What the Paparazzi Didn't See. Nicola Marsh

dress reflecting light onto the rapt faces of the guys crowding her.

      With every fake smile she bestowed upon her subjects, he gritted his teeth.

      She was exactly the type of woman he despised.

      Too harsh? Try the type of woman he didn’t trust.

      The same type of woman as Babs, his stepmother. Who at this very minute was doing the rounds of the room, doing what she did best: schmoozing.

      Quentin had been dead less than six months and Babs had ditched the black for dazzling emerald. Guess he should respect her for not pretending. As she had for every moment of her ten-year marriage to his father.

      A marriage that had driven the family business into the ground. And an irreversible wedge between him and his dad. A wedge that had resulted in the truth being kept from him on all fronts, both personally and professionally.

      He’d never forgive her for it.

      Though deep down he knew who should shoulder the blame for the estrangement with his dad. And he looked at that guy every morning in the mirror.

      He needed to make amends, needed to ease the guilt that wouldn’t quit. Ensuring his dad’s business didn’t go bankrupt would be a step in the right direction.

      Qu Publishing currently stood on the brink of disaster and it was up to him to save it. One book at a time.

      If he could ever get a meeting with that WAG every publishing house in Melbourne was clamouring to sign up to a tell-all biography, he might have a chance. Her name escaped him and, having been overseas for the best part of a decade, he had no idea what this woman even looked like, but he could imagine that every one of her assets would be fake. However, it seemed Australia couldn’t get enough of their home-grown darling. He’d been assured by his team that a book by this woman would be a guaranteed best-seller—just what the business needed.

      But the woman wouldn’t return his assistant’s international calls and emails. Not that it mattered. He knew her type. Now he’d landed in Melbourne he’d take over the pursuit, demand a face-to-face meeting, up the ante and she’d be begging to sign on the dotted line.

      At times like this he wished his father had moved with the times and published children’s fiction. Would’ve made Wade’s life a lot easier, signing the next J.K. Rowling.

      But biographies were Qu Publishing’s signature, a powerhouse in the industry.

      Until Babs had entered the picture, when Quentin’s business sense had fled alongside his common sense, and he had hidden the disastrous truth.

      Wade hated that his dad hadn’t trusted him.

      He hated the knowledge that he’d caused the rift more.

      It was why he was here, doing anything and everything to save his father’s legacy.

      He owed it to him.

      Wade should’ve been there for his dad when he was alive. He hadn’t been and it was time to make amends.

      The bronzed blonde laughed, a surprisingly soft, happy sound at odds with the tension emanating from her like a warning beacon.

      Even at this distance he could see her rigid back, the defensive way she half turned away from the guys vying for her attention.

      Interesting. Maybe she was nothing like Babs after all. Babs, who was currently engaged in deep conversation with a seventy-year-old mining magnate who had as many billions as chins.

      Yeah, some people never changed.

      He needed a change. Needed to escape the expectations of a hundred workers who couldn’t afford to lose their jobs. Needed to forget how his father had landed his business in this predicament and focus on the future. Needed to sign that WAG to solve his problems.

      And there were many. So many problems that the more he thought about it, the more his head pounded.

      What he needed right now? A bar, a bourbon and a blonde.

      Startled by his latter wish, he gazed at her again and his groin tightened in appreciation.

      She might not be his type but for a wild, wistful second he wished she could be.

      Eight years of setting up his own publishing business in London had sapped him, sucking every last ounce of energy as he’d worked his butt off. When he’d initially started he’d wanted a company to rival his father’s but had chosen to focus on the e-market rather than paper, trade and hardbacks. Considering how dire things were with Qu Publishing, his company now surpassed the one-time powerhouse of the book industry.

      He rarely dated, socialised less. Building a booming digital publishing business had been his number-one priority. Ironic, he was now here to save the business he could’ve been in competition with if his dad had ever moved into the twenty-first century. And if he’d been entrusted with the truth.

      Not that saving Qu mattered if Babs had her way.

      The muscles in his neck spasmed with tension and he spun away, needing air before he did something he’d regret, like marching over to stepmommy dearest and strangling her.

      He grabbed a whisky from a passing waiter and downed half of it, hoping to eradicate the bitterness clogging his throat. Needing a breather, he made his way to the terrace that wrapped across the front of the function room in wrought-iron splendour.

      Melbourne might not have the historical architecture of London but the city’s beautiful hotels, like the Westin, could hold their own around the world.

      He paced the marble pavers in a vain attempt to quell the urge to march back into that packed function room and blast Babs in front of everyone, media be damned.

      Wouldn’t that go down a treat in tomorrow’s papers? publishing ceo bails up socialite stepmother, a real page-turner.

      He wouldn’t do it, of course. Commit corporate suicide. Qu Publishing meant too much to him. Correction, his dad had meant everything to him, and Wade would do whatever it took, including spending however long in Melbourne to stop Babs selling his legacy.

      Qu Publishing needed a saviour. He intended to walk on water to do it.

      He cursed and downed the rest of his whisky, knowing he should head back inside and make nice with the publishing crowd.

      ‘Whatever’s biting your butt, that won’t help.’

      Startled, he glanced to his right, where the bronze-clad blonde rested her forearms on the balcony, staring at him with amusement in her eyes.

      Blue. With tiny flecks of green and gold highlighted by the shimmery dress. A slinky, provocative dress that accentuated her assets.

      The whisky he’d sculled burned his gut. His excuse for the twisty tension tying it into knots.

      Her voice surprised him as much as her guileless expression. Women who dressed like that usually wore calculating expressions to match their deliberately sexy garb and spoke with fake deference.

      She sounded...amused. Concerned. Normal.

      It threw him.

      He prided himself on being a good judge of character. Hadn’t he picked Babs for a gold-digging tart the moment his dad had introduced her ten years ago?

      His people radar had served him well in business too, but something about this woman made him feel off-kilter. A feeling he wouldn’t tolerate.

      He needed to stay focused, remain in charge, to ensure he didn’t lose the one thing that meant anything to him these days.

      And as long as she was staring at him with that beguiling mix of fascination and curiosity, he couldn’t concentrate on anything.

      ‘Can’t a guy have a drink in peace without being accused of drowning his sorrows?’

      He sounded abrupt and uptight and rude. Good. She would raise her perfect pert nose in the air and stride inside