

Angel finally pinned down the nagging sensation that the man ogling her was someone she’d seen before. Of course. It was Seb and Carole’s PR guy, the one who’d waited for them on the red carpet and guided them into the cinema.

PR Guy edged smoothly over to where she was sat. ‘Top up?’ he asked, gesturing to the barman. She could see him skimming her body with approval. The silver taffeta had made its first conquest.

‘No thanks, but there is something else you can do for me.’ She forced her voice into a seductive purr, and the PR man’s self-assured smile told her he had every expectation he was about to get lucky.

‘And what’s that?’

She dropped the simpering smile and pulled her press pass out of her bag. ‘You can get me an interview with your boss.’

The man’s face hardened as he took the photocard from her. ‘Serves me right for going slumming in the pleb section. You do know you’re supposed to wear this at all times?’

‘What, and ruin my pretty dress?’

‘Sorry, darling, but you’re wasting your time. Wilchester never gives interviews after premieres.’ He cast a cursory eye over her pass and his lip curled into a sneer. ‘Particularly not with the hacks at this rag, I rather think, don’t you?’

‘Oh, he’ll see me,’ she heard herself say with a calm confidence quite unlike her normal voice. ‘Just show him that, will you? I’ll be waiting here for his answer.’

PR Guy gave a loud scoff. ‘I told you, you’re wasting your time. But if you must insist…’

‘I must.’

She watched him square his shoulders and march back to the VIP area. I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Angel Blackthorne. I just bloody well hope you do.

Chapter 8

Okay, top marks for speed, Angel thought as she felt someone slip onto the stool next to her a few minutes later. But when she swung round she found it was only Leo, looking sheepish.

She should have known his temper by now. A quick flare-up, a five-minute sulk and then he’d be back to his usual self, all schoolboy charm and wearing his best hangdog expression.

‘I’m a twat,’ he said by way of an apology.

She glared at him. He’d get no disagreement from her, not unless he could do better than that.

‘I spose I should realise by now you’re only looking out for me.’ He scuffed his foot against the polished-steel crossrail of the barstool. ‘But it just makes it so difficult when I know you and Em are constantly fidgeting about, watching and fretting like – well, like you’re my mums or something.’

He raised his eyes to hers and searched them keenly. ‘Look, Angel, I know when we were together I let you down time and again, and put you through hell besides. I know it was me and only me who ruined whatever chance we had to make it work as a couple. It means a lot that you forgave me. I can be a moody sod, but I want you to know I won’t throw away what we have now. You’re my best friend and this time I promise I will fight to keep you.’

Angel blinked, touched and surprised by the rare display of affection. ‘Soppy git,’ she said. He wrinkled his nose as she ruffled the rough fuzz of black hair. ‘I thought you’d have realised it by now. You don’t get rid of me that easily.’

He looked down at his feet, suddenly bashful. ‘Alright, Ginge. You don’t have to show me up in front of all the top totty in this place. I’m losing vital macho points here.’

‘It is about time we both got back on that particular horse,’ she said, smiling. ‘The dating one, I mean. Not any other horse you might have in mind. Not that I really want to know, but how long has it been for you anyway?’

‘Oh, nine months or so, give or take a few millennia. But who’s counting, really? I’ve decided to become a tantric hippy sex celibate, actually, like Sting or one of those guys. I could live to be a hundred and thirty-five.’

‘It’ll certainly feel like that long anyway,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Come on, mate, spill. You know all about my disaster of a love life, just like every other reader of the bloody Investigator. Don’t you have any hot prospects on the horizon?’

‘Just one.’ His glance drifted to the floor and Angel bit her tongue, wishing she could take back the teasing question. For some reason she was suddenly afraid to hear the answer.

Leo looked up and his gaze, full of feeling, met hers. He couldn’t… not after they’d worked so hard to get to where they were now. Could he?

‘It’s Emily,’ he confided. Angel experienced a wave of relief she couldn’t even have begun to explain.

So that was it. Her two best friends…

‘You must’ve noticed me and Em getting closer, spending more time just the two of us. But every time it gets to the point where I feel like she might care about me as more than just a friend, she pushes me away. Then the next thing I hear she’s dating some bellend and we’re back at Mate Zero.’

Angel felt a pang of guilt. She actually hadn’t noticed, although the whole thing must have been unfolding right in front of her for months. But she’d been so tied up in her own affairs – the internship, the honey trap and its fallout – she hadn’t had a thought to spare for anyone’s complicated love life except her own.

