Access All Areas: HarperImpulse Contemporary Fiction
Access All Areas: HarperImpulse Contemporary Fiction
Charlotte Phillips
Sexy, addictive and just pure fun, don’t miss the next instalment in the Do Not Disturb series!After losing her elderly parents, portrait photographer Anna will do anything to avoid losing the family home – the only thing she has left of her perfect childhood.When a friend who works at the exclusive boutique hotel, The Lavington, provides a hot tip – an A list film star is staying there with her rumored toyboy lover – Anna comes up with a plan. A photo of them together could be the answer to all Anna’s money problems.Unfortunately, she’s the worst paparazzi photographer on the planet and Joe, the hotel’s new head of security, back in England after globetrotting as bodyguard to the stars, isn’t about to allow a picture on his watch. No matter how cute the photographer might be…
Access All Areas
CHARLOTTE PHILLIPS
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015
Copyright © Charlotte Phillips 2015
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Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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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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Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008119379
Version 2015-04-30
In memory of my fantastic Dad. I love and miss you.
Contents
Cover (#ude8bc716-0654-5204-88d2-5b8227edadd7)
Title Page (#ub3a07850-f218-5d07-a455-3536aa593f31)
Copyright (#ua12cfc8b-ea6e-5417-8000-c9cad2e8495f)
Dedication (#u91a68454-1b65-5196-aa87-8c75d56e20f5)
Chapter 1 (#udd7eff8f-3476-5042-a2c4-6f133259f275)
Chapter 2 (#ubc2abad6-f8dd-55d4-915f-1cdac1f06f75)
Chapter 3 (#ub7c915fc-de84-584c-b344-a1cb4bb7fd62)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Coming soon from Charlotte Phillips … (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Charlotte Phillips … (#litres_trial_promo)
Charlotte Phillips (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ub144eaae-75b7-59e3-9927-872a27b5bc78)
Anna Clark tried for the third time to squeeze her fingernails under the stupid sash window of room 214 of London’s Lavington Hotel, and prise it open. With each failed attempt, panic had increased its attempt to throttle her and panic was the last thing you needed when you were two floors up and on the wrong side of the sodding window.
What she needed now was a cool head. And possibly nail extensions, not that she’d ever so much as crossed the threshold of a beauty salon. Long nails might be great for opening ridiculous sash windows that shut by themselves, but when you earned a living as a photographer, long nails were the last thing you needed. Not that it was earning her anywhere near a living at the moment, which was actually the whole point of her being here.
It had all sounded so easy two days ago back in the sunny little kitchen at home. Exclusively her home now since her father had died, nearly six months to the day after her mother. She’d only just emerged from the crushing grief and shock, taking comfort in holding on to what remnants of family life she had left, to find it wouldn’t be her home for much longer if she didn’t find a swift and sizeable cash injection.
Her old school friend Lucy had offered some straight talking, mainly because she couldn’t offer money.
‘I’d love to help,’ she said on the phone, ‘but they pay peanuts at the hotel and I’m still having no luck with auditions.’
Lucy liked to describe herself as a jobbing actress who filled in the gaps by working as a waitress at the Lavington. Lately it was more the other way round. Her last acting job had been seven months ago, an advert for crisps which had required her to say the line ‘Love That Crunch.’ Hollywood was an elusive animal.
‘It’s fine. I’ve got lots more people I can ask,’ Anna had lied. ‘I just need to find enough to buy me some extra time with the bank. Then maybe I can get a second job, get things back under control…’
Selling her soul was beginning to sound appealing. Her photography work had petered out somewhat these last months and it would take time to build her client base back up. Time she didn’t have. She’d been so preoccupied with her father’s failing health that all the day-to-day stuff, including work, had fallen by the wayside. Little had she known the mess she was already in.
The bank hovered over her like a large and very ugly vulture, ready to swoop in and whip away the only thing that she had left of her family, and all because her father had remortgaged the house to buoy them up through her mother’s illness two years earlier. Of course he’d expected to have years left in him to work and pay the loan off. He hadn’t even mentioned it to Anna until the very end and she only discovered the full extent of the mess when she finally steeled herself to sort through her father’s papers after he’d gone. By then the repayments had quietly lapsed for months. Brown envelopes had been stuffed away as he refused to accept that he wouldn’t beat the illness and turn things around. No one could have guessed that he’d follow his wife so quickly to the grave, leaving Anna alone.
Well, not alone exactly. She had the bank for company.
No way was she giving up her family home without a fight. It was all she had left of her old life. And that was exactly what she was doing now, teetering in the gap between the window and the curly black wrought iron railing that came up to her thighs, on a ledge that was designed to hold nothing more than a couple of plants or a window-box. This was her last resort at saving the last remnants of a happy family life which had meant the whole world to her. The loan arrears were gobsmacking, the bank was on the brink of repossessing and Anna had done her best to fend them all off. She’d already tapped friends, family, everyone she could think of for a loan and had sold everything she could bear to part with that wasn’t nailed down. And still it wasn’t enough.
And then Lucy had uttered those magic words.
‘I think I might know a way out of this. A way you could make some money, fast.’
Anna’s ears were instantly burning.
‘You remember that photo you sold a couple of years ago?’ Lucy said. ‘That soap actress on her honeymoon.’
Anna had happened to be in the right place at the right time. She’d been taking photos for a travel brochure in a lovely Cotswolds village at just the moment when a celebrity nipped to the local shop, following a wedding that had been protected by white screens because she’d sold the exclusive rights to a glossy magazine. Anna had inadvertently scooped the first post-wedding picture and it had sold for a cool five thousand pounds or so.
Lucy lowered her voice on the phone to a stage whisper.
‘Betsy Warrender is staying in the hotel with Kip Bevan.’
Anna choked on her coffee.
‘The Betsy Warrender?’
Betsy Warrender was a film-and-TV-star-behaving-badly who courted scandal and was the darling of the tabloid press. With her forty-fifth birthday and her third marriage long behind her the media had been mesmerised by her are-they-or-aren’t-they relationship with her most recent co-star, up and coming British actor Kip Bevan, utterly gorgeous and twenty-five years her junior.
‘Is there more than one?’ Lucy said. ‘Of course it’s the Betsy Warrender. They’re staying in a suite on the second floor ordering gourmet food and champagne. Barely anyone knows about it and I’m sworn to secrecy but I could do with some spare cash.’
Anna’s mind whirled.
‘What exactly are you suggesting?’
‘What do you think? The first photo of the two of them together will fetch a fortune and sooner or later some tabloid hack will get the scoop.’ Lucy said. ‘All I’m saying is, you’re a photographer, you’ve got all the kit, why can’t that person be you? Room 214 has a door directly opposite theirs and it’s empty because of maintenance work. No Joe Public guest is allowed there but I can get you in that room and the rest is up to you. We split the proceeds. What do you say?’
Anna momentarily lost the power of speech as she imagined just what a photo of Betsy Warrender and her rumoured toyboy lover could fetch. A million times more famous than a C-list soap actress. A-list all the way. Anna could sell a picture of them to an agency, save her family home and probably retire, all in one day.
Maybe. Possibly.
It hadn’t quite gone to plan so far.
Unfortunately an exclusive hot tip was only half the battle. Anna had headed to London quick smart and she’d been on the hotel premises since this morning. Betsy Warrender and Kip Bevan were holed up in the Purple Suite on the second floor, and nothing short of an earthquake looked like blasting them out of there.
Still they had to come out at some point – right? Lucy had been spot on, room 214’s fish-eye peephole had a full-on view of Betsy’s suite door. Any sign of the happy couple emerging and Anna would be the first to know.
Trouble was, staking out the peephole of a hotel room door was mind-numbingly and neck-achingly dull. After three hours of it, Anna found herself thinking around the opportunity, trying to find another – ideally quicker – way of getting the money shot. It occurred to her that the Purple Suite took up a large corner of the second floor. And therefore the window of room 214, if she leaned out far enough, could offer an excellent outdoor view of the Purple Suite’s windows and its luxury balcony. She might be able to take a long shot through a window, and you never knew, Betsy and Kip might just come out and wave. It was the middle of summer after all, and the perfect sunny day for lunch in the fresh air.
Her conscience griped in her stomach, not for the first time, and she squashed it and opened the window as wide as she could. She couldn’t afford principles. They were a luxury.
She repeated in her mind for her own benefit her standard ‘put-yourself-in-the-public-eye’ speech: If Betsy Warrender wanted the media to dance to her tune when it suited her, bumping up her millions with carefully manipulated photos and controlled column inches, she really was in no position to moan when the media played things a little on their terms. It didn’t really help. Anna still felt somehow cheap, like a loathsome privacy-invading hack. Her father had trained her in portrait photography not paparazzi snaps. But what choice did she have? The house was at stake.
