The Protector

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

FROM THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR WHO BROUGHT YOU THIS MAN'S JESSE WARD

"Every kiss, every sexy scene, every word between this pair owned a piece of my soul. I could read this book a hundred times and still react as if it was the first time. THE PROTECTOR is a top 2016 fave for me." -- Audrey Carlan, #1 bestselling author of The Calendar Girl series

Jake Sharp resides in his own personal hell. The ex-SAS sniper was distracted from duty once before, and the consequences were devastating--both personally and professionally. He vowed never to let that happen again The job of bodyguard to Camille Logan isn't the kind of distraction from his demons he should take. Women and Jake don't mix well, yet the lesser of two evils seems to be protecting the heiress, whose life is threatened as a result of her father's ruthless business dealings.

He thinks he knows her type: beautiful and spoiled, with her father's bank balance to fund her lifestyle. But he soon discovers the real Camille--warm, compassionate, determined to be independent and happy after struggling with past mistakes. Now, his duty to protect her turns into something deeper than a well-paid job, no matter how hard he fights it. He needs absolution. He comes to need Camille. But he knows he can't have both.

For fans of Maya Banks, THE PROTECTOR delivers the all-consuming romance and devastating alpha hero that make a Jodi Ellen Malpas novel an irresistible, passionate read.

Release date: September 6, 2016

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter 1

JAKE

His eyes, wide and terrified, stare up at me, his body frozen beneath mine. The heat, the dust, the sounds of screams around me—it’s all making it nearly impossible to focus. But I must focus. I blink rapidly, shifting to keep him secure, pushing him into the gravel and grit under me. I’m not supposed to be here. I should be out of sight in the surrounding hills, invisible amid the overgrowth and rocks. The unknown, unseen threat.

The man I’m holding prisoner is thin and malnourished, and the whites of his eyes are tinged by yellow. This brainwashed fucker has taken out two of my comrades. The intense ache in my shoulder reminds me that he nearly took me out, too. I should have stayed in position. I’ve fucked up. A reckless, selfish need to rain holy hell on these fucked-up arseholes has resulted in the deaths of two soldiers. It should be me lying dead in the dirt a few meters away. I deserve it.

His heart is beating frantically behind the thin material of his filthy T-shirt. I can feel the thuds punching into my chest, even through the layers of my clothing and bulletproof vest. But that evil glint in his glazed eyes is still there as he mumbles a jumble of foreign words up at me.

He’s praying.

He should be.

“See you in hell.” I pull the trigger and put a bullet in his skull.

*  *  *

I bolt up in bed, sweating and heaving, the thin sheets sticking to every part of me they touch.

“Motherfucker,” I breathe, allowing my eyes to adjust to the early morning glow until I can see the inky skyline of London from the panoramic window in my bedroom. It’s 6 a.m. I know that without even looking at the clock on my bedside cabinet, and it isn’t only the rising sun that tells me so. The alarm in my head that explodes at the same time every morning is both a burden and a blessing.

Throwing my legs off the side of the bed, I grab my phone, not surprised when I find no messages or missed calls.

“Morning, world,” I mutter, tossing it back onto the nightstand before extending my arms toward the ceiling, stretching my tight muscles. I roll my shoulders, breathing some air into my lungs before letting it stream out calmly through my nose. Leaning forward, I rest my forearms on my knees and stare out across the city, pushing back the nightmare to a safe corner of my mind as I breathe slowly through it. In and out. In and out. In and out. I close my eyes and thank the power of forged serenity. I’m a master at it.

But then my muscles tense all over again when the bed shifts beneath me. My hand slips straight under the mattress to pull out my VP9 before my mind has even voiced its command.

Impulse.

The gun is aimed at my waking target before my eyes have even focused.

Instinct.

I’m on my feet, naked as the day I was born, arms steady and stretched at full length in front of me. The 9mm handgun fits too well in my grasp.

“Hmmmmm.” The soft purr sinks into my mind, and I take in the tangle of long, naked limbs stretching out on my bed. My mind plays catch up, taking me back to the bar that I landed in last night, and I immediately shove the gun out of sight, just in time for her eyes to flutter open. She smiles lazily and lengthens her slim, tight body on a stretch, a calculated move designed to have my mouth watering and my cock twitching with want.

Too bad for her. There’s only one thing on my mind. And she isn’t it.

“Come back to bed,” she whispers, lustfully gazing over all 6 feet, 4 inches of my body as she props herself up on her slender elbow, her chin resting in her hand, long fingers drumming the smooth skin of her cheek.