‘Well, you know how she’s been since Peter and the way that ended.’ Angel reached out to give his back a comforting rub. ‘And you know what she used to be like before. Dating and sex she has no problem with, but when it comes to getting close, learning to trust someone…’

‘I know, I know. But I’m hitting a brick wall here, Ginge. I really don’t know where to go next.’ He sighed, vengefully tearing an unfortunate beer mat straight down the middle. ‘So how about you? Any irons in the fire I should know about?’

‘Nah. My ex was a lot to live up to.’ She grinned, perfectly comfortable with him again now the awkward moment had passed. ‘To be honest, Seb was my first since, well, whenever it was you and me broke up…’

‘Seriously?’ His dark eyes widened in shock. ‘And I thought I had it bad. You need to get yourself out there, woman. At this rate, Mad Cat Lady status beckons before you hit thirty.’

‘Not sure that process hasn’t already started, to be honest.’

Leo shook his head with mock solemnity. ‘Poor Wilchester. I never realised he’d had such big shoes to fill that night. No wonder he looks so miserable. You know what they say: once you’ve had Leo, you never – er, something that rhymes with Leo which basically means I’m great in bed.’

‘They don’t say that.’

‘Well, no, they don’t say that. Not as such.’

A low ‘hem’ at her elbow forced Angel to look around. Seb’s PR guy, looking sulky and belligerent, was trying to attract her attention. She wondered how long he’d been standing there, eavesdropping on their conversation.

‘Yes?’

‘Against my advice, Mr Wilchester has agreed to give an interview to the Investigator,’ he stated formally, refusing to make eye contact while he handed back her press pass. Angel saw Leo raise a quizzical eyebrow and she gave her head a slight shake to let him know she’d explain later.

‘My colleague will join us, of course?’

PR Guy eyed Leo with sneering dislike. ‘That was not part of the agreement. Look, darling, you’ve got ten minutes with my client, not a minute more. So I suggest you grab whatever it is you need and come with me.’

What she felt like she needed if she was going anywhere with this guy was a high-powered taser and a clear shot at his groin, but nevertheless she stood up to follow as he turned back towards the club’s VIP area. She made an apologetic face to Leo, snatched her bag and left him looking puzzled by the bar.

‘The rules will be as follows,’ PR Guy continued as she trailed after him through the dimly lit club, illuminated only by the blue LED strips embedded into the floor and bar. ‘No personal questions about my client’s home life, marriage, childhood, ex-partners, sexual preferences, family or future plans. No implications about my client’s lifestyle, nor nuanced inferences about his private life from the answers he does choose to provide. If Mr Wilchester is made to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed by any questions put to him, the interview will be terminated immediately. If I feel the questions put to Mr Wilchester will be likely to cause him future embarrassment, the interview will be terminated immediately. If –’

‘So am I interviewing him or you?’ Angel interrupted, narrowing her eyes. ‘If you’re expecting me to write some promotional puff piece for Tigerblaze Studios you can forget it. I’m not doing your job for you, mate.’

PR Guy turned to face her, glowing with resentment. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. This is a film premiere. Your questions will relate to my client’s work and the film you have just seen. Or this interview can and will be shut down.’

‘Fine,’ she snapped back. ‘Suits me. It’s his work that interests me, not his private life. Enthralling though I’m sure it is.’

They continued in sullen silence until they reached the VIP lounge. A plaited cord, rich electric blue like everything else in the place, barred their entrance. PR Guy unhooked it at one end and ushered her through, flashing some sort of ID at the burly bouncer stationed just inside.

The reality of what she was doing hit Angel with a solid drop-kick to the abdomen when she spotted Seb in a private booth, lounging in the corner of a round, white-leather sofa. He was drinking a mini milk bottle of champagne and chatting to the lead actor from The Milkman Cometh with a smile that didn’t extend to his eyes. She was relieved to see Carole Beaumont wasn’t with him.

Too late to back out now…

She took a few hesitant steps towards his table, but stopped dead in her tracks when he turned and caught sight of her. His eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared, his sculpted lips setting in a thin line. There it was, the very expression she’d been dreading: disdain, hard and unforgiving. She dug her heels into the thin black carpet, willed her posture into erect dignity, but he refused to withdraw his stare.

She could feel the PR man’s eyes burning into her from behind too, wondering what she was waiting for now she’d finally got the coup to end all coups; an exclusive audience with publicity-shunning Sebastian Wilchester. Forcing her lips into a polite smile, she pushed herself forward and into a seat at the other side of his table.