The best she could do was try for a picture that was flattering. She’d do her best to snap them on the balcony and if they didn’t show then she’d get back to staking out the door. She silently promised Betsy that she’d do her best for a situation where she was looking good instead of one of those awful ‘Stars without Slap’ horror photos.
Then again, a picture of Betsy Warrender make-up free could also make a mint.
Her conscience continued to argue with itself.
The wrought iron railing that ran along the bottom half of the window made leaning out so much easier. The view of the Purple Suite balcony was tantalisingly, maddeningly, just out of view. She could see the corner of it, with covered hot tub and white voile curtains fluttering between the open French windows. If she just craned around a teeny bit more and held up her camera the view would be perfect. Maybe she’d get it by opening the sash all the way and standing on the window ledge – there was no real danger, the wrought iron railings stood between her and the drop.
She hadn’t counted on the window sliding neatly closed behind her.
Oh just bloody great.
Joe Marshall left the meeting room mid-afternoon after an attempt at briefing a team of disinterested hotel staff, some of them temps, the rest of them scrolling idly through their mobile phones because they didn’t earn enough to care, on how attention to detail is key when providing security services to the rich and famous.
He should know. He’d spent the last six years doing exactly that at the highest level before his return to England, and with every additional day in this new job he regretted that decision more and more. This lot needed a rocket lighting under them.
The walkie-talkie on his belt buzzed and crackled into life.
‘Joe, we’ve had a couple of reports from passers-by.’ The receptionist’s voice sounded vaguely nasal over the airwaves. ‘There’s someone hanging out of a window on the second floor. South side of the building, could you check it out?’
He changed direction and headed through the lobby. Six years of worldwide travel, staying in the best hotels and attending celebrity-packed events and this is where he was now. Persuading mad sightseers that craning out of windows is a bad idea. How the mighty had fallen. He groped in his mind for the reason – any reason – why he’d agreed to this job when it was offered out of the blue. Apart from the fact that putting down some roots and staying in one place was something he’d somehow never got around to doing, and the fact that he did experience the occasional pang for good old England with her Marmite and fish and chips, he couldn’t actually think of any. His mother didn’t count – he’d managed her situation perfectly well for months from a distance. What it boiled down to was a decision made on a whim because his contract providing security services to Stan Taylor had come to an end and Joe was at a bit of a loose end and fancied a change. At the age of sixty-five and reduced to playing father-type cameo roles, Stan had finally decided that security services weren’t really the thing for him these days. He rarely went out, his house was like a fortress and his A-list days were far behind him. Joe Marshall had looked around for alternative work and the Lavington Hotel job had landed in his lap via the grapevine.
An up and coming boutique hotel with an increasing celebrity guest list, they’d approached his friend’s London firm looking for someone to overhaul their hotel security. The person engaged to take the job had dropped out, and the post was Joe’s for the taking. He’d planned on storming in, updating the security protocols, training all the staff, and ending up with a security department that was the envy of top class London hospitality by the time he’d been in post for three months. By then he’d know if he liked being back in the UK with a mainstream job after all these rootless years. And while he was here he could check out the quality of his mother’s care home, organised months ago over the phone from Vegas when one of her friends tracked him down to fill him in on her ailing health. He’d fitted in a fleeting visit a month or so later and had gone right back to his old life within twenty-four hours.
He really should have stayed there.
This job had sounded so easy when he agreed to it. He hadn’t counted on the calibre of staff he’d be dealing with, their lack of pay and motivation. And now on top of the day job he had an A-lister with a top-secret reservation on the premises. The only bright point was that so far the press had no inkling of it because the details were restricted to half a dozen people here, of which he was one.
He stepped out onto the sunny street with its brisk London traffic, took a left and walked the perimeter of the hotel at speed. As he rounded the corner to the south side of the hotel he saw a crowd of rubbernecking pedestrians on the pavement. He shielded his eyes against the sun and craned his head back.
Hanging out of the window was a bit of an understatement. A slightly-built young woman with long dark hair was sandwiched between the railings and the window of a room on the second floor, and surely there could only be one reason why anyone would climb onto a window ledge two storeys off the ground and shut that window behind them.
‘Stay right where you are, Miss!’ he shouted up to the girl. ‘Don’t do anything until I get there. I’m on my way.’
Bellowing details of a possible suicide attempt into his walkie-talkie, he belted into the hotel’s side entrance and took the nearest flight of thickly-carpeted stairs three at a time. He was sprinting down the second floor corridor as the receptionist called out the room number, and he burst into room 214 with his master key to be presented with a shapely backside in skinny jeans through the window. The dark-haired girl caught sight of him and knocked on the glass.
For Pete’s sake.
Ready to take the softly-softly approach to talking down a manic depressive, not that he was remotely familiar with doing that, instead when he heaved the sash window open, the girl climbed back into the room without him needing to utter so much as a word, let alone an understanding one.
A spattering of cheers and applause could be heard from the pavement below.
‘Thanks so much,’ she said, straightening her white blouse. She didn’t meet his eyes. Instead she grabbed for the cloth tote bag on a side table and hoisted it over one shoulder.
‘What the hell were you doing out there?’ he said, incredulous. ‘Half the hotel is on suicide alert.’
She visibly paled. He took a deep and calming breath. All was well. A jumper on his first week in post would not have looked good on a reference.
‘Who are you?’ She leaned in to scrutinise the badge on his lapel. ‘Joe Marshall,’ she read out loud. ‘Head of Security.’
She took a step back and glanced at the door, biting the edge of her thumbnail.
‘The London Eye,’ she said vaguely. ‘I was trying for a picture. But the hotel was in the way. I thought if I leaned out of the window a bit…’ She held up the camera around her neck. ‘But then I got a bit carried away and the window shut behind me.’
There was a spray of freckles over her nose and she had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Minxy green. He stared at the camera while alarm bells clanged in his head.
‘The London Eye?’
He narrowed sceptical eyes at her.
‘London Eye, London streets,’ she breezed, tugging her bag up higher on her shoulder. ‘Sightseeing weekend, you know how it is, didn’t want to miss anything.’
‘Nice piece of kit, that,’ he commented, nodding at the camera suspended from her neck.
‘Bit of a hobby, photography,’ she said, dismissively, tugging the strap over her head and tucking the camera into her tote bag. He followed her as she headed for the door.
‘Let me escort you downstairs, Miss…?’
She didn’t supply a name, setting off another alarm in his mind. Could you see through the windows of the Purple Suite if you hung out of the window of room 214? Was this some kind of security breach? He dismissed the thought carefully. Only a handful of people knew that the guest staying in the Purple Suite was Betsy Warrender. And in Joe’s experience, when one journalist turned up they were never alone. Paparazzi photographers travelled in packs. He hadn’t seen so much as a sniff of anyone looking remotely like a journo or wielding a camera except for Green Eyes, and she really didn’t cut it as a seasoned hack. He’d headlocked enough paps in his time to know one when he saw one and she wasn’t it.
The door of 214 clicked shut behind them. She was a good foot smaller than him as he kept pace with her down the corridor. Almost imperceptibly she increased her speed. By the time they reached the lift she was almost trotting.
‘Really, there’s no need for you to accompany me,’ she protested as he stepped into the lift beside her.
In the enclosed space they stood shoulder to shoulder and he could pick up the notes of her perfume, something clean and floral that perfectly suited the summer’s day outside.
‘No trouble at all. I’m heading to the lobby myself.’
She impatiently pressed the button marked G for a second time.
‘Where next then?’ he probed. ‘Natural History Museum? Buckingham Palace?’
She stared sideways at him.
‘Your sightseeing tour,’ he said.
She laughed a touch too loudly.
‘Actually I thought I’d have afternoon tea in the lounge,’ she said.
The lift opened onto the marble-floored opulence of the lobby and he braced himself for the possibility of a paparazzi onslaught. Nothing of the kind. A group of four guests stood near the velvet sofas in the corner. As he watched, one of the concierges joined them and collected their luggage. There were a couple of people at the reception desk talking through a map in low voices with one of the receptionists. People came and went. Not a single thing out of the ordinary. Nothing to indicate that the fact a global star was ensconced two floors above them had become common knowledge. He breathed easier as he crossed the lobby.
He attracted the attention of the waitress as Miss 214 pointedly took a seat in the lounge near the window and looked up at him.
‘Thank you for saving me,’ she said, smiling. ‘Not that I needed saving.’
He nodded politely at her as he retreated from the room to cover up the surge of heat that had seared down his spine under her green gaze. Damsels in distress were his particular weakness. Luckily for him she’d turned out to be the least distressed damsel he’d ever come across. He had enough on his plate without distraction of the female kind.