I don’t give her the attention she’s demanding. I’m anticipating a very disappointed woman on the horizon. Same scene, different day.

I walk away, feeling the stabs of a filthy look being thrown at my back. “Sorry, I have things to do,” I say bluntly over my shoulder, without giving her the privilege of my attention while I speak. I haven’t got time for this. “Feel free to help yourself to a banana on the way out.” I round the corner into my bathroom.

The floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls give me a 180-degree view of the city, but all I can see is my haggard face in the mirror. I sigh and brace my hand on the side of my sink as I flip on the tap and stare at my pitiful reflection. I look as shit as I feel. Damn fucking Jack Daniel’s. My palm comes up and runs over the roughness of my jaw, just as I hear “You’re a fucking asshole!” followed by the telltale signs of a naked woman falling into my bathroom. I can’t disagree with her. I am an arsehole. An uptight, vengeful arsehole. I wish I could let the peace and quiet settle over me, but in my life there is no peace. I see their faces every time I close my eyes. Danny. Mike. They were like brothers, and even four years later, I know it’s because of me they’re dead. My stupidity. My selfishness. There’s no escape. Only distraction. Work, drink, and sex are all I have. And without an assignment at the moment, I’m down to two.

I cast tired eyes past my reflection and find her looking as outraged as I knew she would be. But there’s desire there, too. Her pert breasts are tipped with solid nipples and her angry eyes are still getting their fill of me. Turning my head to the side, I wait for her greedy gaze to fall to mine. Her lips part. My cock remains soft. Not even morning wood.

“Shut the door on your way out,” I say flatly, giving her nothing more than a straight face to accompany my blunt order. And then I see it. The intent.

“Here we go,” I muse to myself, pushing away from the sink and straightening, bracing myself.

She steams toward me, her hand locking and loading on her way. “You bastard!” She slaps me clean across my cheek. And I let her, gritting my teeth and waiting for the sting to fade before cricking my neck and opening my eyes. “The door’s that way,” I say, extending my arm past her.

We fall into a staring deadlock for a few moments—her stunned, probably reflecting back to the good fucking I gave her last night, and me impassive, wishing she’d hurry the hell up and get out so I can get on with my day.

“Thanks for the hospitality,” she snipes, finally pivoting on her bare feet and stomping away.

Moments later, the door slams, making the walls around me vibrate from the force, and I return to the mirror, grabbing my toothbrush. I clean my teeth, then pull on some shorts and running shoes and hit the streets.

*  *  *

The morning air feels good. I head to the parks, hearing the settling sounds of London by dawn, the sparse traffic, the birds, the sound of other running feet pounding the pavement. It all has the calming effect that I need to get my day off to a good start. The dew is still lingering on the grass, and a damp mist sticks to my naked torso as I sprint down the path. My legs are starting to go numb. It’s how I like it.

My focus remains forward, my direction automatic, like I’ve run the route a million times. I probably have. The same faces, mostly women’s, all smile hopefully when they see me pelting toward them, their backs straightening, their breathing suddenly forced into something close to consistent. Today might be the day I stop and say hi, or maybe even toss them a quick smile as I race past. Like I said, huge disappointment. They’re each just another face among a sea of meaningless faces, humans in my way. I round every one of them stealthily, my body working automatically to avoid any collisions.

Half an hour in, my mind’s starting to feel clearer, and the sweat is purging the alcohol from my system. All of it seeps from my body over the last mile stretch of my run until my lungs start burning with need.

Done.

I break down my pace and come to a slow stop outside Nero’s café, looking up to the sky. I nod to myself, satisfied. 7:20 on the dot. Pushing my way through the door, I grab a napkin and wipe my forehead as I stride toward the counter. I scoop up a bottle of water as I pass the fridge and crack it open, glugging down the whole thing before I make it to the server. She’s rung it through the till before I have a chance to reach into my pocket and retrieve a note.

“Your black coffee is on the way,” she says, having a quick check over her shoulder as she speaks.

“Thanks,” I mutter, tossing the empty water bottle across the café. It lands with accuracy in the bin. My black coffee is on the counter by the time I return my attention to the server.

Every day, the same. I scoop up my coffee and leave.

The traffic is building as I walk down Berkeley Street, collecting a newspaper from my usual vendor. He’s holding it out to me as I approach, his face smiley. “Early this morning, mister.”

I nod and take the paper, flipping him a quid before scanning the front page. The anger rises from my toes the second I catch a glimpse of the headline.