‘Thanks, George, good job with everything tonight,’ Seb said to the young actor, ignoring her. ‘You’d better go find your mum before she starts worrying. Catch up in a bit. Just have to do a quick press thing before I can socialise.’ He jerked his head in her direction.

‘You’re a martyr to it, aren’t you, Seb? Okay, see you in a little while then.’ George nodded to Angel and the PR man as he stood up to leave.

Interview! Shit! She really hadn’t thought this far ahead. Here was Seb, eyes thrusting a thousand knives in her direction, and the Tigerblaze PR manager ready to shut her down the instant she went off message, and she hadn’t thought up a single question. All she wanted to do was get whatever closure she could by offering an apology, congratulate Seb on the film and go, never to darken his red carpet again. But she could hardly do that with PR Guy breathing down her neck.

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she mumbled, trying not to wilt under Seb’s cool, appraising gaze.

She took out her dictaphone and placed it on the table. ‘You don’t mind…?’

‘Not at all,’ he answered, with flesh-freezing good manners and just a touch of sarcasm. ‘Always committed to helping the Investigator get its facts straight.’

The last time she’d been this close to him, his tawny eyes had been soft and heavy with post-orgasmic warmth. Now, it was obvious they could hardly stand the sight of her. Why the hell had he agreed to this? Did he just want to make her feel uncomfortable? Some sort of petty revenge?

She fumbled with the dictaphone, pressing the button to record, and pulled out her notebook.

‘You’re going to make notes and record as well?’ the PR man asked. He glanced over her shoulder, frowning when he caught sight of the indecipherable squiggles of her shorthand. ‘I’m surprised you still need to learn that, with all this technology working for you.’

‘Yep. Never know when the recording might fail.’ She looked up at him. ‘Anyway, I wanted to learn it. Keeps what ought to be private, private.’

‘It’s fine, Kev. I’m sure she’ll give us a fair write-up,’ Seb said in a calm tone. ‘She certainly looks like she has – integrity.’

There was no doubting the perfectly timed pause, the charming, chilling tone, or the killing expression hanging on his features. Cool, solid dislike oozed from every syllable.

In the dim light she squinted at the shorthand notes she’d made during the film earlier; little more than a list of actors’ names. It was enough to be bluffing along with, anyway.

‘Why the genre change, Mr Wilchester?’ she shot out, looking down at her notepad as if the questions were right there in front of her. ‘Bit of a jump, isn’t it, from British Gangster – sorry, ‘East End Noir’ I think you call it – to black comedy?’

His face remained impassive, but she thought from the flicker in his eyes she detected a glimmer of disappointment. Not a new question then. Her ‘gutsy girl reporter’ routine might have carried her through in the 1930s, but it seemed to be falling a bit flat right now. So long, Lois Lane, and thanks for nothing.

‘I pioneered East End Noir, Miss Blackthorne, although I wasn’t the one to name it. My style of direction, and to some extent my writing, were heavily shaped by Film Noir influences. When, at the age of barely twenty, I first started experimenting in film, it was only natural they would dictate my interpretation of that most British of genres, the London gangster movie. My first film, Unreal City, drew on the stylistic framing I so admired in the work of John Huston, for example.’ His lips curled into something like a sneer. ‘But of course, I’m sure you noticed that.’

She pinkened and jutted out her chin. He was mocking her; patronising her. Did he know she hadn’t seen any of his films before tonight, or was this his way of showing her that airhead little slappers on tabloid papers had no place interviewing filmmakers of his calibre?

‘The genre jump was, in fact, a perfectly natural one,’ he continued. ‘In Milkman, I take elements of Noir and mingle them with the traditional British farce; again, I hope, creating something that is almost a genre unto itself – dark, thrilling and funny all at once. How far I have been successful is for the public to decide, but for myself, and for the cast and crew, I must say we have been very proud of the result.’

A genre unto itself? Okay, it was true, but still… pretentious bastard.

‘Your work has often been compared to that of Orson Welles.’ She made an attempt to match her tone to his, hoping she was making a fair performance of reading out pre-scripted questions from the pad in front of her. And there it was again, the faint flicker that told her these questions were distinctly passé to him. Seb still looked angry, but just as mortifying to her professional pride was that he looked bored. She shuffled in her seat, swallowing hard, calculating her next move.

