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Man vs. Socialite
Charlotte Phillips


One man. One socialite. Let the battle begin!Jack Trent. Star of Survival Camp Extreme. Ex-soldier, national treasure and all-round delectable bad-boy.Evie Staverton-Lynch. Star of Miss Knightsbridge. It-girl, fashionista, and with a smile that can charm anyone.When an ill-advised comment from Evie about Jack’s reality TV show goes viral the producers are fuming! And when they propose a joint show to harness the publicity it’s hard to tell who’s more horrified – Jack or Evie! But they can’t say no…and one unexpectedly sizzling night under the stars later it’s clear that the biggest battle will be keeping their hands off each other!









She turned slowly in her sleeping bag to face him, her face inches from his own.


‘Goodnight, Jack,’ she whispered.

Before he realised what she was doing she’d leaned in towards him and touched his lips softly with hers. She smelled sweetly of the baby wipes she’d smuggled in, and she tasted of toothpaste—and the moment her lips were against his he had absolutely no chance.

Before she could move away he raised a hand and slid his fingers into her hair, tugging it from its loose tie and relishing its silkiness, his thumbs stroking along the softness of her jaw. The silk of her skin beneath his hands was delicious, the closeness tantalisingly unfamiliar in the outdoor situation. He tilted her face gently. Another kiss, his own kiss this time, deeper, a chance to savour her.

The fire spat and popped behind her. Evie was vaguely aware of it warming her back as his tongue slipped softly against her own. One of her hands crept up and around his neck, and with the other she felt her way slowly over the padded sleeping bag to curl it around his back.

Delicious heat coursed through her as she pushed her reservations aside. Jack Trent was not some wannabe partygoer, desperate for the kudos of bedding Miss Knightsbridge. He had his own life, his own agenda, and he wasn’t remotely seduced by shallow motivations. This was not a repeat of her same old mistake, made again and again in her desperation for love and approval. He was different. With him she could be herself, and for once that was good enough.


Dear Reader (#ulink_e74c11f2-2687-53fd-8f67-6f07bfe4eb8b)

I wrote this story in the middle of winter, just after Christmas, in that lull during the New Year when going out is on the back burner and it’s cold outside. I spent rather a lot of my evenings back then cozied up on the sofa in my pyjamas, fighting my husband for the remote control and watching all kinds of TV. And it was on one of those evenings that the first seeds of this story came together.

If, like me, you’ve ever watched a reality TV show and thought There’s no way that person is really as in-your-face as that … or That situation has to have been a set-up … then you’ll know exactly where I’m coming from with Evie and Jack’s story. It’s a story of larger-than-life alter egos and hidden backgrounds, and the world of reality TV is the perfect backdrop for it. A place where you can hide your faults or your past behind an image and be whoever you want to be. Public approval can be a hard thing to give up, but Evie and Jack must work hard to see past the TV hype if they are to find happiness.

The setting for this book was great fun to plan and write—and, as always, I hope I can entertain you!

Love

Charlotte x




Man vs. Socialite

Charlotte Phillips





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHARLOTTE PHILLIPS has been reading romantic fiction since her teens, and she adores upbeat stories with happy endings. Writing them for Mills & Boon® is her dream job. She combines writing with looking after her fabulous husband, two teenagers, a four-year-old and a dachshund. When something has to give, it’s usually housework. She lives in Wiltshire.


DEDICATION (#ulink_60a367da-e306-5403-8331-71c5e1294e40)

For my mum, with love and hugs.


Contents

Cover (#ud37f0ee6-39b3-59ea-a372-74340e193086)

Introduction (#ufb9024b3-96f4-5bee-8249-5bb7c88e563a)

Dear Reader (#u4936f087-f146-5a41-b771-e00e350ab04c)

Title Page (#u67f6ead7-d094-5fdc-8250-659f8b3cb7bd)

About the Author (#u5b8b6ca0-0934-52e4-a998-9d4e083e3315)

DEDICATION (#u3219d56e-2417-5f32-b13e-ea65b4033a01)

Contents (#u41c71b34-9198-54b8-8bf3-d07142149f48)

ONE (#u7049bb53-27a0-588e-adec-ae06a2334aff)

TWO (#u92262c53-f751-5e0b-8b0f-ff6d24d8bcd4)

THREE (#u9386aa4e-aade-5e71-bf4c-24ae04084489)

FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


ONE (#ulink_d0e5981f-633a-5094-9e78-07f20b65744e)

The thing about smartphones was that when you were public enemy number one you could pick up all derogatory comments about you in one place. Convenient, not.

A post online...

Like to see @evieITgirl eat roasted rat. Where does she get off bad-mouthing @SurvivalJackT? #shallow

New Social Network group...

Sack Evie Staverton-Lynch from reality TV show Miss Knightsbridge. 15000 likes and counting.

Video currently going viral...

Watch It-girl Evangeline Staverton-Lynch accuse TV survival expert Jack Trent of sham expeditions.



The hit counter was heading towards six figures and the hateful mobile-phone clip had only been posted two days ago.

Crisis talks were called that for a reason. Evie turned off her phone with its tirade of abuse and sipped the horrible coffee in the office of the one person who might be able to get her out of this hole she’d dug for herself.

Chester Smith, PR to the stars, to whom she’d pledged a percentage of her income for the foreseeable future and whose manipulation of the media was responsible for her meteoric rise from insignificant socialite with too much time on her hands to darling of the reality-show-viewing public, sat on the opposite side of the glass desk. Signed glossy framed photos beamed from the office walls showing TV stars past and present whose über-successful careers had been managed by him. The desk was spread with a selection of the day’s tabloids. She could see grainy stills of her own face on the front page of at least three of them. Chester tossed his perfectly styled quiff, pulled out a tablet, flipped back the gaudy cover and tapped ‘play’ on the mobile-phone video, as if Evie hadn’t had it playing on a humiliating loop in her head for the last forty-eight hours.

There she was, picture quality not great but still perfectly unmistakeable, her favourite designer clutch on the pristine white tablecloth next to her water glass. Her father, stiff-backed, sat opposite her with his back to the camera. In the background she could see the other people lunching earlier this week at the glossy Knightsbridge eaterie, a popular celebrity hangout. And wasn’t that exactly why she’d chosen that venue when her father had demanded they meet? Her father never suggested or asked when it came to seeing Evie, he demanded. When he said lunch, you said how many courses. And if she was going to sit through a couple of hours of criticism she might as well do it on her own territory, somewhere she’d at last begun to feel she fitted in.

She’d even had a couple of fans of the show interrupt the lunch to ask for photos. Her father’s disapproval had surged towards breaking point each time—and hadn’t that rather been the point? She might not be appreciated by him, might in fact be pretty much insignificant these days unless she somehow showed him up, but at least here she felt as if she was among people who liked her, even if it was the carefully manufactured prom-queen version of her they saw on screen.

After twenty-odd years of Evie feeling inconsequential and pointless, the public interest and support that followed her appearance in hit reality TV show Miss Knightsbridge had been the stuff of dreams.

Turned out it was the fickle kind of support that could be undone with one stupid wrong move.

* * *

Chester fiddled with the tablet until the clip was full-screen at maximum sound.

‘No, I don’t watch your show,’ her father’s deep clipped voice boomed out. ‘I have absolutely no desire to watch you make a spectacle of yourself on national television. I find it inexplicable that the viewing public would have the slightest interest in how you spend your time.’ There was a pause as her father took a sip of his white wine. She could see her own smile fold in on itself on the opposite side of the table. ‘Should I happen to put the television on, I would be watching the other side. Jack Trent’s Survival Camp Extreme.’

There was a pause in the conversation. The background buzz of the restaurant could be heard in the gap. Evie wasn’t sure even now which revelation had rendered her speechless—the simple fact that her father watched television at all these days or his traitorous allegiance to the rival show in the ratings to her own.