19 DEAD IN TURKEY AFTER HOLIDAY SHOOTING

“Bastards.” I swallow down the fury, as well as the helplessness, and read on. Evacuations being made, tourists warned not to travel there. Turkey has been added to the list of other red zones. The whole fucking world is a red zone these days. I fold the paper and toss it in the bin as I pass. I don’t know why I do it to myself. There’s nothing I can do to help. Not now. I’m not needed. Or wanted. My destructive rampage in Afghanistan took care of that. The faces of my comrades, my friends, start to break down the wall of defense in my mind. Happy faces. Dead faces. I blink back the flashback, forcing it away before it can take hold. I need another fucking ten-mile run.

*  *  *

I flip on the shower and leave the temperature exactly where it is. Freezing fucking cold. Bullets of icy water hit me from all four directions, ensuring my whole body gets a punishing. It feels good. Real. My head tilts back on my neck and gives the spray access to my face, while I mull over my workload for the day. Clean my gun…for the fourth time this week. Check my e-mails. Maybe call Abbie.

The last one has been on my list each day for the past four years. It remains unfulfilled. Just call her. Let her know I’m alive. That’s all she needs. All I can give. Yet I can’t bring myself to return to the past. My breathing slows, my head dropping. Gunfire, explosions, screams.

E-mails!

I scrub at my cheeks, pulling myself back from the brink of an anxiety attack, and grab the shower gel. I need to get on with my day. After I wash down and wrap a towel around my waist, I grab my pills and pop one as I pad into the open space of my apartment, over to the foot of the panoramic windows where my desk dominates the space. I lower to the huge black leather chair and fire up my laptop, looking out across the city as my computer loads, resting back in silent thought.

Just text her. Let her know I’m still alive. I laugh coldly under my breath at my pathetic reality. Abbie is the only person on this planet who probably cares if I’m dead or alive. Or maybe she doesn’t anymore. It’s just me. No family. No friends. No parents.

From the moment my mother and father were killed on Pan Am flight 103, I had one purpose. War. I was seven years old. I didn’t even really understand what had happened, but I knew there were bad people out there and they needed to be stopped. The burning need to fight the evil grew as I got older. My grandmother took care of me until old age took her. Then there was no one to worry about me anymore. I could join the forces and do my bit. Anything to help.

My sharpshooting ability was soon noticed and I was pulled from the cadets. They handed me a rifle. I never looked back. I aimed, I fired, I hit. Over and over again, and each time I felt a sense of achievement. No guilt. Just achievement. Because there was one less dangerous bastard in the world to be worried about.

Ding!

The ping of an e-mail pulls me from my thoughts. “Hello, gorgeous,” I say to myself when I see her name on my screen. I’m suddenly hopeful of some respite. It’s been two weeks with no assignment, and I’ve been losing my fucking mind. Two weeks with nothing to do but drink, screw, and fight to keep my mind away from haunting memories.

As always, and typical of Lucinda, her note is simple and straight to the point…which is undoubtedly why she’s the only woman I actually like.

But my contented smile soon drops away the more I read.

CLIENT: Trevor Logan—business tycoon and property owner.

SUBJECT: Camille Logan—Youngest child of client and only daughter.

MISSION: Shadow

DURATION: Indefinitely

VALUE: £100K p/w

I lean back in my chair, my fingers forming a steeple in front of my mouth. One hundred grand a week? There must be some kind of catch. A shadow mission? I haven’t undertaken one for a long time, and I’m not sure if it is such a good idea now, for no other reason than that the subject is the daughter of Trevor Logan—a ruthless businessman who has stomped on anyone and everyone on his way to the top. I’ve seen him in the papers, more recently in a court battle when he was accused of suppressing a minority shareholder of a firm he bought in to. Of course, he won. He always wins, and the press always backs the prick. The man is unbearably sanctimonious, and I can’t imagine that his precious daughter is any different. Lucinda must have considered this.

She should know better. She knows my past. The horrors, every dirty little detail. This kind of job would require constant surveillance, a full shadow. And for a woman like that? No way. I’d end up strangling her…or, worse: the constant reminders of another woman who had the same qualities could accelerate my flashbacks.

I snap my thoughts back into line before they run away with me.

No. I can’t, not even for that kind of money.

“I was beginning to like you, Lucinda,” I say quietly under my breath as I bash out a reply.

She’ll know I’ll be struggling without anything to focus on. Drinking and fucking just aren’t cutting it after weeks of indulging in both with a lack of an assignment, but sending me this offer is plain stupid. Is she trying to kill me off? I’m about to click send when the Google search bar beckons.