Chapter 2 (#ub144eaae-75b7-59e3-9927-872a27b5bc78)
Anna let her backside rest on the edge of one of the berry red velvet sofas in the lounge just long enough for Joe Marshall to retreat through the polished double doors.
The instant that dark grey gaze was gone she stood back up and headed for the door herself, and never mind that she’d give her right arm for a calming cup of tea right now. Afternoon tea was like everything else in this place - extortionate – and she needed to keep her eye on the prize.
A quick glance around the door to check that Columbo had really gone and she took a sharp left down the corridor toward the dining room, left the hotel by a side door and sprinted to the back of the building where the staff entrance was. Her crowd of supportive pavement passers-by had long since dispersed.
Lucy met her in the sparse staff room. Opulence didn’t extend to this part of the hotel. The walls were festooned with staff rotas and notices and there was a kitchen area in the corner with a battered old kettle. The chairs looked as if they might have been part of the hotel dining room once upon a time. Now they wouldn’t have looked out of place in a skip.
‘Let me just get this straight,’ Lucy said, handing her a mug of steaming coffee and sitting down in the threadbare chair opposite. ‘I get you the hot tip, I get you into the sodding room across the hall, and then you blow the whole lot by hanging out of the window for half of London to see? Are you mad?’
‘I was trying to see into the suite through the balcony doors. I was using my initiative. You try staring at a locked door for three hours,’ Anna protested. She took a defensive sip of her coffee. ‘And you didn’t mention there would be a security presence.’
Lucy looked momentarily blank and then her eyes widened.
‘You mean the hot new guy.’
‘He’s new?’
She deliberately ignored the ‘hot’ part of that comment. OK so his dark and brooding good looks wouldn’t have looked out of place in an aftershave commercial but she didn’t have headspace or lifespace for men right now. Even ones who pushed themselves to the limit to stop her from jumping off a window ledge. A wistful pang tugged at her stomach as she recalled how he’d gone from pavement to hotel room in seconds flat to save her. She ignored it. He probably only did that kind of rescue act for basket cases. She knew better than anyone that knights in shining armour didn’t really exist and no one was going to sweep all her problems away any time soon. After the colossal let down that had happened last time she got involved with a man, the single years yawned comfortingly ahead of her.
‘Got here a week ago,’ Lucy said. ‘He’s an ex-bodyguard to the stars. Supposed to lick the staff into shape when it comes to security.’ She pointed her teaspoon at Anna. ‘He might be dreamy but you can’t let him distract you.’
‘Honestly, how many times? I’ve sworn off men.’
Being let down by a man you thought was your future husband did that for a person. Andrew had been long gone before the fact had actually registered with her. When she’d finally pulled him up on his constant excuses and distance it turned out he’d got a whole new life going on. New girlfriend, social life, the works. It had all gone unnoticed because she was too preoccupied with supporting her ailing parents and he hadn’t had the guts (or in the bastard’s words, the heart) to tell her. The thought of her parents brought yet another pang of desperation to save her home.
‘Maybe it’s a sign,’ she said. ‘That we should rethink things a bit.’
‘Bollocks!’ Lucy said. ‘It’s a sign that you should have stuck to our original plan and staked out the suite door. The idea itself is perfectly sound.’
Anna hesitated a beat too long.
‘What?’ Lucy said.
Anna shrugged.
‘The whole privacy invasion thing doesn’t sit massively well with me, that’s all.’
Lucy sipped her coffee.
‘What about that last picture you made some money with? That soap star. Didn’t hear you mention scruples then.’
‘That was different. It was posed. The celebrity agreed to it. Right place, right time. There was none of this cloak and dagger stuff.’
Lucy gave her an incredulous look.
‘Save your guilt, for Pete’s sake. Betsy Warrender plays the press like a maestro. She’ll probably thank you for it, she’ll be coining it in with all the publicity. Let’s face it, she’s in her forties with three husbands behind her. Landing Kip Bevan is like a badge of honour for the older woman.’ She shook her head. ‘Nope, the only person you need to worry about here is the security guy. The good thing for us is that he’s just finding his feet. He wants to run a tight ship but he’s been saddled with the rudderless mess that is the Lavington’s minimum wage staff. He’s in at the deep end and it should be easy to slip under his radar if you’ve got the right insider information.’ She tapped the side of her nose.
Anna narrowed her eyes.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you. How exactly did you come by this piece of confidential information? If it’s all so cloak and dagger. You’re a waitress-cum-chambermaid. This place should be teeming with press if the waiting staff know about it.’
‘The waiting staff don’t know about it,’ Lucy said in a low voice. That’s why we have an advantage.’ She examined her fingernails. ‘I happen to have a bit of a thing going on with the hotel manager.’
‘For Pete’s sake, you’re sleeping with the management?’ Anna blurted. ‘Are you mad? I’ve seen the guy in charge swanning about in the lobby. He must be twice your age.’
Lucy flapped a dismissive hand in her direction.
‘I’m not mad. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.’
‘Excuse me? You mean it’s got nothing to do with actually liking the guy?’
‘It’s not serious. The way I see it, you can invest everything you’ve got in a relationship and it can still bite you on the arse.’
Andrew crossed Anna’s mind, bringing with him the usual surge of resentful regret.
‘He’s fun, he likes to treat me, the sex is great…’ Lucy carried on, counting off a list of benefits on her fingers ‘…I get all the best shifts, I’m first in the queue when it comes to booking time off, and I don’t have to pick up his socks. It’ll end when I want it to. No hassle.’
‘What if he ends it first?’
Lucy shrugged.
‘Then I’ll have some more free time. I really think we’re straying way off-task now. I’ve got the tip and it’s irrelevant how I got it. We both need the money, let’s just get the hell on with it.’
‘And what about the security guy?’
Lucy looked her up and down dubiously.
‘What?’ Anna folded her arms defensively.
‘You just need to blend in a bit more.’ Lucy stood up and crossed to the row of lockers along the side of the room. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. This is a classy establishment and you’re traipsing the corridors in jeans and a shirt. I’ll lend you my spare uniform, that’ll do the trick. You can use it to blag your way into the Purple Suite. Just don’t blow your cover by hanging out of a sodding window this time.’
Anna stared at Lucy as she opened a locker and pawed through the contents.
‘And what do you think your no-strings management squeeze will do if he finds out you’ve leaked the hotel’s top secret story?’
Lucy shrugged airily.
‘He won’t. And even if he does I won’t care by then because you will have scooped us both a fortune. I can spend a bit more time auditioning and putting myself out there and a bit less time serving coffee to moany tourists. Don’t let me down!’
She clapped an arm around Anna’s shoulders, directed her towards the ladies’ loo and thrust the pink and grey uniform into her hands.
So now she had Lucy’s acting dreams riding on her photographic prowess too. No sodding pressure then.
Joe returned to the lobby half an hour later having done a quick recce of the second floor and finding nothing whatsoever out of place. Still, his mind lingered on the girl from room 214, despite all attempts to just crack on with the day ahead. Make sure you have the measure of every detail of a situation, and if in doubt, check it out. Hadn’t he just gone through that mantra to the shambles otherwise known as staff this morning? This was about effective security protocol. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Miss 214 was extremely cute with her green eyes and her freckles and her breezy attitude. Of course, his senses still kicked into action when he encountered attractive women, even nutjobs who hung off window ledges, Rome wasn’t built in a day. His previous life had been so different to this, jetting around the world in the wake of his celebrity boss, a girl in every city. His body was still living in a different sexual time zone, one where he was never in one place long enough to stick out a meaningful relationship, where women lasted a night or two before he moved on and his bed was never empty for too long.
He hadn’t had any female company since he’d flown home to England, which actually amounted to a considerable drought by his standards. Not that it felt like home after all this time. Being told his job with Stan Taylor was no longer a job had been the final push to do what he’d never thought he would. His mother was in a nursing home. He had no roots, owned no property, lived out of a suitcase. A contract in one place for once, near enough to his mother to keep an eye on her care, had seemed a good idea at the time. But he was feeling more and more by the day that he wasn’t cut out to have roots and normality at all. She’d never needed him or anyone in her entire life and he could easily have continued to oversee her care by telephone.
‘Can you give me the guest name for room 214?’ he asked one of the receptionists, glancing around the lobby as she pressed a few buttons on her computer. A group of tourists congregated at one of the tables, a stack of leaflets of the London sights being passed among them.
‘That room’s currently empty,’ she said. ‘Did you resolve the suicide situation at the side of the hotel?’
He snapped his eyes sharply away from the tourists.
‘Empty?’
She nodded.