After nigh on twenty years of trying and failing, at first to please him and eventually just to interest him, you’d think she would have developed the skin of a rhino by now. This last year the sudden sensation of being liked, of being popular, had been like a dream. After being unexpectedly scouted by the TV production company for Miss Knightsbridge, Evie had found that public affection had even more unexpectedly followed. Interviews and magazine photo shoots poured in as the popularity of the show climbed. And on the back of it all she was just launching her very own jewellery line, a dream she’d secretly nurtured for years but had never before had the confidence to take forward. A new business. Surely that would impress her father. The hoped-for happy response to the news that she would be making a living for herself now instead of cruising along on the cushion of her allowance was instead lost to his disapproval of the TV show. She wondered for a moment what job she would have to do to elicit his good opinion. Brain surgeon, perhaps.

‘Making a spectacle of yourself for all to see,’ he was saying. ‘After the upbringing you’ve had.’

Heaven forbid that he might miss an opportunity to mention her upbringing, the implication ever-present that she should be grateful she still had one, never mind that it had been devoid of anything really except for his money and use of his name. Love and affection had been laughed out of the room from the moment her mother died, no matter how hard she tried to earn them. Her membership of the family had only ever been an honorary one, extended to her for the sake of her mother’s feelings when she was alive and her mother’s memory now she was dead.

‘Thank goodness your mother isn’t here to see it,’ he added.

That last comment hit her low in the stomach and took her breath away even when she watched it back, knowing it was coming, because perhaps the most delicious part of designing her jewellery line had been imagining the glee her mother might have felt about it. Her mum had loved costume jewellery, letting six-year-old Evie play dress-up with her box of sparkly cocktail rings and beads. The memory was a treasured one, a sparkling one among many, many later memories that were grey with obedience, routine and loneliness.

And that more than anything had triggered the thundering, ill-judged lashing-out that followed.

Now, in the cold light of a few days later, Evie’s insides churned in anticipatory mortification at what came next on the tape.

Her own voice kicked in on the video, and did she really sound that pinched and snobby? Another surge of hot shame climbed her neck to burn in her face.

‘Jack Trent’s ex-army, isn’t he?’ she heard herself snap. ‘So it comes as no surprise that you’d prefer watching his show to mine.’

She’d had her fill of military-style closing of ranks growing up. After her mother had gone she simply hadn’t possessed enough female clout by herself to counteract the cold and regimented male-dominated life that was left. The new revelation that apparently a background in the armed forces ranked above his regard for her raised her temper to even dizzier heights.

‘Trent’s show is a documentary,’ her father snapped. ‘Completely different. It has substance. Five minutes of your fly-on-the-wall was enough. It’s nothing but vacuous rubbish. You’ve turned the family into a laughing stock.’

The family. Not our family. Figure of speech? Or dead giveaway about how he regarded her? She seemed to see her exclusion in his every nuance these days. The difference between her and her brother Will that had never mattered when her mother was there to provide the link that held them together. Half-brother, she corrected now in her mind. She was the cuckoo in the nest since her mother had gone, no one left any more to justify her place there. The sadness of that thought had brought a sudden burst of irrational jealous hostility towards Jack Trent and his stupid survival skills. She gathered all the hurt and misery and frustration together and verbalised it, and unfortunately Jack Trent, whom she’d never met, happened to be inadvertently in the firing line.

‘Substance?’ she snarled. ‘I can’t believe you buy into all that. Do you really think he’s sleeping under the stars eating barbecued rat? When the camera switches off he’ll be off to the nearest luxury hotel to sleep on duck-down pillows and scoff à la carte.’

An audible sucking in of breath from Chester brought her right back to the horrible present.

‘You know, it doesn’t matter how many times I hear that, it doesn’t lose its shock value,’ he breathed, tapping the tablet to pause the video. A grainy freeze-frame of her own miserable and indignant expression filled the screen. Her head had started to ache.

‘What were you thinking? You’ve probably ruined your own career in a couple of sentences and you’ve dragged Jack Trent down with you. The production company are apoplectic.’

‘It was a private opinion,’ she protested, the injustice of the whole thing spiking her anger. In actual fact it hadn’t even been an opinion, it had been a lashing-out, no time to be held back by a little thing like the fact it wasn’t true. ‘Jack Trent’s show just happened to be the one my father mentioned he watched instead of mine. It was a knee-jerk reaction, not meant for public viewing.’

‘What you failed to consider is that the production company who make Miss Knightsbridge also make Jack Trent’s Survival Camp Extreme. The tabloids are implying that means it isn’t an off-the-cuff bitchy comment, that you must have some insider information.’ Chester leaned in. ‘That Jack Trent really is eating hotel food instead of living off nature’s bounty.’

Not one to let up for a moment, he swiped the screen a couple of times and brought up the social network group page she’d seen earlier.

‘Jack Trent’s fan base are extremely loyal,’ he said. ‘“Get evil Evie off our TV screens,”’ he read aloud. ‘Now sixteen thousand likes and counting—’

Unlike her fans. She had yet to read as much as a single supportive comment. A spike of miserable envy jabbed her in the stomach at the depth of public affection for Jack Trent.

She put her head in her hands and stared down at the glass table top in despair.

‘Please, I don’t want to hear any more.’

Now she wished she’d bitten her tongue before she’d spoken, but her subconscious mind had simply taken over in that moment of stress. Jack Trent was an ex-soldier, bound to be another cold and detached military man. He was basically her father minus thirty or so years, and so he happened to be a handy by-proxy target.

Because even after all these years of indifference at best and criticism at worst, Evie still couldn’t bring herself to diss her father. Not to his face anyway.

Unfortunately she hadn’t reckoned for a moment on having her comments overheard by the world at large. And apparently an immediate apology via social media just didn’t cut the mustard when an inflammatory comment went viral.

‘In the public consciousness right now you are pond life, sweetie.’ Chester pointed at her with his pen. ‘And worse than that, you’re pond life with money. Public support has been based around fascination with your ditsy-but-sweet image, your how-the-other-half-live fashion sense and your socialite mates. That kind of thing doesn’t hold much water now you’ve bad-mouthed a national treasure. They think they’ve seen the real you, and, honey, it ain’t pretty.’

He tapped the screen again and shoved it in front of Evie’s face. She batted the tablet aside, but unfortunately not before she’d seen the comment at the top of the list.



@evieITgirl lives in luxury. @SurvivalJackT fought for his country #wasteofspace



She clapped her hands over her eyes and pressed her palms against her eyelids. On the opposite side of the table criticism carried on. Unfortunately she didn’t have enough hands to cover her ears too.

* * *

Jack Trent gritted his teeth and climbed out of the taxi at the glossy offices of Purple Productions, the usual sense of resignation kicking in at time required to be spent schmoozing in the city, which he considered to be time completely wasted. He wondered if he would ever in his life get the train into London without then counting the hours until he could get the train back out again.

Back in the wilderness at the outward-bound centre he owned in the Scottish Highlands, fine-tuning preparations were unexpectedly on hold for his latest venture, one which for the first time meant more than just a business opportunity based on his military skills. This new initiative was close to his heart. He had more invested in it than just time and money. The sudden requirement to leave and come to talk to suits would have had his mood on a knife edge at the best of times, let alone when he was on the cusp of such an important new venture.

Yet he came all the same, because the publicity he’d gained since his adventures had been televised had given him clout that was worth something. His survival-course business had skyrocketed. A meeting here, a party or a photo opportunity there, and now he was at a point where he could kick his actions up to another level, beyond just fund-raising. His carefully devised courses for kids were on the brink of being a reality, a way at last to make a real difference that might compensate for his past mistakes. He hadn’t needed to come to the city that often to keep his agent happy and his popularity high. And with the launch of this new course he needed that popularity more than ever.

