Читать книгу Secret Surrender - Laura Martin, Laura Martin - Страница 7

‘AND that, I’m afraid, is just about it for this series. I’d like to thank my guests this evening—the Right Honourable…’

Christy’s mouth smiled effortlessly as she delivered her closing lines into the television camera, her startling violet-blue eyes skimming the autocue with practised ease. One final heart-stopping curve of her scarlet lips, a slight pause and then her husky, ‘Goodnight,’ and she was swivelling casually back in her by now famous leather chair to chat to her guests as the studio lights dimmed and the credits rolled and the audience clapped their usual enthusiastic response.

She heard the voice of Jeff, the director, in the radio earpiece she wore, telling her that they were off air and that she had just completed yet another great hour of live television, and with an inward sigh of relief she stood up, smiling, to shake hands once again with her guests who had spent the last hour discussing themselves and revealing their innermost thoughts with the viewing nation.

A quick smile and a wave to the studio audience, and then she was disappearing around the back of the elegant set and along the maze of corridors that lead to her dressing-room.

‘How did it go?’ Lizzie, lounging comfortably in one of the two armchairs with a sheaf of papers, looked up and pulled a face. ‘Was it that bad?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Christy flopped down into the other and stretched her slim golden arms far above her head. ‘I thought that final thirty minutes was never going to end. Did you see it on the set in here? That last old fool hardly let me get a word in edgeways!’

‘Better than having someone who clams up completely like earlier this month,’ Lizzie reminded her lightly. ‘You were nearly at your wits’ end then, remember?’

Christy shook her head and gave a tired smile. ‘Don’t remind me! The only trouble was tonight’s guest didn’t say a thing that was worth listening to! I told them I had doubts about him as a guest, but as usual nobody took any notice.’

She rose from the chair in one graceful movement and crossed to the brightly lit dressing-table, slipping off her elegantly styled flame-coloured dress. ‘Still, why am I complaining? It’s over, another series completed.’ She turned, pausing in her task of removing the heavy make-up that was needed for the television cameras, as glamorous and beautiful as any highly paid model with her tumbling blonde hair and perfectly formed features, and produced a smile that shone.

She had been a fool to allow the old stupid memories to intrude, especially tonight of all nights. She had been looking forward to this moment for days, weeks. ‘Well, I’m free, Lizzie! I’m free!’

‘Not exactly free,’ her friend reminded her seriously. ‘You’re straight into the work for this new series of radio interviews; you haven’t forgotten, have you?’

‘Don’t look so worried! Of course I haven’t forgotten,’ Christy replied lightly. ‘I meant I’m free from the restrictions of working three nights a week in this hell-hole.’ She threw back her head and began to brush vigorously at her hair until it shone. ‘God, how I’m sick of the routine.’ She paused, hairbrush in hand, and glanced across at Lizzie, her large violet eyes instantly assessing her friend’s thoughts. ‘Now don’t look at me like that. I know you think I’m an ungrateful devil, Lizzie—that there are a hundred thousand women out there who would give their eyeteeth to do what I do, but any job becomes boring if you do it long enough and you must admit I’ve done more shows here than I can remember.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Lizzie asked, in her usual earnest manner. ‘You’re outstanding at what you do, Christy. The ratings keep on going up, they offer you more money each time your contract is due for renewal just to make sure you stay—what more do you want for goodness’ sakes?’

Christy breathed a sigh and gazed at her reflection in thoughtful contemplation. How could she explain? A great chunk of her felt guilty for even thinking about wanting more. It wasn’t wealth—Lizzie was right, the company did keep throwing money at her just so that she would stay. Goodness knew she earned more now than she knew what to do with. Such a mind-blowing contrast from the hateful years at the children’s home, when personal possessions had been practically non-existent, and bright, glamorous futures, such as the one Christy had found, had been merely dreams.

She released a sigh, thrusting away the old images that still had the ability to depress her a little if she dwelt too long on them. ‘Life’s good, Lizzie, I know that. I’ve come a long way—further than I ever would have dreamed,’ Christy replied with unusual urgency, ‘but there are still things to do, avenues to explore…’ She paused, frowning as she tried to form her thoughts and feelings into satisfactory sentences, ones that would enable her friend to understand. ‘I want…well, I suppose personal satisfaction describes it best. An inner contentment.’ She shook her head and smiled self-consciously. ‘Listen to me! Don’t I sound serious? Oh, take no notice, Lizzie, I’ve had one of those days; I just need a change, that’s all.’ She pulled a comical grimace in the mirror at her own reflection. ‘I know you think I’m mad——’

‘Well, I didn’t say that exactly——’ Lizzie replied hastily.