‘There’s a problem with the ceiling in the ensuite. Maintenance are handling it, it’s on their work schedule for tomorrow…’ She raised her voice to call the last part of that after him as he dashed back across the lobby.
Afternoon tea in the lounge? He immediately checked the room. Miss 214 was nowhere to be seen and there was not a bloody cupcake or teapot in sight.
Operation Betsy, Take Two. Anna tried to take shallow breaths because she was squeezed into Lucy’s slightly-too-small uniform and it threatened to pop a button with the slightest wrong move. The effect was topped off with a rickety linen cart which she trundled into the service lift. She took a deep breath and pressed the button marked 2. As she waited for the lift to rumble into life beneath her feet, her mind wandered to her father. In their back garden, just the two of them and a camera. Endlessly patient, explaining to her over-eager and full of big ideas teenaged self about lighting and weather conditions, how to take and develop a picture that captured a moment flawlessly. She wondered what he would make of her now, wearing a disguise and using her feminine wiles to get an unsolicited photograph. Warmth crept uncomfortably into her cheeks.
He would surely care a lot more about her losing the house. She clung to that justifying thought. Her parents had poured their heart and soul lovingly into every brick and they were no longer here with her. This was her best shot at hanging on to what she had left of them.
Stick to the plan, Anna.
Her heart thumped thickly in her chest and her palms, curled around the handles of the linen trolley, were slick with sweat. All she needed to do was gain entry to the Purple Suite on the pretext of changing the towels, take a quick picture and then leg it. A piece of cake, according to Lucy. Instead of dwelling on the past she focused on mentally preparing herself to knock on the door of the most glamorous forty-something actress in the country. If she could get herself in the room using the towels as an excuse she would be able to see how the land lay. Maybe Betsy Warrender would be in a massively generous mood given the amount of amazing cougar sex she must be having and would offer to pose for a fan picture with her new squeeze. Job done, no guilt.
The lift came to a standstill with a ping and the doors slid smoothly open. The corridor was empty. She heaved the cart out of the lift with a bump. The Purple Suite was down the length of the corridor and then she needed to take a left. Her heart pounded thickly in her head as she pushed the cart down the hallway.
A skinny guy in a Lavington Hotel uniform rounded the corner carrying a tray of dirty crockery and she nearly leapt a foot in the air. Yet he simply nodded briefly as he passed her, with not the slightest hint of surprise or interest. Clearly Lucy must be right. Staff must come and go so frequently here that a new face didn’t deserve a second glance.
It occurred to her that this was all too damned easy as she knocked on the door of the Purple Suite. She should have known the moment it opened that it was all too good to be true. Luck hadn’t been on her side for the past few years, so why the hell would it take an upward turn now?
One of Betsy Warrender’s entourage stood before her with a notebook in one hand and the door handle in the other. She wore no make-up and had large, thick glasses and short dark hair. Then again, if Anna were dating Kip Bevan, who had the nation’s female contingent in a swoon, she’d hardly shoot herself in the foot by having model-material staff. He was a notorious womaniser.
‘Laundry,’ she said stupidly, as if she hadn’t been carrying a teetering pile of towels.
The woman opened the door wider and walked back into the suite. Anna followed, blinking around the opulence of the Purple Suite, the sparkling chandeliers, ankle deep carpet and velvet sofas. Sitting in the middle of the room was a woman in a fluffy Lavington Hotel bathrobe reading a newspaper. Anna stared. Last seen adorning the TV screen in a costume drama that was sweeping the nation, in real life Betsy Warrender looked a lot less glossy and a lot older. Her hair wasn’t as full and bouncy and her face was scrubbed of make-up. She looked pale and more than a little tired. In short, she looked normal. The kind of normal that could sell tabloid newspapers by the million if captured on film. As if on cue, Kip Bevan appeared through a door on the other side of the room, leaned over the back of the sofa and kissed Betsy’s cheek. He wore jeans and a designer T-shirt that showed off his ripped upper body, and looked dark, sleek and utterly gorgeous, like a dressed-down James Bond.
A resounding knock on the door behind her made Anna jump.
Betsy and Kip glanced up in unison and the minion with the glasses turned on her heel and returned to the door just as Anna realised with a spike of churning nerves that she was staring at the celebrity couple, rooted to the spot, like a starstruck peeping Tom. Worse, as voices became louder behind her she spun round to see none other than Joe Marshall entering the room, undoubtedly to perform some security sweep or other. Same black suit that set him apart from the hotel staff, same crisp white open-neck shirt, same broad shoulders and muscular build. His dark good looks were jaw dropping. He easily gave the man of the moment Kip Bevan a run for his money and her stomach gave a melting flip in spite of her resolve. His eyes widened in incredulous disbelief as he caught sight of her.
Oh crap.
She’d just witnessed the perfect money shot and had missed her chance.
Chapter 3 (#ub144eaae-75b7-59e3-9927-872a27b5bc78)
Joe Marshall spread his hands.
‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he said to the room. ‘I’ll just take the opportunity to brief your housekeeping assistant on the security update for the day.’
As Anna floundered, he took her by the elbow and escorted her from the suite with zero fuss or fanfare. For all Betsy and Kip knew, no one more threatening than a chambermaid had entered their perfect bubble of happiness. Her heart sank as he closed the door of the Purple Suite behind them. She might have been able to somehow pass herself off as a guest after their first encounter, but there would be no second chances this time. He stood over her as she pushed the stupid linen trolley until they reached the end of the corridor, well clear of the Purple Suite and anyone who might emerge from it.
As she came to a standstill he met her eyes with his stern grey ones.
‘Bedding change?’ she attempted brightly.
‘Really?’ he snapped. ‘Are you taking the piss?’ He held out a hand, palm-up. ‘Where’s the camera?’
This whole thing had been doomed to failure. Her shoulders sagged.
‘How did you know?’ she said.
A grin touched the corner of his mouth, lighting up the gorgeous face and causing another ill-judged surge of squidginess in her stomach. She imagined just how perfect he would look if the grin hadn’t been laced with sarcasm.
‘You are joking?’ he said. ‘Could you be any more conspicuous? Laurel and Hardy would do a better stakeout than you.’
‘I fooled the concierge,’ she countered defiantly.
‘He’d probably pass his own mother on the street.’
She gazed innocently up at the ceiling.
‘Where’s the camera?’ he repeated, not to be distracted.
She shrugged.
‘Don’t play games with me. I don’t have time for this. I’ll ask you one more time – where’s the camera?’
She made the mistake of glancing at the huge pile of towels on the linen trolley and saw the instant flash of comprehension on his face. Less than five seconds later, he’d uncovered the camera underneath the top layer of towels, primed and ready for action.
Bugger it.
She followed him meekly down the stairs to the ground floor with a heavy heart, the laundry trolley abandoned somewhere on the second floor, toying with making a run for it as they crossed the lobby. Who was she trying to kid? The nearest she’d got to fitness this past year had been nipping to the corner shop to pick up her father’s newspaper, whereas Joe Marshall looked like he chased down errant photographers every day of the week. She braced herself for being kicked out onto the pavement in full embarrassing view of the gawping public.
Instead, he showed her into what was apparently his office, a tiny room behind the reception and not far from the staff quarters. Floor plans of the hotel adorned the walls, along with what looked like staff rotas.
‘What’s this about?’ she said, a brief stab of concern in her gut as she wondered if he was going to call the police. She hadn’t really broken any laws, had she? Seeing as she hadn’t actually managed to cop a photo. Groping for a way to smooth things over, she wondered if she might be able to charm him into letting her go. It was a long shot at best – he probably had glamorous women throwing themselves at him constantly; he was hardly about to be seduced by boring Anna Clark from the back of beyond. Then again, anything was worth a try.
‘Sit down.’ He nodded at a beige office chair next to the desk.
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Suit yourself.’
Joe sat down behind the dark wood desk and leaned back in his own, larger chair, trying to keep his expression professionally neutral when his libido was zipping hotly into action at the view before him. The pink and grey hotel uniform was definitely not meant to look that sexy. Clearly too small, it hugged her every curve. The A-line skirt was a good couple of inches too short.
He needed to focus. The Betsy Warrender booking was clearly not the top secret that he’d demanded it be. In short, that meant there was a security leak at the hotel, and when he found out who it was, heads would roll.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked. He really couldn’t keep thinking of her as Miss 214.
‘Are you going to call the police?’ she countered.