The unexpected revelation that the Internet was awash with a rumour that his notoriously tough survival-skills documentaries were actually bullshit was so unbelievable that at first he thought it was a joke. Surfing the Internet wasn’t at the top of his priority list at any time, certainly not when he was in the middle of nowhere risk-assessing potential sites for river crossings. As a result the rumour was at full pelt in the media before he knew a thing about it. A phone call from one of his employees informing him that he was currently trending online confirmed that, no, unfortunately, it was perfectly true. He’d watched the offending video and he’d had plenty of time on the train to read about the backlash in the press, invariably accompanied by an endless collection of glamour shots of Evangeline Staverton-Lynch.

By the time he reached London he had all the sorry details and if the situation wasn’t rectified to his satisfaction, heads would roll. No matter how pretty they might be.

* * *

Evie got into the car next to Chester the following morning with her head held high, hair and make-up perfect, her pink designer suit carefully chosen because it was the furthest thing in her wardrobe from demure black. She’d had plenty of time to get her frame of mind right because she’d barely slept, not that anyone else needed to know that. She’d grimly painted out the dark shadows under her eyes with concealer and added a slick of pink lip gloss. Ready to channel defiance, because in her experience contrite got you nowhere.

The part of her that hadn’t slept wanted to grovel apologies at Jack Trent and then hide in her little flat in Chelsea for possibly the rest of her life. She refused obstinately to listen to that Evie. That Evie was the same one who even after twenty years still wanted her mum, who’d ached to go home when she was dropped at boarding school and who’d tried everything she could think of to secure her father’s good opinion. Instead, his particular blend of parental indifference had spiralled down the years into disapproval until the only thing that seemed to spike his interest was a climbing scale of outrageous or shocking behaviour. And so that was what she’d delivered. In spades.

After finding that he wouldn’t bother turning up at school for shows or open days but would descend on the place in full and scary military uniform when she was reprimanded for smoking and for dancing on the tables during prep, a brand-new Evie had come to the fore. This new incarnation was a master at I-don’t-care. And she’d had her feet under the table for so long now that the Evie who felt mortified and guilt-ridden at the grief she’d caused Jack Trent most certainly wasn’t about to surface and take the flak.

It was a beautiful spring morning, cold but sunny. Perfect for a spot of shopping in South West London and then maybe coffee at a pavement café. Chance would be a fine thing. The way things were right now any beverage drunk in public might very well be tipped over her head by an indignant pensioner. Jack Trent’s supporters were everywhere and age was no boundary.

‘We’re meeting the executive producer of Miss Knightsbridge and some of the production team,’ Chester briefed her as the car nosed its way through the London morning traffic. ‘They want to talk through the situation, explore some options.’

‘You mean they want to sack me.’

His lack of reply didn’t instil confidence.

She followed Chester through the glossy reception of Purple Productions, its walls festooned with glossy stills from its string of über-successful shows. Behind the reception desk she saw a shot taken from Miss Knightsbridge of herself walking down Brompton Road with armfuls of designer carrier bags. Unfortunately a few rows along her eyes fell on a photo of Jack Trent, up to his neck in hideous river water as he manoeuvred his way with a machete through dense reeds and river debris. His face was smeared with mud. Her stomach gave a nervous churn.

She could feel the disapproving eyes of the rubbernecking office staff boring into her as she walked. It felt as if she were about to be lynched. Right now she wished she’d bitten off her own tongue before she’d spoken so recklessly.

It was immediately obvious on entering the boardroom why the typing pool had been looking at her as if she were an interesting new species of worm. Jack Trent was leaning back in his chair on the opposite side of the meeting table with an expression on his face that implied he’d quite like to see her head on a spike. Her stomach plummeted like a stone. The photo in Reception and the glimpses she’d caught of him on TV or in the odd magazine hadn’t done him justice. He had the broadest chest of any man she’d ever seen, solid muscle beneath the tailored shoulders of his dark jacket. His light brown hair was very short, not much more than military buzz cut, and his face sported a small scar high on the left chiselled cheekbone and a tan the depth of which could only be achieved from spending days on end outdoors without wearing anything so namby-pamby as sunblock. He met her gaze with green eyes that might have been stomach-melting if they hadn’t been furious. He was without a shred of doubt gorgeous eye candy of the highest order. If you liked the cold-hearted, detached, wants-to-kill-you soldier look, that was.

She didn’t.

Also around the table she recognised members of the Miss Knightsbridge production team. Hostility radiated from them and she curled her hands into damp fists at her sides and averted her eyes from the antagonistic expressions. She’d made a stupid smartass comment; she’d never meant it to be repeated publicly; it was a mistake, nothing more. She did not deserve to be hung out to dry. She gritted her teeth, determined not to give away that she was upset. She would brazen it out, exactly the way she always did. Defiant brave face, that was the thing. Tried and tested, relied on throughout her life.

Even so, humiliation bubbled hotly upward from her neck and and boiled in her cheeks as she took a chair as close to the door as possible, in case the brave-face thing didn’t work and the suppressed urge to bolt and just hide for the next ten years in her flat in Chelsea got the better of her.

* * *

Jack Trent watched Evie walk into the boardroom with her perfectly coiffed head held high. She wore her hair loose, its glossy waves threaded with perfect tones of toffee and gold that looked deliciously touchable but which surely depended on endless wasted hours in a top salon. Her eyes were wide and baby blue, there was a tiny spray of freckles on her nose, and her mouth with its deliciously full lower lip was painted pale pink. She was the perfect example of English rose. She was tall and slender in the beautifully cut pink suit with short skirt and his mind insisted on treating him to a delectable flash of the photos he’d seen of her in the press on the way here, wearing a silk slip and a very cute smile.

He looked away, not without some difficulty, and refocused his mind carefully on the unbelievable mess she’d single-handedly made of his reputation with a couple of sentences.

‘Jack, this is Evangeline Staverton-Lynch,’ the company PR said at his elbow.

He took a breath and met her gaze across the table. She held his eyes with her own clear blue defiant ones, and if he’d been expecting a grovelling apology he’d apparently be waiting a long time. Clearly she was just another vacuous self-obsessed TV wannabe—only interested in her own fame and fortune. He knew the type only too well.

She nodded at him from across the table and beamed a perfect smile as if she hadn’t thrown the survival of his pet project into the balance. Four years ago this month since he’d left the army, and it had taken this long to reach a point where he could maybe begin to siphon off some of the guilt at what had happened while he’d been away. He’d believed enlisting would be the answer to all his problems, and it had been. His own slate wiped clean, a fresh start for him. The payoff had been the life left behind for his mother and sister and the nightmare Helen had drifted into without him there to look out for her. Too late now to change the past for Helen, but his work could still make a difference to others like her. He’d put his heart and soul into it and now, thanks to this diva, it looked as if the whole thing was going to fail before it even got off the ground.

‘I should be in Scotland right now,’ he snapped before anyone else could speak. ‘Working on the final kit list for my kids’ twenty-four-hour survival-skills course. It’s meant to be piloting in schools next month. I’ve been working towards this for the past two years, it’s the sole reason I’ve kept up the TV shows, and now I find the whole thing is hanging by a thread because of some libellous comment made by you. You don’t even know me.’

Evie straightened her back and pressed her teeth together to keep the not-my-fault smile in place. It would have been so much easier somehow if his TV show were the limit of his remit. A small twist of envy knotted her stomach at the thought of his survival business, at his drive and direction in life. The Jack Trent that existed outside the TV screen clearly had a lot more substance than Evie Staverton-Lynch did when you stripped away her own media image.

She resorted to the method that had dug her out of many a scrape throughout school: do not admit responsibility. And followed it up by pasting on a smile and mustering up as much charm as she could manage.