Christy smiled teasingly. ‘Now don’t bother trying to hide that expression; it’s too late.’ She turned back to the mirror and added moisturiser to her smooth face with a careful sweep of her fingers. ‘Perhaps it’s just ambition burning through me, like one of those joke candles that refuses to be extinguished. Only on my particular cake,’ Christy smiled, ‘there isn’t just one, there’s a whole blazing inferno driving me on, pushing me relentlessly forward. Anyway,’ she added with determined brightness, vowing silently that she must stop indulging in this dreadful self-analysis, ‘let’s look ahead. Have you got the rest of the information on the King series?’

Lizzie delved into her large briefcase and rummaged around for a few seconds before handing over some papers. ‘That’s the confirmed list of interviewees,’ she explained. ‘Eight in total, from every walk of life imaginable. Everything’s been arranged. All you have to do is get to work on your questions and then record.’

Christy’s long slim fingers flicked through the papers, her eyes skimming over the details, most of which were known to her already. The whole idea for a series of radio interviews set in the subject’s own chosen surroundings had been her idea in the first place. ‘Mmm, looks fine. They’ve stuck with most of my suggestions too. Good.’ She lifted her head and gave a satisfied nod.

‘Er…I believe they had trouble with a couple of choices and I don’t know if you noticed but at the end there—er—they added one.’

‘Oh?’ Christy bent her head once again, her hair falling like a curtain around her face as she scanned the list, vaguely intrigued because suddenly Lizzie sounded hesitant, and that wasn’t like her at all.

‘Oh, no!’ Her tone was softly incredulous, totally disbelieving. She flung back her head in an angry movement and then reread that certain name that always, always made her blood boil. ‘Lizzie, why is this man’s name here?’ she demanded in shaky tones. ‘Is…is this some kind of joke?’ She leant forward and stabbed at the paper with a long shiny red fingernail. ‘Look, here!’

She knew it wasn’t. Lizzie would never do such a thing to her. She didn’t know about…Christy swiftly averted her thoughts…but she knew how much she detested the man, didn’t she? ‘Lizzie, there is no way in the world I am interviewing him ever again—not after last time, not after the way he treated me! How long have you known?’ She pushed back the swivel chair and paced the room, almost frantically, her thoughts whirring. ‘Well, it’s impossible! Absolutely out of the question, totally out of the question!’

It was quite a sight—Christy King in full, ferocious action. She stormed up and down the dressing-room, glaring at Lizzie, at the paper that dared to so much as print his name, and then at her reflection in the wall of mirrors.

‘You’ve signed,’ Lizzie reminded matter-of-factly, unperturbed by her friend’s hot temper. ‘There’s not a lot you can do about it——’

‘Oh, can’t I?’ Christy grabbed at her change of clothing from its hanger and swiftly pulled on the elegant grey trouser suit. ‘Well, we’ll see about that!’ She picked up her large leather holdall and stuffed the papers angrily into one of the compartments. ‘No one forces me to interview that man again—no one!’ She marched to the door of her dressing-room and wrenched it open. ‘Oh, Lizzie!’ She paused, turning back with a look that conveyed all her anguish. Part of her wanted to tell. To unburden everything on to the shoulder of a friend, especially one as close as Lizzie, was suddenly tempting in the extreme. But confidences, especially ones so personal, didn’t come naturally. Too many childhood years of locking up emotions, of having to rely on her own resources to see her through had caused that. ‘Please understand it’s not that I’m angry with you or anything…but you…you see…it’s not just because of that awful interview I did with him all those years ago…’ She hesitated, biting at her bottom lip for a moment and then shook her head. ‘No…no, don’t worry. It doesn’t matter. I’ll say goodnight, Lizzie; I’ve got to go and sort this thing out. I’ll call you in the morning.’

Usually she paused at the entrance gate of the television studios and signed the pieces of paper that were thrust through the window of her long, sleek Jaguar. It was perhaps one of the reasons she was so popular. Always, always she took time to stop and chat a little to the regulars who gathered there to see her after the show. Driving past as if she were far too important, the way many a celebrity was inclined to do, never occurred to her. This evening was totally different, though. She whizzed through the gate at breakneck speed without so much as a glance in the direction of the loyal cluster of admirers.