‘Your work has often been compared to that of Orson Welles,’ she repeated, meeting his gaze. ‘Which, given the similarity in your backgrounds, is perhaps inevitable. But your latest venture seems to have been more heavily influenced by fifties-era Billy Wilder, with perhaps a smidge of Robert Hamer thrown in for good measure. What would you say to those who might suggest your work is not only influenced by these directors, but to a great extent derivative?’

She faced off against him, blazing defiance, feeling Kev’s frown through the hairs on the back of her neck. It was a bold gambit, but it worked. Seb’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, his anger tempered with a new and healthy dose of respect.

‘I’m flattered, Miss Blackthorne,’ he said, inclining his head towards her. ‘We all want to be like our heroes, and I’m certainly no different. You have coupled my name with two of the men in this business I admire more than many others, and for that, I thank you. If my work is, as you say I’m likely to be accused of, ‘derivative’ – well, if it can bring even a tenth of the pleasure I’ve experienced while watching Sunset Boulevard or Kind Hearts and Coronets to my audiences then my time won’t have been wasted.’

The men in this business. His words annoyed her, bringing back the vivid memory of Carole Beaumont in The Milkman Cometh: that stellar performance and perfect comic timing.

‘You talk of men, and those are certainly two of the greats,’ she went on, all caution now gone. It was amazing how appearing nude on the front page of a national newspaper could break down your inhibitions in social situations. ‘But there’s a great woman in the equation here too: your wife and leading lady, Ms Beaumont.’

His face hardened and she felt Kev take a step towards her, ready to shut down the interview if he felt she was veering in any way towards an invasive personal question. She gritted her teeth and looked down again at the notepad.

‘Carole Beaumont, who I think we’ve seen tonight is a true comic talent. Can you tell me how you came to build up this rapport you seem to have together as director and actor?’

It was a weak question and she knew it, but she was clutching at straws now, hanging on as best she could. She wished Kev would go away for just five minutes so she could extricate herself from the whole charade.

She could feel the bitterness emanating from Seb when he answered, hating her for bringing up Carole’s name and reminding him of their shared betrayal.

‘Carole is my wife, yes, and we have had a long – by showbusiness standards at least – and successful marriage.’ He glared at her, almost daring her to object. ‘But she’s more than that. Carole is my oldest and closest friend. It’s easy to build up a rapport, as you call it – or as I like to think of it, an empathy, an affinity – after twenty-four years in each other’s company.’

She had to try hard to stop herself flinching, or bursting into tears, or laughter, in the angry beam of his gaze. She thought of her oldest friends, Leo and Emily, and the affinity she had with them. There was a difference though, she remembered, thinking of the dark circles around Carole Beaumont’s eyes. She would never do anything to hurt those closest to her.

Angel felt a surge of resentment towards this man, this arrogant man, who seemed to manipulate the life and emotions of the woman he loved as casually as if she were a character in one of his films. She fixed him with a steely gaze while she framed her next question.

‘Are you a fraud, Mr Wilchester? A pale imitation of the filmmakers whose work you so admire?’

‘That’s enough!’ the PR manager exploded behind her. ‘I told you, if this interview got out of hand it would be shut down –’

‘It’s okay, Kev,’ Seb said, adopting a pacifying tone much less formal and polished than the one he’d used so far. ‘She’s right to go hard on me. That’s her job. Not everything in PR’s about product placement and arse-kissing, however much your guys would like it to be. Just let me answer the question.’

He turned back to Angel and his expression seemed – but perhaps she was imagining it – ever so slightly softer than before.

‘No, Miss Blackthorne. I don’t think I’m a fraud.’ He paused for a moment and drained the last sip of his champagne, apparently savouring the flavour while his eyes met hers across the table. ‘If you’re asking do I have influences, then the answer is yes, very significant ones, and I encourage them to flow into my work as much as I can. TS Eliot, the poet, said ‘good writers borrow, great writers steal’. Or your readers might understand it better as that hackneyed phrase, ‘nothing new under the sun’. I suppose what I’m trying to say is yes, my work borrows – and steals – and yes, it’s still original, at least as long as it elicits a new emotion, creates a new sensation. All art is imitation, Miss Blackthorne. But some is, excuse me, bloody good imitation. Perhaps my work does extricate those elements it most admires in the work of others, hacks them up and monster-like assembles them again into something new. Then, to carry the metaphor to its logical conclusion, it gives them life through fresh direction and great performances by the cream of our acting talent. But without praising myself unduly, I’d say that’s no bad thing.’