She leaned forward in her chair and offered him a demure smile.

‘Look, Jack—can I call you Jack?’

He stared at her incredulous but she carried on regardless.

‘This has all been a vile misunderstanding. It was a private comment, taken completely out of context. Filmed without my knowledge or consent. Honestly, these people have no respect for anyone’s privacy. But please don’t worry.’ She sat back and nodded reassuringly as if she had the whole ridiculous debacle under some level of control. In her dreams. ‘I issued an immediate retraction via social media.’

‘Are you having some kind of a laugh?’ he shouted. ‘A retraction via social media? Too little, too bloody late.’ He held her gaze angrily until she finally dropped her eyes. ‘Half the country have heard you bad-mouthing me. The papers are full of it. Mud like that sticks.’

She pushed her hands into her hair and stared down at the table.

‘I’m truly sorry for any inconvenience this has caused you but I can’t be responsible for something filmed without my knowledge. It wasn’t directed at you. I was having an argument with my father and I spoke without thinking. If I could take it back I would. If there’s anything I can do to fix the situation, I will.’

She smiled winningly at him. He scowled back.

‘Delighted to hear you say that, because we have a solution.’ The executive producer at the head of the table interrupted and held her hands up for silence. ‘Miss Knightsbridge and Survival Camp Extreme are, as you know, both made by Purple Productions. Very different, admittedly, but both are under our control. As such, this is why the current media backlash is so damaging. The tabloids have been quick to notice the connection and it lends credence to the accusations made against Jack.’

Evie felt Jack’s eyes on her again and she forced herself to look right back at him. The green eyes didn’t flicker as he stared her down. Her charm offensive didn’t seem to be having much of an effect. What the hell else could she do? This whole damn thing had been blown out of all proportion.

‘These are our two top-rated shows and without some intervention there’s likely to be a knock-on effect on the ratings of both.’ The producer took a breath. ‘Fortunately we’ve been able to come up with a suggestion that will harness this backlash and turn it into something positive.’

‘Harness it?’ Jack said. His voice was strong and deep. Indeterminable accent—no clipped Britishness like her father. She caught herself wondering vaguely what his background was, where he was from.

‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity, Jack. Remember that.’ Chester, the only person in her camp and he was paid to be there, pointed his pen at Jack’s angry face from his seat next to Evie.

‘There is when it undermines everything I’ve worked for,’ he growled.

‘What we’re proposing is a one-off special.’ The producer spoke over them and then paused for effect. ‘Miss Knightsbridge Meets Survival Camp Extreme.’

There was a stunned silence around the table.


TWO (#ulink_116c1087-d6eb-56bc-ba05-c6cc4add8821)

‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’ Evie’s stomach felt suddenly as if a brick had been dumped inside it. She had absolutely no desire to spend even a single second more in the company of Jack Trent. And from the way he was looking at her it was clear the feeling was mutual.

The producer clapped her hands together excitedly.

‘Absolutely. You guest on Jack’s show. One of his usual survival quests. It’s not such an off-the-wall suggestion—he’s had guests on before, demonstrating survival techniques, sampling bush tucker, that kind of thing. A day or two with the bare essentials, during which you experience Jack’s survival skills at first hand. It will take advantage of the massive public interest and makes it work to our advantage. Think about it. Could there be a better retraction than that?’

She beamed an encouraging smile in Evie’s direction. ‘You know the kind of thing. I’m thinking you serve up some kind of foraged meal and sleep in a shelter made of sticks you’ve built yourself. Perhaps do a river crossing. The public will lap it up. You can eat your words on national TV, you restore Jack’s reputation and hopefully we boost the ratings of both shows in the process. Really, it’s genius.’

‘No way!’

Evie was on her feet to protest, beaten by a split second by Jack Trent on the opposite side of the boardroom table. He was a good foot taller than her, a dark green shirt beneath his jacket picking out the darker tones in his eyes, and he certainly commanded attention. The eyes of everyone around the table, including her own, swivelled in his direction. Even his choice of daywear came from a camouflage colour palette. Shock-horror. For the first and possibly the last time, he agreed with her.

* * *

‘You’re not messing with the Survival Camp format,’ Jack said shortly. ‘This ridiculous charade has nothing to do with me. Reprimand the socialite princess if you want to, drop her show, sue her for damages, I really don’t care. I’m not the one who’s done anything wrong here.’

Socialite princess? How dared he?

‘Excuse me?’ she snapped at him indignantly.

‘Legal action is a possibility,’ the PR manager sitting on Jack’s right said.

Cold tendrils of dread thundered into Evie’s heart. She glanced sideways at Chester in a panic, her mouth paper-dry as the implications of that raced through her mind. Chester had turned an interesting shade of grey, undoubtedly thinking of his own commission. They could probably take her to the cleaners over this. Jack probably could too, if the mood took him. Months of tabloid coverage yawned terrifyingly ahead of her. Her reputation and her new jewellery business would be in tatters. The thought of her father’s reaction made her feel sick.

‘Although it’s not necessarily the best option,’ the PR continued.

A tentative surge of relief kicked in because although it was clear from this that there was another option, it clearly wasn’t going to be pleasant.

‘Doesn’t really matter who’s wrong or right.’ The executive producer took over again at the head of the table. ‘I don’t care and the viewing public don’t give a toss either. The only thing that’s important is that putting the two of you together right now is TV gold. The public are siding with Jack right now but the tabloids are still sowing that nugget of doubt. The tide could turn at any moment.’ She looked directly at Jack. ‘Mud really does stick. Doesn’t matter that there’s not an ounce of truth in it, it’s been repeated so much now in so many places that public belief in the credibility of your skills is bound to be called into question. The best way to refute this is to take it and run with it. On screen.’

‘Survival Camp is a serious premise,’ Jack said. ‘Not some reality-show fluff. It has a serious message behind it. Look at her.’ He waved an incredulous hand in Evie’s direction. ‘She wouldn’t last five minutes. Absolutely no way.’

The instant dismissal fired up a surge of defiance in her belly.

‘I’m as fit as you are,’ she snapped at him.

He laughed out loud and indignant anger burned in her cheeks, undoubtedly clashing horribly with her pink designer suit.

‘You really think a few yoga classes can give you the stamina to cross a river unaided, sweetheart?’ he shot back.

‘I don’t think you understand,’ the producer cut in. ‘You’re both under contract to do more shows. We’re within our rights to change the format as we see fit—just take a peek at the small print. Plus Adventure Bars are making noises about withdrawing sponsorship of Jack’s show. I’ve managed to talk them round on the strength of the potential publicity of this joint show. I don’t think either of you realise what a mess this is.’

‘Adventure Bars?’ Evie said.

The producer flapped a hand at her.

‘Nutritional snack bars for hardcore outdoor types. They sponsor Jack’s show. They are also,’ she added in a pointed aside to Jack, ‘sponsoring that spin-off outdoor activities initiative you’re hoping to roll out in schools. You really think that’s going to get off the ground if your main sponsor pulls out and you can’t restore public confidence?’

The injustice of it all made anger sear through Jack’s veins. He had to admit that the revelation that his sponsors were getting cold feet was news to him. He dug nails into his palms.

He’d piloted an outdoor survival course aimed specifically at kids and the interest had blown him away. He knew better than anyone about what a difference something like this could make to a generation of bored couch-potato kids who were either hanging around street corners waiting to be sucked into crime or were hooked on TV and video games. His sister Helen crossed his mind, never far away. If he could divert one kid from the path she’d taken, all the hard graft would be worth it. But no matter how hard he worked, taking it to the next step depended on consumer confidence and investment. Thanks to Princess Knightsbridge over there, both those things now hung in the balance and he was prepared to do anything to pull that situation back.