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Charlotte Phillips
Sexy, addictive and just pure fun, don’t miss the next instalment in the Do Not Disturb series!After losing her elderly parents, portrait photographer Anna will do anything to avoid losing the family home – the only thing she has left of her perfect childhood.When a friend who works at the exclusive boutique hotel, The Lavington, provides a hot tip – an A list film star is staying there with her rumored toyboy lover – Anna comes up with a plan. A photo of them together could be the answer to all Anna’s money problems.Unfortunately, she’s the worst paparazzi photographer on the planet and Joe, the hotel’s new head of security, back in England after globetrotting as bodyguard to the stars, isn’t about to allow a picture on his watch. No matter how cute the photographer might be…
Access All Areas
CHARLOTTE PHILLIPS
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015
Copyright © Charlotte Phillips 2015
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Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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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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Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008119379
Version 2015-04-30
In memory of my fantastic Dad. I love and miss you.
Contents
Cover (#ude8bc716-0654-5204-88d2-5b8227edadd7)
Title Page (#ub3a07850-f218-5d07-a455-3536aa593f31)
Copyright (#ua12cfc8b-ea6e-5417-8000-c9cad2e8495f)
Dedication (#u91a68454-1b65-5196-aa87-8c75d56e20f5)
Chapter 1 (#udd7eff8f-3476-5042-a2c4-6f133259f275)
Chapter 2 (#ubc2abad6-f8dd-55d4-915f-1cdac1f06f75)
Chapter 3 (#ub7c915fc-de84-584c-b344-a1cb4bb7fd62)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Coming soon from Charlotte Phillips … (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Charlotte Phillips … (#litres_trial_promo)
Charlotte Phillips (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ub144eaae-75b7-59e3-9927-872a27b5bc78)
Anna Clark tried for the third time to squeeze her fingernails under the stupid sash window of room 214 of London’s Lavington Hotel, and prise it open. With each failed attempt, panic had increased its attempt to throttle her and panic was the last thing you needed when you were two floors up and on the wrong side of the sodding window.
What she needed now was a cool head. And possibly nail extensions, not that she’d ever so much as crossed the threshold of a beauty salon. Long nails might be great for opening ridiculous sash windows that shut by themselves, but when you earned a living as a photographer, long nails were the last thing you needed. Not that it was earning her anywhere near a living at the moment, which was actually the whole point of her being here.
It had all sounded so easy two days ago back in the sunny little kitchen at home. Exclusively her home now since her father had died, nearly six months to the day after her mother. She’d only just emerged from the crushing grief and shock, taking comfort in holding on to what remnants of family life she had left, to find it wouldn’t be her home for much longer if she didn’t find a swift and sizeable cash injection.
Her old school friend Lucy had offered some straight talking, mainly because she couldn’t offer money.
‘I’d love to help,’ she said on the phone, ‘but they pay peanuts at the hotel and I’m still having no luck with auditions.’
Lucy liked to describe herself as a jobbing actress who filled in the gaps by working as a waitress at the Lavington. Lately it was more the other way round. Her last acting job had been seven months ago, an advert for crisps which had required her to say the line ‘Love That Crunch.’ Hollywood was an elusive animal.
‘It’s fine. I’ve got lots more people I can ask,’ Anna had lied. ‘I just need to find enough to buy me some extra time with the bank. Then maybe I can get a second job, get things back under control…’
Selling her soul was beginning to sound appealing. Her photography work had petered out somewhat these last months and it would take time to build her client base back up. Time she didn’t have. She’d been so preoccupied with her father’s failing health that all the day-to-day stuff, including work, had fallen by the wayside. Little had she known the mess she was already in.
The bank hovered over her like a large and very ugly vulture, ready to swoop in and whip away the only thing that she had left of her family, and all because her father had remortgaged the house to buoy them up through her mother’s illness two years earlier. Of course he’d expected to have years left in him to work and pay the loan off. He hadn’t even mentioned it to Anna until the very end and she only discovered the full extent of the mess when she finally steeled herself to sort through her father’s papers after he’d gone. By then the repayments had quietly lapsed for months. Brown envelopes had been stuffed away as he refused to accept that he wouldn’t beat the illness and turn things around. No one could have guessed that he’d follow his wife so quickly to the grave, leaving Anna alone.
Well, not alone exactly. She had the bank for company.
No way was she giving up her family home without a fight. It was all she had left of her old life. And that was exactly what she was doing now, teetering in the gap between the window and the curly black wrought iron railing that came up to her thighs, on a ledge that was designed to hold nothing more than a couple of plants or a window-box. This was her last resort at saving the last remnants of a happy family life which had meant the whole world to her. The loan arrears were gobsmacking, the bank was on the brink of repossessing and Anna had done her best to fend them all off. She’d already tapped friends, family, everyone she could think of for a loan and had sold everything she could bear to part with that wasn’t nailed down. And still it wasn’t enough.
And then Lucy had uttered those magic words.
‘I think I might know a way out of this. A way you could make some money, fast.’
Anna’s ears were instantly burning.
‘You remember that photo you sold a couple of years ago?’ Lucy said. ‘That soap actress on her honeymoon.’
Anna had happened to be in the right place at the right time. She’d been taking photos for a travel brochure in a lovely Cotswolds village at just the moment when a celebrity nipped to the local shop, following a wedding that had been protected by white screens because she’d sold the exclusive rights to a glossy magazine. Anna had inadvertently scooped the first post-wedding picture and it had sold for a cool five thousand pounds or so.
Lucy lowered her voice on the phone to a stage whisper.
‘Betsy Warrender is staying in the hotel with Kip Bevan.’
Anna choked on her coffee.
‘The Betsy Warrender?’
Betsy Warrender was a film-and-TV-star-behaving-badly who courted scandal and was the darling of the tabloid press. With her forty-fifth birthday and her third marriage long behind her the media had been mesmerised by her are-they-or-aren’t-they relationship with her most recent co-star, up and coming British actor Kip Bevan, utterly gorgeous and twenty-five years her junior.
‘Is there more than one?’ Lucy said. ‘Of course it’s the Betsy Warrender. They’re staying in a suite on the second floor ordering gourmet food and champagne. Barely anyone knows about it and I’m sworn to secrecy but I could do with some spare cash.’
Anna’s mind whirled.
‘What exactly are you suggesting?’
‘What do you think? The first photo of the two of them together will fetch a fortune and sooner or later some tabloid hack will get the scoop.’ Lucy said. ‘All I’m saying is, you’re a photographer, you’ve got all the kit, why can’t that person be you? Room 214 has a door directly opposite theirs and it’s empty because of maintenance work. No Joe Public guest is allowed there but I can get you in that room and the rest is up to you. We split the proceeds. What do you say?’
Anna momentarily lost the power of speech as she imagined just what a photo of Betsy Warrender and her rumoured toyboy lover could fetch. A million times more famous than a C-list soap actress. A-list all the way. Anna could sell a picture of them to an agency, save her family home and probably retire, all in one day.
Maybe. Possibly.
It hadn’t quite gone to plan so far.
Unfortunately an exclusive hot tip was only half the battle. Anna had headed to London quick smart and she’d been on the hotel premises since this morning. Betsy Warrender and Kip Bevan were holed up in the Purple Suite on the second floor, and nothing short of an earthquake looked like blasting them out of there.
Still they had to come out at some point – right? Lucy had been spot on, room 214’s fish-eye peephole had a full-on view of Betsy’s suite door. Any sign of the happy couple emerging and Anna would be the first to know.
Trouble was, staking out the peephole of a hotel room door was mind-numbingly and neck-achingly dull. After three hours of it, Anna found herself thinking around the opportunity, trying to find another – ideally quicker – way of getting the money shot. It occurred to her that the Purple Suite took up a large corner of the second floor. And therefore the window of room 214, if she leaned out far enough, could offer an excellent outdoor view of the Purple Suite’s windows and its luxury balcony. She might be able to take a long shot through a window, and you never knew, Betsy and Kip might just come out and wave. It was the middle of summer after all, and the perfect sunny day for lunch in the fresh air.
Her conscience griped in her stomach, not for the first time, and she squashed it and opened the window as wide as she could. She couldn’t afford principles. They were a luxury.
She repeated in her mind for her own benefit her standard ‘put-yourself-in-the-public-eye’ speech: If Betsy Warrender wanted the media to dance to her tune when it suited her, bumping up her millions with carefully manipulated photos and controlled column inches, she really was in no position to moan when the media played things a little on their terms. It didn’t really help. Anna still felt somehow cheap, like a loathsome privacy-invading hack. Her father had trained her in portrait photography not paparazzi snaps. But what choice did she have? The house was at stake.
The best she could do was try for a picture that was flattering. She’d do her best to snap them on the balcony and if they didn’t show then she’d get back to staking out the door. She silently promised Betsy that she’d do her best for a situation where she was looking good instead of one of those awful ‘Stars without Slap’ horror photos.
Then again, a picture of Betsy Warrender make-up free could also make a mint.