His name, continually buzzing around and around in her head, was driving her mad. What was going on? she wondered desperately, as she roared off through the London traffic towards her home. Drew Michaels hated being photographed, let alone interviewed, so how on earth had his name landed at the bottom of the extremely exclusive list of interviewees?

Christy glared through the windscreen, drumming her fingers impatiently on the steering-wheel as she brought her Jaguar to a halt at a red light, and tried not to think about the possibility that she might have to interview the most audacious, most arrogant man who surely had ever walked on the surface of the planet again, whether she liked it or not.

It was a thought that was too awful to contemplate.

The car in front was slow pulling away and as the lights turned green Christy pressed her hand down on the horn and blasted for all she was worth. It didn’t make her feel a great deal better, but it helped.

‘What do you mean, he offered to be interviewed? Drew Michaels hates being interviewed! He would never do a thing like that.’ Christy listened impatiently as the calming voice on the other end of the telephone line tried to explain something that would never be to her satisfaction. ‘So, because he’s a big star, because it’s too good a chance to pass by, I’m going to have to go along with all this—is that what you’re saying?’ she continued in icy tones. ‘Well, I’m not so sure I want to be involved any more.’ Christy took a calming breath that did little to make her feel any better, and continued with just the same amount of anger, her voice rising with every syllable. ‘And this whole series was my idea; doesn’t that count for anything, don’t I have the slightest say? Yes, yes, I know I’ve signed…’ She listened some more. Her spirits were sinking fast. Drew Michaels, former actor turned best-selling novelist, meant a lot. He was a catch. Three years since that fateful interview and he hadn’t done another one since. Oh, yes, she thought despondently, you may be the darling of the chat-show hosts, Christy King, but you’re in the minor league when it comes to the likes of Mr Drew Michaels. You or him and they’d drop you like a shot! She knew only too well that there were a good handful of wellestablished TV personalities just waiting to leap into her shoes at the first opportunity.

Christy put down the phone with a resounding click after hearing a few more placatory sentences, and lay back against the pillows to stare up at the ruched silk canopy over her bed. She was mad. Anger surged through her veins like molten lava. Had Drew Michaels set this whole thing up deliberately? It would suit his perverted kind of thinking perfectly.

Oh, but that was ridiculous! Why on earth would he care? She had just been another in a long line of women; she knew that much only too well. Hardly a week went by without some snippet of gossip reaching the tabloid press and, even if fifty per cent of the salacious stories about Drew and his numerous liaisons were untrue, as any intelligent person would surmise, that still left the other fifty per cent.

With a despondent sigh, Christy rose from her elegant four-poster bed and walked through to the en suite bathroom frantically trying to decide what to do.

Christy generously tipped the taxi driver and wondered why she hadn’t cancelled her dinner arrangement with Conrad. She wasn’t in any kind of mood for social chit-chat or even long companionable silences, which was what the two of them had seemed to indulge in recently.

She sighed and adjusted her long, sleek skirt. Still, here she was and she might as well make the best of it—after all, it wasn’t Conrad’s fault that Drew Michaels had somehow managed to intrude into her life again after all these years of carefully blotting him from her memory.

Making an entrance came naturally. It wasn’t contrived or planned, it just seemed to happen. Being almost six feet tall helped, of course. Possessing a cascade of waist-length golden hair helped a little too, and add to that a face and a figure that automatically made heads turn, and a flair and style that was second to none, and Christy just couldn’t help but be noticed.

She glided through the restaurant’s hustle and bustle, making her way purposefully to her favourite table at the back of the room—perfectly placed so as to see and yet not be seen. It was her table—that was how she always thought of it. And why not? she thought now. She had patronised this place for years, right back to the early days of her career.

She glanced at her watch and predicted that Conrad would by now have her usual Martini waiting for her on the table, would be scanning the wine list with his usual care.

The place was certainly busy tonight. There was a buzz of lively conversation that almost drowned out the jazz pianist in the far corner. Christy spotted a few faces she knew and smiled her acknowledgement, before heading over to the far corner of the room where her table nestled behind a Japanese-style screen.