He realised with a burst of fury that he would have to do the one-off show. It could be the only way to make sure he obliterated all doubts about his integrity. And if she thought he’d be giving her an easy ride she was deluded.

The executive producer looked at Evie.

‘Without this show, Evie, I’m afraid renewing your contract for Miss Knightsbridge will be out of the question. Without the joint show we’d have to find alternative ways to minimise the bad publicity. The best course of action would probably be to quietly write you out. Of course we’d have to find a new central character for the show—’

‘I’ll do it,’ Evie cut in immediately. What choice did she have? Without this show her public image was worth nothing. There would be no more magazine articles, no more talking-heads fashion slots on daytime TV. Her fledgling jewellery business would fail before it even began. She’d be back to the quiet life, cruising along alone with no aim or direction, and this time the quiet life would probably come with hate mail. ‘I’ll do the foraging and the sleeping outside and the rubbing sticks together to make fire.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘I’d prefer not to do water though.’

Jack laughed out loud mirthlessly.

‘You think you can get through an outward-bound weekend without getting wet, sweetheart? You obviously haven’t watched the show. Think again.’

Of course she hadn’t watched the show—was he insane? She didn’t do the great outdoors. The nearest she’d ever got to it were camping holidays as a small child, and they’d never happened again after her mother died. As her Miss Knightsbridge image demanded, she did luxury hotels, spa treatments and shopping. On her own time she did comfy pyjamas, tea and toast, and American TV show box sets. Not a foraged meal in sight in either her public or private persona.

He was already up, striding towards the exit, his entire demeanour exuding white-hot anger. So all she had to do to regain public affection, keep her TV show and stop her fledgling jewellery business from going under was survive a weekend in rough terrain with a companion who hated her guts.

Just bloody great.

* * *

‘You’re going on a TV show with Evie Staverton-Lynch?’ Helen’s voice on the phone practically bubbled with interest. ‘Miss Knightsbridge?’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘Oh, I just love her! Her clothes are to die for. Can you ask her where she got that butterfly necklace she wore on last week’s show?’

Jack drew in an exasperated breath. All the girl did was wear designer clothes and hang out in swanky bars. And now it seemed his own sister was as sucked in by all the TV crap as everyone else.

‘She’s a reality TV star,’ he pointed out. Someone had to. ‘It doesn’t require a modicum of talent. Why is she so popular? What is it about her?’

‘It’s the whole different world thing, isn’t it? The way the other half live, the money they spend. It’s cult viewing. Everyone watches it and everyone has an opinion on it. Don’t you know that?’

Helen’s tone had a hint of you’re-too-decrepit-to-understand. The eight years between them yawned canyon-wide.

‘Evie Staverton-Lynch is really cool and funny,’ she added.

‘Did you not see the trouble she’s caused me?’ he said.

Helen made a vague dismissive noise as if she was distracted. He could just imagine her watching TV while she talked to him. Multitasking, splitting her attention down the middle. A fond smile touched his lips. He loved her in-your-face attitude. It hadn’t been long enough since she’d been holed up in the hospital, too weak to speak. And then there had been rehab. Would it ever be long enough?

‘It’s all just a publicity stunt,’ she said. ‘All designed to get more attention. Probably staged.’

‘I need it like a hole in the head,’ he said.

‘You need to lighten up’, she said. ‘With any luck you might even come out of this looking a bit hip. Your shows have been looking a bit nerdy recently.’

He could hear the teasing smile in her voice.

‘Nerdy?’ A grin spread across his face at her cheek. He could never hear enough of that.

‘This could get you a whole new audience.’

‘Will you be watching?’

Her voice softened.

‘I always watch.’

‘And you’re feeling OK and your college course is going fine?’ he checked.

‘For the hundredth time, will you stop fussing? I’m perfectly fine, I promise.’

He restrained himself from picking endlessly at her. There was a constant need to be certain she was on track, doing fine, clean. It had barely diminished since that first shocking sight of her at rock bottom, a journey she’d taken while he’d been on the other side of the world, oblivious, revelling in his army career.

‘I’ll call you as soon as I get back from filming,’ he said.

‘Evie Staverton-Lynch has the best fashion sense in the country. She’ll soon have you out of that camo green you keep wearing. Good luck!’ She blew him a kiss and put the phone down.

For Pete’s sake.

* * *

‘You don’t have to go through with this.’

Annabel Sutton leaned back against the plump pink cushions on Evie’s sofa and as usual said exactly what Evie wanted to hear. Annabel pulled a face as she sipped her coffee. Not her usual table in her favourite Chelsea café and clearly Evie wasn’t up to supplying the usual standard of beverage. After the reaction Evie had got in the street this morning when she’d nipped to the corner shop to buy milk, she’d insisted Annabel come to her flat instead of going out. An irate pensioner had informed her that she ought to be ashamed of herself, saying those awful things about that ‘nice young man’.

‘None of this is your fault,’ Annabel soothed. ‘Total overreaction by the TV company—the whole thing’s been blown out of proportion. And it’s not like you’re on the breadline, sweetie. You’ve got a whopping great allowance, this lovely flat, a country estate. You don’t need to take this.’ She paused. ‘The production company really suggested cutting you from the show, did you say?’ She gazed up at the ceiling. ‘How awful. I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away after that lack of support. I guess they’ll move one of the rest of us into the central role.’

Secondary player on Miss Knightsbridge, Annabel had a part-time PR job in a glossy art gallery and a fabulously supportive family who were distantly related to the Queen. It occurred to Evie that Annabel was seeing this a bit too much like an opportunity to really pull off supportive.

‘The threat of legal action was bandied about,’ Evie said shortly. ‘For potential loss of income relating to Jack Trent’s TV series, his business interests... I do this show, I avert the possibility of that.’

That would make sense to Annabel. A reason that was related to finance. Evie didn’t mention that the money was the least of her worries. The thing that really ached the most was the loss of support, the way the public had turned on her after making her feel special for once. What she really wanted, if she was honest, was to find a way to turn that around, to get things back to the way they were. To launch her jewellery business to rapturous reviews, perhaps secure a concession in one of the department stores, instead of sinking out of sight under a cloud of public dislike.

‘Plus I might be able to turn off the Internet but I still can’t leave the flat without grief from the public.’

‘Since when have you given a damn what other people think?’

Annabel was familiar with Evie’s perfected I-don’t-care-bring-on-the-fun persona. At school Evie had quickly learned that attitude earned friendship from the most popular girls. In South West London she’d continued to work at being one of the crowd, the need to belong somewhere as important to her as ever. She wasn’t sure what her friends, or the TV viewers for that matter, would make of her if they knew that given the choice of falling out of a glossy nightclub and curling up with a box set, the TV show would win every time.

‘Since I can’t put my head outside the door without pensioners accosting me.’ She thought back to this morning’s encounter. It seemed age was no barrier to the charm Jack Trent held over the opposite sex.

‘And you’re sure Jack Trent isn’t the real reason you’re up for this?’ Annabel said slyly. ‘I mean, did you see him shirtless in the papers? Utterly jaw-dropping and totally eligible. He’s never photographed with the same woman twice. I can think of people I’d rather kick out of the tent.’

Evie suppressed a flash of interest in scanning the tabloids online. Never the same woman twice? Familiar alarm bells clanged madly in her head. She’d fallen for looks and charm once too often only to find the person they were actually interested in bedding was TV’s Miss Knightsbridge, along with her glossy life. Once they’d reached that base, interest in the real Evie seemed to disappear like smoke, with the possible exception of one D-list pop star she’d dated who’d spun out the charade a bit longer because he wanted a spot on the TV show. She had absolutely no interest in spending time with Jack Trent beyond salvaging her own reputation. What he looked like without a shirt and his marital status had no place in the debate.

‘According to what I’ve read about his survival courses, I’ll be lucky to even get a tent,’ she said.