“Fuck,” I mutter, typing a few words into the empty space that’s begging to be filled.

I immediately hate what I see. A woman—mid-twenties perhaps, with slender legs and a dangerously tempting smile. Her long blond hair is tousled and braided haphazardly over her shoulder as she sips champagne at a garden party, surrounded by drooling men.

I was spot-on. This right here is the worst kind of woman, and I definitely shouldn’t get involved for any longer than it takes me to fuck her brains out. Yet when I should be closing down the window and returning to my reply to Lucinda and clicking send, I find myself mindlessly clicking on more images, instead. I sift through dozens of photographs, some of her leaving clubs, some of her at parties, some of her strolling down a London street with piles of shopping bags weighing her down. Then there are the professional shots, mostly for fashion brands and designers. I frown when Wikipedia comes up on the screen. She has a fucking Wikipedia page? I sigh, but still find myself clicking on the link and reading on.

Camille Logan, youngest child of business tycoon Trevor Logan and renowned party girl. Born June 29, 1991, Camille studied fashion at London College briefly before being headhunted by Elite Models. She lives in central London and is a regular face on the social circuit. Romantic links include Sebastian Peters, heir to Peters Communications. Camille boosts typical model stats: 5’8” tall, 34” inseam, 30C bra size, and 25” waist. Blond hair, blue eyes. After a rough breakup with Peters last year, Camille admitted herself to The Priory Clinic to overcome a cocaine addiction. She’s since picked up her modeling career and represents brands such as Karl Lagerfeld, Gucci, and Boss.

I slump back in my chair, shocked. “They give her fucking stats?” My mind twists in disbelief as I return to my e-mail and add a P.S.

Not even for a million! It’s a pass.

I don’t add a thanks. Lucinda must have lost her fucking mind. And with that, I slam my laptop shut.

*  *  *

I swirl the amber liquid in the glass, watching the smooth swish of my drink as it coats the inside of the glass. How many is this tonight? Ten? Eleven? I breathe out and knock it back, slamming my empty on the bar. The bartender immediately refills my glass, and I nod my thanks, resting my elbows on the bar. I’m aware of the looks being pointed in my direction by the women here, all of them willing me to glance up so they can catch my eye. But if I give any one of them even a hint of my attention, the night will end up how most of them have recently. A fuck, a good-bye, and a slap. And repeat. Just a drink tonight. Just a drink.

My knuckles wedge themselves in my eye sockets and rub harshly. With a lack of a distraction, whether it be an assignment or a woman to fuck, the fight to stop my mind from wandering to past, dark places is a battle like no other. Faces start to flicker through my mind, faces that haunt me daily. Explosions rattle my brain, and my resting heart starts to crank up in speed.

“Motherfucker,” I breathe, looking up and finding a woman batting her eyelashes at me from across the bar. She’s a respite from my personal torture that I’m going to take, but just as I’m rising from my stool to go over, the deafening sound of smashing glass has me reaching for the bar to steady myself. My heart is in my fucking throat, my mind whizzing frantically through familiar scenes. Shattering windows, explosions from enemy fire, screams of fear. I try to talk myself down, my eyes darting around the bar in an attempt to remind myself where I am. The bartender curses, and I glance over to find him looking at the mess of broken glass at his feet.

“Hey, handsome.”

My eyes shoot to my side and find the woman from across the bar, smiling seductively. The notion that I could grab her, drag her back to my apartment, and fuck her until my heart is hammering for another reason doesn’t settle me like it should.

I can’t see her face. I can only see my past. This isn’t going to work.

I reach for the inside pocket of my jacket and pull out my pills, unscrewing the cap as I stalk out of the bar. I need something to focus on and I need it quickly. The flashbacks are becoming more frequent and my pills less effective.

If I keep going at this rate, I’ll be taking Camille Logan’s room at The Priory Clinic. I’ll be back to where I was four years ago—lost, wasted and with nothing to do but constantly torture myself and relive my nightmares. They’ll never leave me, but I can limit them. I just need to force my personal shit to the side and see Camille Logan for what she is.

A job. Focus on the mission. That’s it. That’s all I have.

I pull out my phone and dial my lifeline.

“I was just about to call you,” Lucinda says in greeting.

“The Logan job. I’ll take it.” I don’t give a shit who the client is. A woman, a kid, a fucking monkey. I just need to work. Nothing could be worse than this.