He leaned back with a self-satisfied half-smile. His smug expression irritated her, though she couldn’t disagree with anything he’d said. She scribbled away, gibberish symbols meaning nothing, just to give her hands something to occupy them.

‘But you don’t have a drink, Miss Blackthorne,’ Seb said in the same calm, self-assured tone.

‘I don’t. But there’s really no need –’

He looked up at Kev. The PR man was still standing behind Angel, sullen-browed and resentful. ‘Kev, any chance you could pop over to the champagne bar and get a couple of glasses? Or milk bottles or whatever?’

Kev remained the same scowling, immovable pillar of pinstripe suit and Brylcreem. ‘You don’t pay me to be your drinks boy, Seb.’

‘No, I pay you to represent me in a good light to the public. And right now you’re making me look like an inconsiderate pillock in front of this young lady. Look, go on. It’ll only take five minutes.’

The PR man still held his position, looking stubborn and sulky. Seb flung him an impatient glance.

‘Please, Kev. As a favour. You can get yourself one while you’re there, eh?’

‘Fine,’ Kev growled. ‘This once, then. But watch what you say while I’m gone, can you? This is the bloody Investigator we’re talking about, don’t forget.’ He dragged himself away towards the VIP lounge bar, keeping his suspicious gaze on Angel to the last.

She squirmed in her chair. It was clear Seb wanted the PR man out of the way, and she wondered helplessly what was coming now.

As soon as Kev was out of earshot, the director’s eyes narrowed and he leaned over the table to take hold of her wrist in his powerful fingers. The polite, polished veneer of the professional film director dropped to reveal the Seb she knew, the one she’d met that night at the hotel, and he was seething. She noticed he was now wearing a gold wedding band on his third finger. The metal felt hot and hard against her skin.

‘For Christ’s sake, Angel, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?’ he hissed. ‘Don’t you know you nearly ruined everything?’

‘I nearly ruined everything?’ Angel said in a furious whisper, trying to pull her wrist away from the uncomfortable grip of his fingers. ‘Perhaps if you’d been so concerned about your wife and your bloody marriage that night, you would have remembered to keep it in your pants! No one made you cheat, Seb. You did that all on your own, and with very little persuasion, I might add.’

‘That’s not what I meant!’ he almost yelled in a voice strangled with fury.

He looked around to see if anyone had heard, lowering his voice when he spoke again. ‘That’s not what I – listen, I had a great time with you that night. And contrary to what you or your editor might think, I don’t make a habit of picking up girls in bars. Then when I saw the story I had to assume you were a private investigator, or worse, a hooker, paid to set me up. It made me sick to my stomach to think we… God! Now I find you’re what, a professional reporter? Seriously, who does that to someone? What the hell is wrong with you?’

‘Look, I’m just an intern, alright?’ she muttered, looking down at her feet. ‘Just a crappy intern. It wasn’t like I was supposed to –’

‘Supposed to what? Ruin my life? Destroy my reputation, my peace of mind, my marriage? Supposed to what, Angel?’

‘Supposed to sleep with you, Seb, okay?’ she blurted out in a choked voice, feeling the briny sting of tears.

His eyes widened when he saw the tears, then narrowed in anger.

‘Hey. Stop it. Look, go to the toilets if you need to and get yourself sorted. This is a public place and you’re making us conspicuous.’ His mouth twisted in derision. ‘And I presume you wouldn’t want another paper to get that exclusive.’

Shooting him a look, she dragged back the salty drops with an effort. He was right. This wouldn’t do, not here.

‘Okay, so I was sent by my editor to honey trap you, I think that’s pretty plain at this point. But I was only supposed to get you up to the hotel room, get one compromising shot and come away. The rest – well, you know the rest. I didn’t know we were still being filmed. You saw me block the camera with that towel. And for what it’s worth, I apologise, to you and your wife. I don’t know what made me do it. I’m a sizzling mess of a human person and just like you I ballsed things up, for all three of us but especially for her. And you can bet I’ll beat myself up about it every day of my life from now on. But if you want to know whether I regret the time we spent together, then I don’t know how to answer you.’

Seb loosened his grip on her wrist and just stared at her. His expression was unreadable, his face unflinching. She glared back, trying and failing to make her face as emotionless as his.

‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Her voice cracked as he continued to stare at her in total silence. ‘It doesn’t fix things but it’s all I’ve got, Seb. I’m sorry. And for what it’s worth, I thought The Milkman Cometh was a masterpiece. Original, compelling, unbelievably tight. Wilder would have been proud to call it his.’