* * *

The evening before filming started and Jack arrived at the Scottish hotel habitually used by the production crew when making his TV series, and presumably the hotel Evie Staverton-Lynch had referred to in her libellous comment.

He took a small amount of pleasure in the knowledge that it was a two-star basic place, chosen because of its convenient proximity to his outward-bound centre and definitely not for its accommodation standards. No duck-down pillows and absolutely no gourmet menu. Fiercely defensive of their TV star guest, they’d given Evie the room above the kitchens with the view of the bins and an aroma of chip fat should she make the mistake of opening the windows.

The rest of the crew were predictably holed up in the hotel bar as per usual. There was no sign of Miss Knightsbridge anywhere although he’d expected her to descend on the place with a trail of staff behind her. He ordered a soft drink and flipped through the day’s newspapers lying in a pile to one side of the bar, the front pages of nearly all the red tops featuring some gleeful article about the up-and-coming show. The production company would be made up at the media interest.

He turned a page and choked on his mineral water.

Evie Staverton-Lynch’s PR team had clearly been working overtime. A double-page spread featured a colour photo of Evie looking clear-eyed at the camera and wearing a forest-green Jack Trent’s Survival Camp Extreme T-shirt and what looked like nothing else. She had the longest, most delectable legs he’d ever seen. His mouth leached of all moisture and he took an exasperated slug of his drink. He had no wish to find her so hot and it might help if he didn’t keep inadvertently coming across full-colour photos of her in varying delicious states of undress. He forced his eyes to the accompanying article instead. The interview hit just the right tone of contrite. ‘I made a stupid untrue comment in a moment of stress. Taking the survival course is payback for that. I hope it will show how sorry I am and that Jack Trent’s show is the genuine article.’

Since when had denial of all responsibility gone out of the window in favour of doing all she could to restore his good name? He allowed himself a last look at the shapely legs and peach-glossed pout before he closed the paper. Genuine remorse or media spin? He had his doubts. He knew from past experience that people like Evie Staverton-Lynch played the press to their own advantage, changing their attitude at a moment’s notice to suit themselves. Not that he should care one bit either way as long as his reputation came out of this without a smear.

To his enormous surprise, when he checked with Reception for her room number, she hadn’t made any complaint about the sparse facilities. He got the impression from the over-attentive Reception staff that the lack of diva uproar was something of a disappointment.

‘She just arrived on her own, checked in and took herself up to the room. Didn’t even ask for the concierge to take her bags,’ the over-attentive receptionist, who according to the pink badge strategically placed on her low-cut blouse was called Sally, said. ‘Haven’t heard a peep from her since except for a call to Room Service.’

The staff had clearly been expecting her to storm back down as soon as she saw the room and felt cheated at the lack of bratty behaviour. For the first time he found himself wondering just how much of the spoilt socialite impression Evie gave was genuine. Small contradictions at first, lack of diva complaints about the crappy facilities when there was no camera around to witness the tantrum. The fact that she’d travelled up here completely alone. Where were the rich family and glossy friends and hangers-on?

He knew about using a public image to your advantage, despite the fact it made him feel uncomfortable. The media spotlight had done wonders for his charity work and his survival business. When in London he had a shortlist of on-off girlfriends to provide him with the perfect date when he needed to attend anything public. Models or starlets who shared the same showbusiness agent as him and were more than happy with the exposure of being seen out with him at charity functions or parties. He kept things casual at all costs. Enjoy the moment then move on; that was the way he liked it.

The tabloid press gleefully wrote about his glamorous girlfriends and his daredevil outdoor exploits and largely ignored his family background. And as a result the public at large had no clue about his youth, his past failures or about the selfish way he’d let his sister down. That was the way he intended to keep it.

Evie Staverton-Lynch’s success was based entirely on manipulation of the media. That didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t more to her than the papers gave away.

The hotel lift wasn’t working so he took the stairs.

* * *

Expecting Room Service with what was bound to be a substandard lasagne, Evie jumped a little in surprise when she opened the door to see Jack Trent leaning laconically against the door jamb.

‘What, no entourage?’ he said. The green eyes held a hint of amusement, which crinkled them at the corners and made her stomach give an extremely ill-judged flutter. For Pete’s sake, she was not attracted to a man who was going to take pleasure in making her crawl through mud this time tomorrow.

She kept hold of the door.

‘Excuse me?’ she said.

‘Don’t people like you have a gang of hangers-on that accompany you everywhere? You know, for hair and make-up and general love-ins.’

Did he have any idea of the ludicrousness of that comment? None of her friends were prepared to desert their luxury London lives for somewhere as devoid of consumer durables as this in order to offer her some support. In fact, there’d been a marked drop in contact from her social circle in these last few days. Supportive friendship apparently didn’t hold much weight in the face of disassociating yourself from the bad-mouthing Jack Trent media scandal. On her own, therefore, in the middle of nowhere, she’d spent the past hour flicking through the laminated ‘Hotel Information’ brochure, working out that with no satellite TV the choice of movie that evening was reduced to one—a sci-fi blood-fest, just bloody great—and wondering if she could bear the alternative: watching something else on the tiny screen of her phone via the somewhat erratic Wi-Fi.

‘Love-ins?’ she snapped. ‘Have you not been following the media? The entire country wants to see me fall flat on my face. Ideally in a swamp.’

The public interest showed no sign of abating, much to the glee of Purple Productions. Any hope that the furore might die down had long since disappeared. Her only hope, according to Chester, was to play the apology card for all she was worth, take the flak, and hope the tide would turn in her favour.

‘That could be arranged,’ he said.

She looked up to see a grin touch the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t entirely unfriendly. It occurred to her that getting him onside could make this whole hideous situation a million times easier so she offered him a smile in return.

‘Did you want something?’

‘I thought I’d run through the kit list with you, check you’re ready for tomorrow. I like to check in with all the candidates for my courses the night before, answer any questions, that kind of thing.’

‘Very professional,’ she said.

He waited, eyebrows raised, until she pushed the door back and let him step past her into the horrible hotel room.

One of the narrow twin beds was piled high with kit delivered by an enthusiastic production minion who was clearly beside herself with glee at the prospect of Evie Staverton-Lynch freezing her arse off for the weekend in the most repellent, unglamorous set of garments she’d ever come across. She tried to imagine a single situation prior to today when she might have considered wearing waterproofs and failed to come up with one. She was a city girl; she hadn’t been near the great outdoors since the childhood camping holidays her mother had loved, and they were long gone. Her father’s strategy for moving on from the past had involved avoiding nostalgia trips of any kind. A new family holiday destination was quickly slotted in with the purchase of a house in France, to which she and Will were despatched a few times a year, always with a nanny. Revisiting the idea of outdoor living held an undertow of uneasiness at what memories it might dredge up.

Then again, Survival Camp Extreme was about as far as it was possible to get from the glimpses of sunny camping holidays by the beach that she remembered. When it came to this weekend, nostalgia was surely the least of her worries.

The minuscule room seemed infinitely smaller with Jack Trent in it and her stomach gave a traitorous flip of nerves, which she steadfastly ignored. She could schmooze with the best of them and surely even Jack Trent could be charmed. It was just a matter of hitting the right approach. She crossed the sticky carpet to the teetering pile of kit and began sifting through it, although she’d already looked through it once with growing disquiet. A balaclava lay on the top of the pile, for goodness’ sake.

She could feel his eyes on her.

‘All ready for tomorrow, then?’ he said.

She glanced up at him. The green eyes watched her steadily and she got the oddest feeling that he knew perfectly well how she was feeling. This close she was struck by the pure muscular size of him. The plain green T-shirt moulded to his huge shoulders and broad chest. She could see part of an eagle tattoo on the rock-hard muscle of his left upper bicep.

She slapped on the don’t-care smile that she’d perfected over a number of years.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ she breezed.