“Good,” she replies simply, not making a big deal of it. “Glad you’ve saved me from having to kick your arse into shape.”

My heart starts to ease up a little. “Someone needs to,” I mutter.

“Where are you?”

“Chelsea.”

“In a bar?”

“Just leaving.”

“With?”

“No one.”

She laughs, like she doesn’t believe me. Which she undoubtedly doesn’t. “Get a good night’s sleep, Jake. And be at Logan Tower tomorrow at three. One hundred grand will be deposited into your account in the morning.” She hangs up and I head home, my mind now centered on the job ahead and that alone. I’m the best at the security firm I work for. I’m not blowing smoke up my own arse. It’s a cold, hard fact.

You want to keep someone safe, you hire me. I have a clean sheet. I plan on keeping it that way.

My head is in the game.

Chapter 2

CAMI

Camille!”

I spin around, my bags whirling with me, creating what I know will be the illusion of a huge elaborate paper tutu. I smile when I see Heather hurrying toward me, her eyes bright and excited. Wrestling my hand up to my face, my bags bashing against my side as they lift, I pull off my sunglasses before the weight of my shopping forces my arm back down.

“Hey!” I sing, matching her excitement. “No work today?”

Heather’s happy face takes on an edge of repulsion, just before she throws her arms around me. I’m unable to return her hug due to the obscene amount of shopping bags in my grasp, and I’m not in the slightest bit sorry. She’ll love what I have to show her. “They fired me,” she spits resentfully, squeezing me to her.

“Oh, shit! What happened?” I ask as she releases me, flicks her glossy auburn hair over her shoulder, and rearranges her Chanel purse.

“Tuesday night. That’s what happened.” She links arms with me and starts leading us down Bond Street.

“Ohhh.” Tuesday night comes flooding back to me. Or what I can remember of Tuesday night. Champagne. Lots of it, and some questionable dance moves at our favorite bar.

“Yes, oh,” she counters, giving me a sideways smile. “I got to work on time yesterday, but I couldn’t for the life of me read the autocue. It was all blurred.”

I laugh, picturing her squinting at the monitors beyond the camera. “Being on form is kind of necessary when you’re live on TV.”

We cross the road and head toward a café like homing pigeons. I need an iced lemon tea pronto. “So what now?” I ask, letting all of my bags drop like lead from my aching hands when we reach a table.

Heather rests her neat arse on a chair. “Now I get to focus on our dream, Camille!” Her eyes dance excitedly. “Any developments?”

“We have another investor interested,” I tell her, trying to sound casual. I’ve not allowed myself to get excited about the potential of getting our clothing line off the ground. Not until we have a firm deal on the table. We’ve made that mistake already. We virtually had the pen on the dotted line when I noticed a clause that wasn’t mentioned in the negotiations. Something about making clothes up to a certain size, which basically meant that any woman with even the slightest curve or hint of an arse wouldn’t be wearing our fashion line. It was a deal breaker, and something Heather and I feel strongly about. We made it clear that our clothes should be available to every woman of every shape and size. The investors wouldn’t budge, and neither would we. “They sound keen.”

“Really?” She gives me a big, toothy grin.

“Really,” I confirm, unable to stop myself from matching Heather’s smile, but I’m so nervous. At the moment we’re just two pretty faces with bodies that look good in clothes. I love my job modeling, but the urge is fierce to prove to everyone, including my father, that I can be more than just a mannequin. I know Heather feels the same. Neither of us is willing to compromise on our dream, and on top of that, neither are we prepared to accept any funding from our fathers. Heather’s dad is minted, too. Not as minted as mine—granted, not many are, if any in London—but he’s obscenely wealthy, nevertheless. “We have a meeting with my agent tomorrow. She has a few things to run over with us.”

“I’ll be there!” She smirks and points at my bags. “What have you been buying, since the Camille Logan and Heather Porter fashion range isn’t yet available? You do realize that we’ll only ever be able to wear our own label when it’s available.”

The thought thrills me. Picking out fabrics, coming up with designs, creating good-quality, affordable pieces. Fashion moves too fast for women to spend a fortune on the latest trend. “Just a dress for Saffron’s twenty-fifth-birthday party.” I grab my purse from my bag. “And some fabric I picked up in Camden that I want you to look at. It’ll make an amazing dress.” I have the design in my head already, and I just know Heather’s dress-making skills will do it justice. “Iced tea?”