Her conscience continued to argue with itself.
The wrought iron railing that ran along the bottom half of the window made leaning out so much easier. The view of the Purple Suite balcony was tantalisingly, maddeningly, just out of view. She could see the corner of it, with covered hot tub and white voile curtains fluttering between the open French windows. If she just craned around a teeny bit more and held up her camera the view would be perfect. Maybe she’d get it by opening the sash all the way and standing on the window ledge – there was no real danger, the wrought iron railings stood between her and the drop.
She hadn’t counted on the window sliding neatly closed behind her.
Oh just bloody great.
Joe Marshall left the meeting room mid-afternoon after an attempt at briefing a team of disinterested hotel staff, some of them temps, the rest of them scrolling idly through their mobile phones because they didn’t earn enough to care, on how attention to detail is key when providing security services to the rich and famous.
He should know. He’d spent the last six years doing exactly that at the highest level before his return to England, and with every additional day in this new job he regretted that decision more and more. This lot needed a rocket lighting under them.
The walkie-talkie on his belt buzzed and crackled into life.
‘Joe, we’ve had a couple of reports from passers-by.’ The receptionist’s voice sounded vaguely nasal over the airwaves. ‘There’s someone hanging out of a window on the second floor. South side of the building, could you check it out?’
He changed direction and headed through the lobby. Six years of worldwide travel, staying in the best hotels and attending celebrity-packed events and this is where he was now. Persuading mad sightseers that craning out of windows is a bad idea. How the mighty had fallen. He groped in his mind for the reason – any reason – why he’d agreed to this job when it was offered out of the blue. Apart from the fact that putting down some roots and staying in one place was something he’d somehow never got around to doing, and the fact that he did experience the occasional pang for good old England with her Marmite and fish and chips, he couldn’t actually think of any. His mother didn’t count – he’d managed her situation perfectly well for months from a distance. What it boiled down to was a decision made on a whim because his contract providing security services to Stan Taylor had come to an end and Joe was at a bit of a loose end and fancied a change. At the age of sixty-five and reduced to playing father-type cameo roles, Stan had finally decided that security services weren’t really the thing for him these days. He rarely went out, his house was like a fortress and his A-list days were far behind him. Joe Marshall had looked around for alternative work and the Lavington Hotel job had landed in his lap via the grapevine.
An up and coming boutique hotel with an increasing celebrity guest list, they’d approached his friend’s London firm looking for someone to overhaul their hotel security. The person engaged to take the job had dropped out, and the post was Joe’s for the taking. He’d planned on storming in, updating the security protocols, training all the staff, and ending up with a security department that was the envy of top class London hospitality by the time he’d been in post for three months. By then he’d know if he liked being back in the UK with a mainstream job after all these rootless years. And while he was here he could check out the quality of his mother’s care home, organised months ago over the phone from Vegas when one of her friends tracked him down to fill him in on her ailing health. He’d fitted in a fleeting visit a month or so later and had gone right back to his old life within twenty-four hours.
He really should have stayed there.
This job had sounded so easy when he agreed to it. He hadn’t counted on the calibre of staff he’d be dealing with, their lack of pay and motivation. And now on top of the day job he had an A-lister with a top-secret reservation on the premises. The only bright point was that so far the press had no inkling of it because the details were restricted to half a dozen people here, of which he was one.
He stepped out onto the sunny street with its brisk London traffic, took a left and walked the perimeter of the hotel at speed. As he rounded the corner to the south side of the hotel he saw a crowd of rubbernecking pedestrians on the pavement. He shielded his eyes against the sun and craned his head back.
Hanging out of the window was a bit of an understatement. A slightly-built young woman with long dark hair was sandwiched between the railings and the window of a room on the second floor, and surely there could only be one reason why anyone would climb onto a window ledge two storeys off the ground and shut that window behind them.
‘Stay right where you are, Miss!’ he shouted up to the girl. ‘Don’t do anything until I get there. I’m on my way.’
Bellowing details of a possible suicide attempt into his walkie-talkie, he belted into the hotel’s side entrance and took the nearest flight of thickly-carpeted stairs three at a time. He was sprinting down the second floor corridor as the receptionist called out the room number, and he burst into room 214 with his master key to be presented with a shapely backside in skinny jeans through the window. The dark-haired girl caught sight of him and knocked on the glass.
For Pete’s sake.
Ready to take the softly-softly approach to talking down a manic depressive, not that he was remotely familiar with doing that, instead when he heaved the sash window open, the girl climbed back into the room without him needing to utter so much as a word, let alone an understanding one.
A spattering of cheers and applause could be heard from the pavement below.
‘Thanks so much,’ she said, straightening her white blouse. She didn’t meet his eyes. Instead she grabbed for the cloth tote bag on a side table and hoisted it over one shoulder.
‘What the hell were you doing out there?’ he said, incredulous. ‘Half the hotel is on suicide alert.’
She visibly paled. He took a deep and calming breath. All was well. A jumper on his first week in post would not have looked good on a reference.
‘Who are you?’ She leaned in to scrutinise the badge on his lapel. ‘Joe Marshall,’ she read out loud. ‘Head of Security.’
She took a step back and glanced at the door, biting the edge of her thumbnail.
‘The London Eye,’ she said vaguely. ‘I was trying for a picture. But the hotel was in the way. I thought if I leaned out of the window a bit…’ She held up the camera around her neck. ‘But then I got a bit carried away and the window shut behind me.’
There was a spray of freckles over her nose and she had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Minxy green. He stared at the camera while alarm bells clanged in his head.
‘The London Eye?’
He narrowed sceptical eyes at her.
‘London Eye, London streets,’ she breezed, tugging her bag up higher on her shoulder. ‘Sightseeing weekend, you know how it is, didn’t want to miss anything.’
‘Nice piece of kit, that,’ he commented, nodding at the camera suspended from her neck.
‘Bit of a hobby, photography,’ she said, dismissively, tugging the strap over her head and tucking the camera into her tote bag. He followed her as she headed for the door.
‘Let me escort you downstairs, Miss…?’
She didn’t supply a name, setting off another alarm in his mind. Could you see through the windows of the Purple Suite if you hung out of the window of room 214? Was this some kind of security breach? He dismissed the thought carefully. Only a handful of people knew that the guest staying in the Purple Suite was Betsy Warrender. And in Joe’s experience, when one journalist turned up they were never alone. Paparazzi photographers travelled in packs. He hadn’t seen so much as a sniff of anyone looking remotely like a journo or wielding a camera except for Green Eyes, and she really didn’t cut it as a seasoned hack. He’d headlocked enough paps in his time to know one when he saw one and she wasn’t it.
The door of 214 clicked shut behind them. She was a good foot smaller than him as he kept pace with her down the corridor. Almost imperceptibly she increased her speed. By the time they reached the lift she was almost trotting.
‘Really, there’s no need for you to accompany me,’ she protested as he stepped into the lift beside her.
In the enclosed space they stood shoulder to shoulder and he could pick up the notes of her perfume, something clean and floral that perfectly suited the summer’s day outside.
‘No trouble at all. I’m heading to the lobby myself.’
She impatiently pressed the button marked G for a second time.
‘Where next then?’ he probed. ‘Natural History Museum? Buckingham Palace?’
She stared sideways at him.
‘Your sightseeing tour,’ he said.
She laughed a touch too loudly.
‘Actually I thought I’d have afternoon tea in the lounge,’ she said.
The lift opened onto the marble-floored opulence of the lobby and he braced himself for the possibility of a paparazzi onslaught. Nothing of the kind. A group of four guests stood near the velvet sofas in the corner. As he watched, one of the concierges joined them and collected their luggage. There were a couple of people at the reception desk talking through a map in low voices with one of the receptionists. People came and went. Not a single thing out of the ordinary. Nothing to indicate that the fact a global star was ensconced two floors above them had become common knowledge. He breathed easier as he crossed the lobby.
He attracted the attention of the waitress as Miss 214 pointedly took a seat in the lounge near the window and looked up at him.
‘Thank you for saving me,’ she said, smiling. ‘Not that I needed saving.’
He nodded politely at her as he retreated from the room to cover up the surge of heat that had seared down his spine under her green gaze. Damsels in distress were his particular weakness. Luckily for him she’d turned out to be the least distressed damsel he’d ever come across. He had enough on his plate without distraction of the female kind.
Chapter 2 (#ub144eaae-75b7-59e3-9927-872a27b5bc78)
Anna let her backside rest on the edge of one of the berry red velvet sofas in the lounge just long enough for Joe Marshall to retreat through the polished double doors.