‘Nervous?’ he pressed. She gave away the answer in the drop of her eyes and she could have kicked herself.

‘It will be fine,’ he said, his voice softened a little. Her stomach gave a skip in response. She hadn’t really thought Jack Trent did anything as sappy as reassurance. ‘Tough but fun, right?’

Fun?

‘How the hell did you get involved in this kind of thing?’ she blurted before she could stop herself. ‘I mean, it’s not exactly something vocational you decide on doing at school, is it? How do you come to the conclusion that the career for you will involve eating rodents and crossing freezing rivers?’

He grinned at the sudden outburst.

‘Says the girl who’s famous for...well, for being famous. How do you get involved in that?’

Her hand betrayed her and ran itself nervously through her hair before she brought it back to clench at her side.

‘I am not remotely nervous,’ she said, avoiding the question. ‘I work out five times a week, I run and I do toning with weights. I think I can manage what’s basically a revved-up camping trip.’

He laughed out loud, a rich, deep sound that made her traitorous stomach go soft.

‘Revved-up camping trip? Have you actually taken the time to watch any of the shows?’

‘I’ve seen a few clips,’ she said.

She wasn’t about to admit to him that his shows looked like a mud-soaked freezing nightmare. No way was she just going to take his arrogant implication that she wasn’t up to the challenge.

‘Fitness is only a small part of it,’ he countered. ‘It’s about initiative, it’s about self-control, it’s about how you react in a difficult situation with limited resources.’ He was watching her intently as if trying to read her mind. ‘I read your change of tack in the press,’ he said.

‘Change of tack?’

‘From washing your hands of all responsibility to holding your hands up and begging for forgiveness.’ He paused. ‘With accompanying photo spread.’

His green eyes held hers intently without the slightest flicker and her pulse jumped at his pointed tone. She knew perfectly well which photo spread he was referring to. She swallowed to clear her suddenly dry throat. She was determined to keep control of this situation, to squash any stupid misplaced attraction to him.

‘Are you complaining that I’ve said I’m publicly sorry?’ she said.

‘No, I’m just wondering whether it’s genuine or just a new spin.’

She glanced up at him, the blue eyes giving nothing away.

‘If it cleans any smears from your reputation, what do you care which it is?’ she asked.

He shrugged.

‘I don’t. Not really. Just trying to get the measure of you.’

Jack watched as she abandoned the pile of kit, as if she’d had any interest in it anyway, and turned to face him, giving him her full attention. She was close enough now for him to pick up the scent of her perfume. She smelled delicious and expensive. She watched him steadily with wide blue eyes that sparked off a slow burn low in his abdomen. She was seriously cute.

‘I’d really like it if we could put any bad feeling behind us,’ she said. ‘I know the situation is difficult but I really am doing all I can to put it right. I think we could both focus on the weekend ahead a lot more effectively if we made some kind of truce.’

If she thought she’d be able to charm him into going easy on her by suggesting he might not be totally focused, she was way wrong.

‘How I feel about you has no effect whatsoever on my responsibility to you in the field,’ he said. ‘I’m a professional. Your safety is my priority.’

‘So a truce isn’t out of the question, then?’ she pressed.

‘Depends on the terms,’ he said, just to see what she would do next. She was clearly used to getting her own way.

He saw her eyes widen briefly in surprise. She obviously hadn’t expected him to give in so easily. She rushed on quickly while the going was good.

‘Thing is, Jack,’ she said, ‘we both want the same thing.’

‘Which is?’

She shrugged.

‘To get through this weekend without any hitches,’ she said. ‘I know perfectly well the public want to see me slip up but would that really be the best showcase for your survival courses? Isn’t the whole point that the candidates survive? With that in mind, maybe it might be...prudent...for both of us to approach the tasks in a way that shows the situation in the best light.’

That showed her in the best light, in other words. Oh, she really was something else. Her we’re-on-the-same-side-here persuasion might work on other people but he’d had enough dealings with TV luvvies to develop immunity to that kind of manipulation. Fame and fortune mattered only inasmuch as they furthered what he considered to be his real work: his charity initiatives and the courses he’d developed for kids.

She smiled winningly at him and he wondered vaguely if she’d ever encountered a situation in her cushy existence without an expectation that she would somehow come out on top no matter what. Charm held no weight with him when held up against hard graft. And looking at her soft, beautifully manicured hands, he doubted there’d been much of that in her life. She was from a totally different world.

She held his gaze with wide blue eyes, waiting for him to just fling himself at her designer-clad feet and agree to her every whim.

‘I think we understand each other,’ he said.

‘Good.’ She smiled at him. He smiled broadly back at her.

‘Despite your brushing it off as a—what was it?—“revved-up camping trip”,’ he said, ‘you still want me to go easy on you this weekend. Sorry, sweetheart, the clue’s in the name. It’s a survival course, it’s not meant to be a piece of cake.’

She stared at him as he headed for the door.

‘I thought you came up here to check through any concerns I might have,’ she said.

‘I did. I meant legitimate ones, like your swimming ability or maybe questions about the kit. Not schmoozy concerns about getting an easy ride. No can do. I’ll see you at the base at dawn.’

He closed the door behind him and smiled at the plastic number plate on the door. He’d give it until lunchtime tomorrow before she walked off set.


THREE (#ulink_1065cfb6-0334-50ed-9ee6-4ab6972af2a6)

‘So we start at Jack’s base camp with him talking through the kit you need. Then you head out with him into the wilderness on foot.’

Evie clutched desperately at the sides of the passenger seat as a production assistant dressed in head to toe waterproofs bumped the Jeep along what barely passed for a muddy track. The silver-grey tendrils of dawn were creeping in across the Scottish Highlands and the landscape was soaked by a relentless drizzle of fine rain, the kind that lulled you into thinking it was nothing while insidiously soaking you to the bone. Leaving the awful hotel in the small hours had felt like leaving civilisation.

‘There’s a support team though—right?’ she said. ‘I mean, he doesn’t film himself doing all this stuff, does he? It wouldn’t just be the two of us with no backup.’

She’d made time for a bit more research after last night’s encounter, courtesy of the hotel’s erratic Wi-Fi. Footage of Jack Trent neck deep in icy water, Jack Trent eating mealworms, Jack Trent manoeuvring his way down a treacherous rock face with accompanying waterfall. The thought of spending even one night camping alone in the middle of this freezing craggy landscape with Jack Trent made nerves flutter crazily in her stomach, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he looked like an Adonis.

‘He has a cameraman tag along at various locations to film the survival-skills demonstrations, river crossings, game preparation, that kind of thing,’ she said, glancing briefly across from the mud-flecked windscreen.

The words ‘game preparation’ rebounded sickly through Evie’s mind.

‘Minimal crew though—the programme isn’t meant to look glossy. It’s meant to look like it’s thrown together. It all adds realism. Any night filming he does by himself on a handheld camera. Some of it’s in diary format where he talks direct to camera. He really is on his own out there, not holed up in some hotel.’

There was a decidedly pointed tone to that last sentence. Was there a single member of the female species who wasn’t sappily in love with Jack Trent?

‘Yeah, I got that.’

If she had a quid for every time someone told her how wrong she’d got it...

‘And if anything were to go wrong, which it can’t possibly, the guy’s ex-special forces. He’s survived in some of the most punishing terrain in the world. He led a hostage-rescue mission in Colombia. I think he’s up to managing a weekend in the Scottish Highlands with you.’

* * *

The camera was rolling even as she climbed out of the mud-splashed Jeep. Her feet in their new vice-gripping walking boots immediately sank to the ankle into the boggy ground. She followed the production assistant into a sparse brick building outside which were parked a variety of outward-bound vehicles. Crew moved around, shifting film-making equipment. So it sounded as if they took running footage and edited it down later. Fine as long as you didn’t speak before thinking. She resolved to keep her wits about her.