Out of the corner of her eye she’d seen Kev heading back towards their booth, and now he reached the table, dumping two champagnes down in front of them.

‘Right, there’s your drinks. Shall we get on with the interview?’

Seb stared straight into her eyes for what seemed like an age, his fingers still loosely circling her wrist.

‘No need, Kev. Interview’s over.’

Chapter 9

Angel staggered to the VIP lounge toilets, blinded by tears that wouldn’t now be held back.

The club became a blue mist as the stinging saltwater seeped out. She lurched past the queue for the champagne bar and felt her way through the door marked Ladies, gripped the cold porcelain edge of the sink hard and gave in for a moment to convulsive sobs.

Oh God, what had made her do it? Interviewing Seb had been the single worst experience of her life. The way he’d looked at her; that hard, biting dislike…

Struggling to regain control, she looked up at herself in the mirror. The face glaring back seemed hollow, somehow catlike; the peppering of freckles standing out against ghastly white skin, a feverish spot of pink on each cheek. The green eyes were bleared and lined with red.

She splashed some cold water over her face, experienced a surge of blessed relief as it revived and healed her.

A noise came from behind and in the mirror she saw the lock of one cubicle was drawn to the red engaged position. Fantastic. So someone had heard her little meltdown.

The noise came again: a strange, strangulated gurgle. Sounded like whoever it was had knocked back one milk bottle too many…

Turning around, she thumped on the door. ‘Hey. Are you okay in there? Can I call anyone for you?’

There was no mistaking the noise this time. It sounded like someone trying to speak with a tongue too thick for their mouth.

‘Hey!’ She banged harder. No answer, just that odd strangled sound again, something between choking and dry heaving.

This was seriously not her night.

Leaning her weight against the cubicle door with one shoulder, Angel gave it a couple of firm, hard shoves. The lock couldn’t have been drawn all the way across. It snapped back with relative ease and the door swung open.

She recoiled in shock. The scene in front of her could have come straight out of a horror film. A woman was slumped in one corner, her skin so papery-pale as to be almost transparent and her lips tinged with blue. Her eyes had rolled back into her skull so only the whites were visible and the face was smeared with make-up. Blood from a nostril had dried into a trickle, staining the peacock-motif white chiffon dress that hung by one strap from her shoulder.

It was Carole Beaumont.

‘Jesus Christ! What the hell have you taken?’ Angel hurled herself forward and shook the lifeless figure. A stab of fear slammed through her as Carole’s head lolled on her shoulders.

She moved her face to the actress’s mouth and felt hot, shallow breaths against her cheek. Once again, she heard the strangulated sound gurgling from the back of Carole’s throat.

She needed an ambulance. Right now. Angel turned to the mirror, which flashed her own frantic, horror-struck face back to her. Where the hell was her handbag? Did she leave it back in Seb’s booth?

Then she spotted it, under the sink where she’d dropped it when she first came in. Snatching it up, she fumbled for her mobile. Oh God, what if the ambulance didn’t get there in time? This woman needed medical attention right away!

Should she run outside, call for help? Someone there would be bound to know first aid. But there was also the room full of press just behind the velvet rope, all on the lookout for fresh scandal. In her mind she could already see Carole Beaumont’s blood-caked face on every front page…

Seb. He’d know what to do. Surely he must have dealt with something like this before. But how could she fetch him without drawing attention to them both? And she didn’t want to leave Carole alone.

With a sudden thought, she rifled through the contents of her bag. She’d given herself a mental slap at the time for being weak enough to hold on to it, but yes, there it was still, tucked into her purse behind her Visa card. The note from Seb telling her what a great time he’d had with her that night at the hotel. The one with his mobile number scrawled underneath.

Thank God she’d kept it! She tapped out the digits, hoping to heaven he’d answer. He certainly wouldn’t if he knew it was her, but of course he didn’t have her number.

She listened to the phone ring, once, twice… come on, come on! Finally she heard it click as Seb picked up, answering with a crisp ‘Yes?’.

‘It’s Angel. Listen, you have to get to the ladies’ loos behind the champagne bar right now. I’m with Carole. Jesus, Seb, hurry, can you? It’s an emergency.’

Without waiting for an answer, she hung up and threw the phone back into her bag.

She shot a panicked look at Carole, wondering if she should put her in the recovery position and then what the recovery position was. She had a vague idea tongues were important and stopping unconscious people from choking on them, but that was about the sum total of her first-aid knowledge.

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