‘Hi, Conrad. Sorry I’m a little late. Have you order——’ She was almost sitting down in her usual

seat before Christy realised that she wasn’t talking to Conrad, but to a young stylish redhead with a cleavage like a mountain pass. ‘Oh!’ Christy’s mouth formed the exclamation for a brief moment as she digested the fact that someone else was sitting at her table. She recovered in a fraction of a second and gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid there must be some mistake——’

‘It’s OK, Christy, we’re in a forgiving mood.’

It was a magnetically deep voice, a curious mixture of the accents from both sides of the Atlantic. Several years ago it had given countless numbers of film-goers reason to laugh and weep in their cinema seats, had attracted an adoring female following.

It was practically unmistakable.

With a fierce jerk of her head, and an almost painful jolt of her heart, Christy’s eyes swivelled sharply to the other side of the table, narrowing with incredulity as she focused on the compelling features of Drew Michaels. She took a sharp intake of breath, pursing her lips angrily as his generous mouth widened into a heart-stopping, but altogether infuriating, attractive smile.

‘Care to join us, Miss King?’ The stunning sapphire eyes mirrored his amusement. He raised one enquiring brow and stared at Christy through dark, spiky lashes. ‘Well, well!’ he drawled after three or four slow seconds of silence in which Christy could do nothing except stare. ‘A celebrated chat-show host lost for words? I find that very hard to believe.’

His gaze travelled the length of her, surveying the halter-style top and matching long plum skirt, with its fashionable sexy thigh-length split, as if he had all the time in the world. As if, Christy thought angrily, she were a possible acquisition that needed one last look before purchase.

‘This is my table,’ Christy ground out through clenched teeth, aware that Drew Michaels had become, if that were possible, even more devastatingly attractive since she had last laid eyes on him.

Dark thick hair, left a little long. Piercing eyes that seemed somehow to delve right into her very soul… Christy took a breath and shifted her gaze from his face. He was dressed in his usual, understated mode: dark jacket, white shirt that was undone casually at the neck, revealing just a hint of strong dark hair, just a hint that the body beneath was tanned and bronzed, full of power and potent male strength. He was so…so blatantly masculine, she thought, forcing herself to think impersonally about him. He exuded an unexplainable aura of self-confidence, of personal relaxation. Nothing seemed to faze him at all. Nothing. But then that was because he didn’t give a damn.

‘This is your table? Indeed?’ His lips twitched with sarcastic amusement. ‘And there was I with the impression that the restaurant owned everything.’ He raised an enquiring brow. ‘Or are you a shareholder? Does the Christy King empire extend to this most exclusive of eating houses now?’

‘You know what I mean!’ Christy replied with crisp acidity, struggling to appear calm, despite everything, despite the fact that she was suddenly seething like a raving-mad woman underneath her glossy exterior. ‘I booked this table two days ago.’ Assuming this aloof, almost haughty expression was practically killing her. She took another deep breath when it was clear he wasn’t going to answer and raised herself up to her full height. ‘I always sit here,’ she added tightly. There was pomposity in her tone and she regretted it immediately. For some reason only this man could do this to her, she thought angrily—bring out the worst part of her nature at a moment’s notice.

‘But not, it seems, tonight.’ Drew Michaels threw her a bored smile and leant back against his chair, picking up the menu as he did so, scanning it casually as if the subject were closed, dismissing Christy as if she were no more than a waitress come to the table with the wrong order.

‘Just who the hell do you think you are?’ Christy grated, losing a little of her hard-fought-for composure. ‘I suppose you just waltzed in here and sat down in the first place that took your eye!’

Drew raised his head and cast Christy another distinctly bored glance. ‘No. As a matter of fact we were shown here by Roland, the owner himself. He told us this was the best table in the house, didn’t he, Annette?’ Drew smiled fondly across at his companion, who, Christy noticed, was looking slightly bemused and embarrassed, ‘and wished us a pleasant evening. Of course at that stage,’ he added with deliberate, cutting sarcasm, ‘he wasn’t to know we were going to be verbally accosted by a deranged chat-show hostess.’

‘How dare you?’ Christy’s tone was as sharp as the look in her eyes. ‘I could sue you for slander, or for defamation of character, or…or whatever the proper term is.’

‘And I could call Roland to settle the argument and take great pleasure in making you look very small!’ Drew informed her with quiet menace. ‘Do yourself a favour, Miss King: retreat now, while you still have some shred of credibility left.’

‘Christy!’

She turned, breathless with annoyance, to find Conrad at her elbow, to find practically the whole restaurant listening with avid attention, their eyes swivelled as one in the direction of her, Drew, and the desirable table she was laying claim to.