‘Have you seen any of Jack’s shows before?’

‘A few clips,’ she said shortly. Did she look like someone who enjoyed watching people trek for miles and drink filtered urine? ‘Has he seen any of mine?’

Clearly not. The production assistant swept on without comment.

‘OK...well, first up we cover equipment, clothing, that kind of thing. Jack will work through your kit list with you. The camera will be rolling, just crack on as normal and soon you’ll forget it’s even there. You must be used to it anyway on your own show. We’ll edit and cut as necessary, quick turnaround to make the most of the public interest. Should be able to run it in the usual Miss Knightsbridge prime-time slot next week.’

The camera crew assumed positions and a hand signal from the director had the filming kick in.

‘Miss Knightsbridge is much more planned than this,’ Evie said, glancing around the freezing-cold bare brickwork of the draughty room. ‘It’s not exactly scripted but all the locations and events are worked out beforehand. If things get a bit stilted the producer throws in a controversial topic for us all to discuss, to help things get heated. Essentially the producers stir it up.’

Her own life was really miles away from the drama it came across as on TV, not that she’d be giving that fact away. Cup-of-cocoa-quiet-life Evie was hardly likely to be of any more interest to the viewers of this show than those of her own. No way. She intended to stick to the tried and tested brash persona that had won her the prospect of an independent future before she’d stuffed it all up.

‘Is that why you made that comment about me?’ Jack said, walking in. Her stomach gave a slow flip, clearly nerves at what was to come. He was fully kitted out in survival wear. Walking boots, hard-wearing trousers like her own hideous ones, jacket that looked as if it was made from a duvet. He looked as if he were about to shout a gang of squaddies through an assault course. A twist of trepidation worked its way through her stomach at what exactly the next couple of days was likely to involve. ‘Because your show is a tissue of lies you assumed mine is too?’

His very first words on camera and he’d made sure they referenced her faux pas. Not even so much as a ‘welcome to the show’. She watched him sorting through a pile of kit. He barely even glanced in her direction, clearly intending to be true to last night’s word, doing her no favours. She shook her head a little to clear it, feeling the camera on her, annoyed with herself for trying to get him onside the previous evening. Why the hell did she need his help? Lack of encouragement wasn’t exactly new to her—she’d spent half her life self-motivating to counteract her father’s indifference. She’d get through this hideous experience on her own. Chester’s advice flashed through her mind and she latched onto it grimly: grovel, act contrite and come across as a game-for-anything fish out of water, sweetie. The public will lap it up. Here was her chance to redeem herself.

‘I made that comment without thinking about the consequences,’ she said. She spun round to face the camera head-on. Might as well get the apology out of the way upfront. ‘None of it was true,’ she said clearly to the camera. ‘I was stressed. It was taken out of context. I didn’t make it to get at you.’ She stole a look at Jack. He was watching her intently and she knew this was the part where to really regain the upper hand she should be giving a proper explanation but she simply couldn’t. She wasn’t about to discuss her skewed relationship with her father, not with the camera picking up every stupid nuance.

Jack kept watching her as she turned away from the camera, the blonde hair tied back, tendrils escaping and curling around her fine-boned face. His eyes strayed to the softness of her mouth before he could stop them. The full lower lip was delectable and a rush of heat sparked in his veins. He snapped his gaze away and focused hard on the kit list in front of him. He had no time for women in his life and that went double for high-maintenance ones like her. Perhaps if he put a conscious mental effort in, his body might actually get that message instead of being distracted by her.

Last night had been about playing him, about trying to charm him into making her life easier, the way she’d undoubtedly done with everyone throughout her life when things didn’t go her way. He’d lost out to that kind of behaviour in the past. He certainly wouldn’t be putting his trust in a TV personality with their own publicity agenda again any time soon. The way she looked was completely irrelevant.

He strengthened his resolve. After last night’s attempts to manipulate him, he had the measure of her. There would be no making this easy on her, no special concessions. She was just like any other course attendee, she just happened to make a duvet jacket look sexy for once.

The camera continued to roll regardless and from the corner of his eye Jack clocked her rucksack with its gold pattern and pink straps as she hefted it onto the trestle table. She’d never make it through the weekend without walking out. There was absolutely no way.

‘First rule of survival,’ he said, sticking to the remit of the TV show. ‘Blend in. Just how far do you think you’d get in hostile territory with that thing?’ He nodded at the bag. ‘You might as well have a neon flashing arrow pointing at your head.’

‘It’s designer,’ she said, in incredulous tones, as if that gave the wearer the power of invisibility.

He strode across the sparse and draughty room, pulled a sturdy camouflage-green backpack from the stack of kit near the door and threw it to her. She caught it on reflex to stop it hitting her in the chops. It was identical to his own. He could see from the expression on her face that she loathed it on sight.

He waited expectantly until she made an irritated noise and unzipped her bulging designer rucksack. The kit list he’d provided had included no provision whatsoever for personal items. Left to him and she’d barely be allowed a toothbrush, which was really rather the point. Roughing it rather lost its mojo when you let your candidates pack luxury items.

He watched as she proceeded to remove a ludicrous selection of cosmetic items and unsuitable clothing from the rucksack, which had probably cost more than his car. Was she for real?

‘Where did you think you were going?’ he couldn’t help saying. ‘To lie by a pool in the Caribbean? You don’t need a ton of designer stuff. No one does.’

‘This isn’t designer stuff.’ She shrugged. ‘Except for the rucksack. It’s just everyday hygiene stuff. Lip balm, sunblock... You should be wearing Factor twenty-five, you spend so much time outdoors, or you’ll look like a pensioner by the time you’re fifty.’ She pointed at him with the tube to press her point.

He stared at her.

‘You can put it all back in your designer rucksack and hand it over to the team,’ he said. ‘You’ll get it back when you return to base. The standard-issue kit is inside the green backpack.’

She unzipped the standard-issue backpack and peered into it.

‘What the hell is this?’

He winked at her and she tried to ignore the fact that when he smiled his green eyes took on a hint of wicked melt because it made her stomach go soft. Why couldn’t he have looked like some gnarly mountain man, perhaps with a beard big enough for a rodent to live in? It would make concentration on the task at hand much easier without her stomach in knots. Then again, he surely wouldn’t be such a darling of the public if he looked like some hairy hillbilly.

‘Torch, water bottle, purification tablets, matches, basic food rations... This is the kit I issue to all attendees of my survival course. Since you’ve single-handedly sabotaged my very successful business, I thought we’d use this weekend to showcase it and drum up some interest for the special kids’ survival courses I’m about to launch. Essentially, you’re trying out one of my courses and you owe me. So hand over the lip balm and let’s get on with it.’

He held her gaze with his own, and was there a hint of enjoyment in the green eyes? Was he actually getting off on this? She noticed, not without a touch of admiration, that he’d managed to get in a plug for the kids’ initiative thing that he was so hung up on. Maybe she should have smuggled along a bit of her jewellery and tried for a bit of product placement.

He whipped the tube of lip balm out of her hand with a flourish, lobbed it into the designer handbag and threw the whole thing to the production minion.

Then again, she’d have been hard pressed to get as much as a necklace past him.

‘And cut.’

She wheeled around, so absorbed in her standoff with Jack-bloody-Trent that she’d forgotten the camera was even there. Which was probably the point.

‘Fantastic banter, exactly what we’re looking for. Keep that up for the next couple of days and we’ll be talking TV gold.’

Terrific. So all she had to do to make this stupid programme a success was to spend the entire weekend at Jack Trent’s throat. Shouldn’t be too difficult since he was obviously not going to cut her an inch of slack.

‘Shall we?’ he said, ushering her towards the door with a flourish and a wicked grin.




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