“Please.” She’s riffling through my bags before I make it into the café. Still feeling the strain of my overindulgence on Tuesday night, my skin less radiant and soft, I grab a bottle of water to accompany my iced tea and chug it down before I make it to the counter. I need hydration and maybe a facial. Jesus, I’m twenty-five, and I already feel like I’m past it where the social life in London is concerned. “I’ll have a regular iced tea and a regular lemon iced tea. Thank you,” I say to the girl across the counter as I go to my purse and pull out a tenner. “Oh, and the water.”

“Oh my God!” she gasps, knocking me back a few paces. “You’re Camille Logan, aren’t you?”

I feel my cheeks flush, and I cast my eyes up to her, seeing a face riddled with awe. It’s both flattering and embarrassing. “Yes,” I confirm, hoping she doesn’t go on to make a big deal of it.

“You’re even more perfect in the flesh!”

“Thank you.”

“I’m so jealous! Your life is perfect! I love you!”

My smile now is forced. Perfect. Yes, of course it is. She must be seventeen, if that. She has no idea. No one has any idea about the constant battle to keep my mind focused on my future and not my past, the overbearing father who tries to control my life, or the challenge I face almost daily in London’s social scene that’s driven by cocaine and champagne. These are private battles that will remain private. Too many of my struggles have already been broadcast to the world…and my father. “You’re very sweet.” I strain my sincerity, despite the fact that she is, actually, very sweet. Naive, but sweet. “I have a friend waiting outside. Would you mind?” I nod to the machine behind her, hoping my subtle hint will snap her out of her starstruck moment.

“Oh God, yes!” She flies into action, all in a fluster, and has my order ready in record time. Handing my drinks over, her face proud, she leans in a little. “I’m going to pay for these. Then I can say I bought Camille Logan a drink!”

“Oh, no, you really shouldn’t.” I shake my head, point blank refusing to accept her kind gesture. “I’m paying for the drinks, but thank you anyway.”

“No!” She places them down and steps back, out of reach so my tenner just floats in the middle of us over the counter. She adamantly folds her arms over her chest, a cheeky glint in her eye.

I’m not going to win this one with convincing words, so I take the only other option. I go to my purse and pull out another tenner, then place them both on the counter, before scooping up my drinks and making a run for it. “Now you can tell people that Camille Logan bought you a drink!” I just hear her squeal of delight as I land on the pavement outside, only just upright in my wedges. Heather has the reams of the fabulous material I found in her grasp, her hand paused mid-stroke of the velvety fabric as she watches me drop into my chair.

“All right?” she asks, folding it back up.

“A lively one.” I hand over her iced tea as she laughs, craning her neck to see inside the café.

“Bless!” Heather coos, taking a long slurp of her tea. “Love the material!”

“Fab, isn’t it?” I poke the ice down with my straw and rest back in the metal chair, my skin soaking up the sunrays. “I’m thinking clinched-in waist—”

“Full skirt.” Heather finishes for me, grinning.

“Yes!” This is why I love her and why we’re such perfect business partners. We’re so in sync with our thoughts and ideas. “I’ll have a drawing to you by the end of the week.”

“I’ll get straight to it.”

“Perfect. And we need to make arrangements to visit that fabric supplier you were telling me about.” I grab my diary and flick through the pages. “Next week?”

“Sure. It’s not like I’m busy in a day job anymore.”

I laugh. She sounds devastated. “I’ll let you arrange that, then.” Glancing down at my tea, I note the ice melting rapidly. I take a long draw on the straw before slipping on my glasses. “What are you wearing for Saffron’s party?”

She leans in, encouraging me to do the same. Anyone watching would think she’s about to divulge something juicy in the gossip department. “I was thinking red dress and gold heels.”

“Good plan,” I assert quickly.

“You?”

“You haven’t helped yourself to that bag, then?” I ask, reaching down and pulling out my new dress.

“That would be rude,” she sniffs, eyes widening as she takes in the lovely black piece. “Wow, I love it!”

“Me too,” I agree.

“It’s short.” She waggles a brow at me, and I get the gist straightaway.

Paps.

With photographers on the prowl on most of our nights out, we’re all fully aware of the potential damage a wrong photo could do if it were to turn up in a magazine the next week. Like your dress riding up and revealing that little bit too much leg, and, God forbid, a bit of cellulite. That’s a mild example in the grand scheme of things, however annoying it is. There’s a nastier side to the press, a more damaging side, and, regretfully, I’ve been on the receiving end of it during that particularly hard time last year when Seb and I split up. I know Dad paid many of the newspapers off to stop them printing the pictures. Whether with money or promises. But his connections and relationships didn’t stretch to the glossy m