Secret Surrender. Laura Martin

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

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

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

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

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

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

      It was a thought that was too awful to contemplate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      It was practically unmistakable.

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

      ‘Care to join us, Miss King?’ The stunning sapphire eyes mirrored his amusement. He