The instant that dark grey gaze was gone she stood back up and headed for the door herself, and never mind that she’d give her right arm for a calming cup of tea right now. Afternoon tea was like everything else in this place - extortionate – and she needed to keep her eye on the prize.
A quick glance around the door to check that Columbo had really gone and she took a sharp left down the corridor toward the dining room, left the hotel by a side door and sprinted to the back of the building where the staff entrance was. Her crowd of supportive pavement passers-by had long since dispersed.
Lucy met her in the sparse staff room. Opulence didn’t extend to this part of the hotel. The walls were festooned with staff rotas and notices and there was a kitchen area in the corner with a battered old kettle. The chairs looked as if they might have been part of the hotel dining room once upon a time. Now they wouldn’t have looked out of place in a skip.
‘Let me just get this straight,’ Lucy said, handing her a mug of steaming coffee and sitting down in the threadbare chair opposite. ‘I get you the hot tip, I get you into the sodding room across the hall, and then you blow the whole lot by hanging out of the window for half of London to see? Are you mad?’
‘I was trying to see into the suite through the balcony doors. I was using my initiative. You try staring at a locked door for three hours,’ Anna protested. She took a defensive sip of her coffee. ‘And you didn’t mention there would be a security presence.’
Lucy looked momentarily blank and then her eyes widened.
‘You mean the hot new guy.’
‘He’s new?’
She deliberately ignored the ‘hot’ part of that comment. OK so his dark and brooding good looks wouldn’t have looked out of place in an aftershave commercial but she didn’t have headspace or lifespace for men right now. Even ones who pushed themselves to the limit to stop her from jumping off a window ledge. A wistful pang tugged at her stomach as she recalled how he’d gone from pavement to hotel room in seconds flat to save her. She ignored it. He probably only did that kind of rescue act for basket cases. She knew better than anyone that knights in shining armour didn’t really exist and no one was going to sweep all her problems away any time soon. After the colossal let down that had happened last time she got involved with a man, the single years yawned comfortingly ahead of her.
‘Got here a week ago,’ Lucy said. ‘He’s an ex-bodyguard to the stars. Supposed to lick the staff into shape when it comes to security.’ She pointed her teaspoon at Anna. ‘He might be dreamy but you can’t let him distract you.’
‘Honestly, how many times? I’ve sworn off men.’
Being let down by a man you thought was your future husband did that for a person. Andrew had been long gone before the fact had actually registered with her. When she’d finally pulled him up on his constant excuses and distance it turned out he’d got a whole new life going on. New girlfriend, social life, the works. It had all gone unnoticed because she was too preoccupied with supporting her ailing parents and he hadn’t had the guts (or in the bastard’s words, the heart) to tell her. The thought of her parents brought yet another pang of desperation to save her home.
‘Maybe it’s a sign,’ she said. ‘That we should rethink things a bit.’
‘Bollocks!’ Lucy said. ‘It’s a sign that you should have stuck to our original plan and staked out the suite door. The idea itself is perfectly sound.’
Anna hesitated a beat too long.
‘What?’ Lucy said.
Anna shrugged.
‘The whole privacy invasion thing doesn’t sit massively well with me, that’s all.’
Lucy sipped her coffee.
‘What about that last picture you made some money with? That soap star. Didn’t hear you mention scruples then.’
‘That was different. It was posed. The celebrity agreed to it. Right place, right time. There was none of this cloak and dagger stuff.’
Lucy gave her an incredulous look.
‘Save your guilt, for Pete’s sake. Betsy Warrender plays the press like a maestro. She’ll probably thank you for it, she’ll be coining it in with all the publicity. Let’s face it, she’s in her forties with three husbands behind her. Landing Kip Bevan is like a badge of honour for the older woman.’ She shook her head. ‘Nope, the only person you need to worry about here is the security guy. The good thing for us is that he’s just finding his feet. He wants to run a tight ship but he’s been saddled with the rudderless mess that is the Lavington’s minimum wage staff. He’s in at the deep end and it should be easy to slip under his radar if you’ve got the right insider information.’ She tapped the side of her nose.
Anna narrowed her eyes.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you. How exactly did you come by this piece of confidential information? If it’s all so cloak and dagger. You’re a waitress-cum-chambermaid. This place should be teeming with press if the waiting staff know about it.’
‘The waiting staff don’t know about it,’ Lucy said in a low voice. That’s why we have an advantage.’ She examined her fingernails. ‘I happen to have a bit of a thing going on with the hotel manager.’
‘For Pete’s sake, you’re sleeping with the management?’ Anna blurted. ‘Are you mad? I’ve seen the guy in charge swanning about in the lobby. He must be twice your age.’
Lucy flapped a dismissive hand in her direction.
‘I’m not mad. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.’
‘Excuse me? You mean it’s got nothing to do with actually liking the guy?’
‘It’s not serious. The way I see it, you can invest everything you’ve got in a relationship and it can still bite you on the arse.’
Andrew crossed Anna’s mind, bringing with him the usual surge of resentful regret.
‘He’s fun, he likes to treat me, the sex is great…’ Lucy carried on, counting off a list of benefits on her fingers ‘…I get all the best shifts, I’m first in the queue when it comes to booking time off, and I don’t have to pick up his socks. It’ll end when I want it to. No hassle.’
‘What if he ends it first?’
Lucy shrugged.
‘Then I’ll have some more free time. I really think we’re straying way off-task now. I’ve got the tip and it’s irrelevant how I got it. We both need the money, let’s just get the hell on with it.’
‘And what about the security guy?’
Lucy looked her up and down dubiously.
‘What?’ Anna folded her arms defensively.
‘You just need to blend in a bit more.’ Lucy stood up and crossed to the row of lockers along the side of the room. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. This is a classy establishment and you’re traipsing the corridors in jeans and a shirt. I’ll lend you my spare uniform, that’ll do the trick. You can use it to blag your way into the Purple Suite. Just don’t blow your cover by hanging out of a sodding window this time.’
Anna stared at Lucy as she opened a locker and pawed through the contents.
‘And what do you think your no-strings management squeeze will do if he finds out you’ve leaked the hotel’s top secret story?’
Lucy shrugged airily.
‘He won’t. And even if he does I won’t care by then because you will have scooped us both a fortune. I can spend a bit more time auditioning and putting myself out there and a bit less time serving coffee to moany tourists. Don’t let me down!’
She clapped an arm around Anna’s shoulders, directed her towards the ladies’ loo and thrust the pink and grey uniform into her hands.
So now she had Lucy’s acting dreams riding on her photographic prowess too. No sodding pressure then.
Joe returned to the lobby half an hour later having done a quick recce of the second floor and finding nothing whatsoever out of place. Still, his mind lingered on the girl from room 214, despite all attempts to just crack on with the day ahead. Make sure you have the measure of every detail of a situation, and if in doubt, check it out. Hadn’t he just gone through that mantra to the shambles otherwise known as staff this morning? This was about effective security protocol. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Miss 214 was extremely cute with her green eyes and her freckles and her breezy attitude. Of course, his senses still kicked into action when he encountered attractive women, even nutjobs who hung off window ledges, Rome wasn’t built in a day. His previous life had been so different to this, jetting around the world in the wake of his celebrity boss, a girl in every city. His body was still living in a different sexual time zone, one where he was never in one place long enough to stick out a meaningful relationship, where women lasted a night or two before he moved on and his bed was never empty for too long.
He hadn’t had any female company since he’d flown home to England, which actually amounted to a considerable drought by his standards. Not that it felt like home after all this time. Being told his job with Stan Taylor was no longer a job had been the final push to do what he’d never thought he would. His mother was in a nursing home. He had no roots, owned no property, lived out of a suitcase. A contract in one place for once, near enough to his mother to keep an eye on her care, had seemed a good idea at the time. But he was feeling more and more by the day that he wasn’t cut out to have roots and normality at all. She’d never needed him or anyone in her entire life and he could easily have continued to oversee her care by telephone.
‘Can you give me the guest name for room 214?’ he asked one of the receptionists, glancing around the lobby as she pressed a few buttons on her computer. A group of tourists congregated at one of the tables, a stack of leaflets of the London sights being passed among them.
‘That room’s currently empty,’ she said. ‘Did you resolve the suicide situation at the side of the hotel?’
He snapped his eyes sharply away from the tourists.
‘Empty?’
She nodded.
‘There’s a problem with the ceiling in the ensuite. Maintenance are handling it, it’s on their work schedule for tomorrow…’ She raised her voice to call the last part of that after him as he dashed back across the lobby.
Afternoon tea in the lounge? He immediately checked the room. Miss 214 was nowhere to be seen and there was not a bloody cupcake or teapot in sight.