A long, slow, very, very hot flush rose steadily from the base of her neck up to her face, covering every inch of visible flesh in a vivid puce. So long since she had blushed, so long since she had found herself at the wrong end of a foolish situation. The last time had been three years ago, hadn’t it? With this same, impossible man.

What on earth was she doing? She flinched inwardly and wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

Christy swivelled her head sharply back around and found herself looking at a highly amused Drew Michaels.

‘Christy, we’re sitting somewhere else,’ Conrad whispered, putting himself between her and the other interested diners. ‘Roland apologised but hoped we’d understand as it’s just for this evening. You don’t mind, do you?’ Conrad’s voice was low, embarrassed. He always hated any kind of a scene, Christy thought bitterly, always so well-mannered, so proper, so damn meek! ‘It’s over here,’ he continued hurriedly; ‘quite nice, by the window. I’ve ordered your Martini.’

‘There, Miss King, a quite nice table by the window. All sorted!’ He was mocking Conrad. Such a contrast between the two of them, she realised, such a difference…’Now, there’s no need to apologise for making such a fuss,’ Drew added smoothly. ‘It’s just gratifying to know that you’re capable of making mistakes like the rest of us mere mortals.’

‘Very funny!’ Christy snapped, putting every ounce of cold dislike she could into her gaze, while frantically scanning her brain for some last parting shot, some witty put-down that would help her out of this mess.

It was happening again. Why? Why did her brain always go like stodgy rice pudding when it mattered most—when Drew Michaels was around?

‘Christy!’ Conrad placed a light hand coaxingly on her bare back.

She didn’t move. There were three choices, she decided swiftly. Stay and argue further and look even more ridiculous, go and sit with Conrad and practically choke trying to eat a meal, knowing the whole of the place was gossiping about her, or walk out with head held high and refuse ever to eat in this place again.

Her mind instinctively ran over the last time she had had occasion to meet ‘God’s gift—first to the silver screen and now to the literary world’. The party had been one of the best: well-planned, sumptuous. Full of famous faces. His had been the most famous, of course, an unexpected arrival that had had Vicki, the host, in raptures.

A thoughtful expression spread over Christy’s face as she remembered that night. It had been an enjoyable moment, cutting him completely dead, spearing him with a look of icy aloofness in front of at least a dozen people. He had continued to smile that slow, lazy smile of his, thrown her a look of amusement that had been a little galling at the time, but underneath it all she had just known he was seething. Oh, yes, maybe it had been a small revenge for the way he had treated her, but it had been a sweet one nevertheless.

But it wasn’t enough. And here, here was another occasion. If she didn’t take her chance now, she would never get another opportunity—unless…Christy considered swiftly, running through the newly occurred possibility that maybe, just maybe, if she played her hand very carefully, she could turn everything around.

Three years on. There was just no comparison between the promising young model turned hopeful chat-show host and the sharp, respected interviewer she was today. And she was ready for him this time. Drew Michaels, she thought, aware of her own sudden quickening heart, could surely, with careful questioning, be made to look foolish at the very least.

‘Unless you would both care to join us? Foursomes aren’t generally my thing, but in the circumstances I’m willing to make an exception.’

Christy’s gaze fell to a glass of wine, placed temptingly near to her hand. To throw the contents full in his face appealed to her enormously. Childish, of course, quite out of keeping with her character, but oh, how pleasurable to take that smug look off his face, to still the mobile mouth and dancing eyes for just a moment.

But then, weren’t there far better ways to get her own back, to even the score? Damn it! Why should she allow him to dominate her life? That time, three years ago, needed laying to rest; she needed to settle the score.

She would interview him.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Conrad turn back, hesitate, look pleased about the invitation to join Drew. After all, it was an opportunity not to be missed. He would probably never have the chance of dinner with one of the world’s highest paid, most powerful and most famous men again, and she knew, much to her annoyance, that Conrad was a great fan of the man himself.

Drew pulled out a chair and gestured to it with a deliberate theatrical sweep of his arm. Playing to the crowd, that was what he was doing, making the most of her discomfort, milking the scene for all it was worth—just like last time.

That clinched it.

‘I’ll see you in a week’s time, Michaels, but for now—drop dead!’ Christy hissed, and with a haughty flick of her head and a flounce of her skirts she left Conrad standing alone and vacated the premises with a sharp click of her heels.