Operation Betsy, Take Two. Anna tried to take shallow breaths because she was squeezed into Lucy’s slightly-too-small uniform and it threatened to pop a button with the slightest wrong move. The effect was topped off with a rickety linen cart which she trundled into the service lift. She took a deep breath and pressed the button marked 2. As she waited for the lift to rumble into life beneath her feet, her mind wandered to her father. In their back garden, just the two of them and a camera. Endlessly patient, explaining to her over-eager and full of big ideas teenaged self about lighting and weather conditions, how to take and develop a picture that captured a moment flawlessly. She wondered what he would make of her now, wearing a disguise and using her feminine wiles to get an unsolicited photograph. Warmth crept uncomfortably into her cheeks.
He would surely care a lot more about her losing the house. She clung to that justifying thought. Her parents had poured their heart and soul lovingly into every brick and they were no longer here with her. This was her best shot at hanging on to what she had left of them.
Stick to the plan, Anna.
Her heart thumped thickly in her chest and her palms, curled around the handles of the linen trolley, were slick with sweat. All she needed to do was gain entry to the Purple Suite on the pretext of changing the towels, take a quick picture and then leg it. A piece of cake, according to Lucy. Instead of dwelling on the past she focused on mentally preparing herself to knock on the door of the most glamorous forty-something actress in the country. If she could get herself in the room using the towels as an excuse she would be able to see how the land lay. Maybe Betsy Warrender would be in a massively generous mood given the amount of amazing cougar sex she must be having and would offer to pose for a fan picture with her new squeeze. Job done, no guilt.
The lift came to a standstill with a ping and the doors slid smoothly open. The corridor was empty. She heaved the cart out of the lift with a bump. The Purple Suite was down the length of the corridor and then she needed to take a left. Her heart pounded thickly in her head as she pushed the cart down the hallway.
A skinny guy in a Lavington Hotel uniform rounded the corner carrying a tray of dirty crockery and she nearly leapt a foot in the air. Yet he simply nodded briefly as he passed her, with not the slightest hint of surprise or interest. Clearly Lucy must be right. Staff must come and go so frequently here that a new face didn’t deserve a second glance.
It occurred to her that this was all too damned easy as she knocked on the door of the Purple Suite. She should have known the moment it opened that it was all too good to be true. Luck hadn’t been on her side for the past few years, so why the hell would it take an upward turn now?
One of Betsy Warrender’s entourage stood before her with a notebook in one hand and the door handle in the other. She wore no make-up and had large, thick glasses and short dark hair. Then again, if Anna were dating Kip Bevan, who had the nation’s female contingent in a swoon, she’d hardly shoot herself in the foot by having model-material staff. He was a notorious womaniser.
‘Laundry,’ she said stupidly, as if she hadn’t been carrying a teetering pile of towels.
The woman opened the door wider and walked back into the suite. Anna followed, blinking around the opulence of the Purple Suite, the sparkling chandeliers, ankle deep carpet and velvet sofas. Sitting in the middle of the room was a woman in a fluffy Lavington Hotel bathrobe reading a newspaper. Anna stared. Last seen adorning the TV screen in a costume drama that was sweeping the nation, in real life Betsy Warrender looked a lot less glossy and a lot older. Her hair wasn’t as full and bouncy and her face was scrubbed of make-up. She looked pale and more than a little tired. In short, she looked normal. The kind of normal that could sell tabloid newspapers by the million if captured on film. As if on cue, Kip Bevan appeared through a door on the other side of the room, leaned over the back of the sofa and kissed Betsy’s cheek. He wore jeans and a designer T-shirt that showed off his ripped upper body, and looked dark, sleek and utterly gorgeous, like a dressed-down James Bond.
A resounding knock on the door behind her made Anna jump.
Betsy and Kip glanced up in unison and the minion with the glasses turned on her heel and returned to the door just as Anna realised with a spike of churning nerves that she was staring at the celebrity couple, rooted to the spot, like a starstruck peeping Tom. Worse, as voices became louder behind her she spun round to see none other than Joe Marshall entering the room, undoubtedly to perform some security sweep or other. Same black suit that set him apart from the hotel staff, same crisp white open-neck shirt, same broad shoulders and muscular build. His dark good looks were jaw dropping. He easily gave the man of the moment Kip Bevan a run for his money and her stomach gave a melting flip in spite of her resolve. His eyes widened in incredulous disbelief as he caught sight of her.
Oh crap.
She’d just witnessed the perfect money shot and had missed her chance.
Chapter 3 (#ub144eaae-75b7-59e3-9927-872a27b5bc78)
Joe Marshall spread his hands.
‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he said to the room. ‘I’ll just take the opportunity to brief your housekeeping assistant on the security update for the day.’
As Anna floundered, he took her by the elbow and escorted her from the suite with zero fuss or fanfare. For all Betsy and Kip knew, no one more threatening than a chambermaid had entered their perfect bubble of happiness. Her heart sank as he closed the door of the Purple Suite behind them. She might have been able to somehow pass herself off as a guest after their first encounter, but there would be no second chances this time. He stood over her as she pushed the stupid linen trolley until they reached the end of the corridor, well clear of the Purple Suite and anyone who might emerge from it.
As she came to a standstill he met her eyes with his stern grey ones.
‘Bedding change?’ she attempted brightly.
‘Really?’ he snapped. ‘Are you taking the piss?’ He held out a hand, palm-up. ‘Where’s the camera?’
This whole thing had been doomed to failure. Her shoulders sagged.
‘How did you know?’ she said.
A grin touched the corner of his mouth, lighting up the gorgeous face and causing another ill-judged surge of squidginess in her stomach. She imagined just how perfect he would look if the grin hadn’t been laced with sarcasm.
‘You are joking?’ he said. ‘Could you be any more conspicuous? Laurel and Hardy would do a better stakeout than you.’
‘I fooled the concierge,’ she countered defiantly.
‘He’d probably pass his own mother on the street.’
She gazed innocently up at the ceiling.
‘Where’s the camera?’ he repeated, not to be distracted.
She shrugged.
‘Don’t play games with me. I don’t have time for this. I’ll ask you one more time – where’s the camera?’
She made the mistake of glancing at the huge pile of towels on the linen trolley and saw the instant flash of comprehension on his face. Less than five seconds later, he’d uncovered the camera underneath the top layer of towels, primed and ready for action.
Bugger it.
She followed him meekly down the stairs to the ground floor with a heavy heart, the laundry trolley abandoned somewhere on the second floor, toying with making a run for it as they crossed the lobby. Who was she trying to kid? The nearest she’d got to fitness this past year had been nipping to the corner shop to pick up her father’s newspaper, whereas Joe Marshall looked like he chased down errant photographers every day of the week. She braced herself for being kicked out onto the pavement in full embarrassing view of the gawping public.
Instead, he showed her into what was apparently his office, a tiny room behind the reception and not far from the staff quarters. Floor plans of the hotel adorned the walls, along with what looked like staff rotas.
‘What’s this about?’ she said, a brief stab of concern in her gut as she wondered if he was going to call the police. She hadn’t really broken any laws, had she? Seeing as she hadn’t actually managed to cop a photo. Groping for a way to smooth things over, she wondered if she might be able to charm him into letting her go. It was a long shot at best – he probably had glamorous women throwing themselves at him constantly; he was hardly about to be seduced by boring Anna Clark from the back of beyond. Then again, anything was worth a try.
‘Sit down.’ He nodded at a beige office chair next to the desk.
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Suit yourself.’
Joe sat down behind the dark wood desk and leaned back in his own, larger chair, trying to keep his expression professionally neutral when his libido was zipping hotly into action at the view before him. The pink and grey hotel uniform was definitely not meant to look that sexy. Clearly too small, it hugged her every curve. The A-line skirt was a good couple of inches too short.
He needed to focus. The Betsy Warrender booking was clearly not the top secret that he’d demanded it be. In short, that meant there was a security leak at the hotel, and when he found out who it was, heads would roll.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked. He really couldn’t keep thinking of her as Miss 214.
‘Are you going to call the police?’ she countered.
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Charlotte Phillips
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 28.04.2024
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О книге: Sexy, addictive and just pure fun, don’t miss the next instalment in the Do Not Disturb series!After losing her elderly parents, portrait photographer Anna will do anything to avoid losing the family home – the only thing she has left of her perfect childhood.When a friend who works at the exclusive boutique hotel, The Lavington, provides a hot tip – an A list film star is staying there with her rumored toyboy lover – Anna comes up with a plan. A photo of them together could be the answer to all Anna’s money problems.Unfortunately, she’s the worst paparazzi photographer on the planet and Joe, the hotel’s new head of security, back in England after globetrotting as bodyguard to the stars, isn’t about to allow a picture on his watch. No matter how cute the photographer might be…