Fired by Her Fling. Christy McKellen

her chest. Perhaps she should practice the façade of kick-ass poise and self-assurance that she was going to need at tomorrow’s meeting on him. She could buy him a drink, then plonk herself down at his table as if she chatted up dishy men every day. She just needed to draw on the confidence she summoned to perform on the radio and she could become the outgoing woman everyone expected her to be in real life.

      At work she got past any awkwardness at meeting new people by researching her subjects thoroughly and planning her questions, but she didn’t have the time or tools for that right now. This would have to be a study in improvisation.

      She would fake it till she made it with this guy.

      Even the suggestion of ‘making it’ with him sent another zingy little frisson deep into her pelvis.

      Just flirting, Lula—that’s all that’s gonna happen here.

      Okay. Time to get her game face on.

      If she could succeed at capturing the interest of a handsome man in a bar tonight, she could damn well persuade the station owner to give her a fair hearing tomorrow.

      Tonight, audience, I’m going to be Tallulah Lazenby—top rated DJ at Flash FM, social mover and shaker and loquacious livewire.

      She sat up straighter in her seat.

      Yes. Positivity. That’s the ticket.

      Powered by that rousing resolve, she grabbed her bag and got up, centring herself on her six-inch heels, and primed herself to shimmy on past the sex god and over to the bar.

      * * *

      Tristan Bamfield winced and placed his empty beer bottle onto the sticky pub table with a firm clunk as the group of women sitting behind him let out another squall of high-pitched laughter.

      Usually he wouldn’t stray from the hotel bar when he was working away from home, but he’d found himself needing to escape from the over-zealous attentions of a primped-to-within-an-inch-of-her-life Sloaney who’d zeroed in on him, and this dimly lit traditional London pub, with its purple and black painted walls and trendily scuffed up leather sofas and painted tables, had seemed like the perfect refuge.

      Until this vociferous band of banshees had followed him in shortly afterwards, that was.

      All he’d wanted was one quiet drink before going back to the cold solitude of his hotel room but it seemed that peace was the last thing he was likely to get in here.

      Bah humbug.

      He knew he was being uncharitable—he wasn’t usually averse to a bit of lively banter—but he’d been plagued by a vague sense of irritation ever since his father had convinced him—by way of passive aggressive joshing—to come to London and sort out some seedy-sounding mess at his vanity project of a radio station while he swanned around the Middle East on a honeymoon with his fifth wife.

      What a total farce.

      Tristan hadn’t even bothered going to the wedding, knowing full well this marriage wasn’t likely to last long either. He’d made sure to buy them the most expensive present on their wedding list, though—his way of acknowledging the union and mitigating any potential hard feelings about his no-show. He didn’t dislike his new stepmother—he’d barely even met her—but he couldn’t bring himself to summon up the fake smiles and phoney enthusiasm required at these events any more.

      He twisted the empty bottle between his hands and turned his thoughts to the situation at the radio station instead, not wanting to waste any more time dwelling on his father’s irrepressible addiction to nuptials.

      It seemed that one of the DJs, Tallulah something-or-other, claimed the Station Manager had reneged on a promise to promote her to Breakfast Show presenter and had also taken her off her current show when she refused to sleep with him. The manager, on the other hand, swore blind she was lying and angry with him after he’d disciplined her for turning up to work drunk.

      The whole thing had a sickeningly sordid air about it.

      Added into the mix was the fact that Jeremy, the Station Manager, was the son of a good friend of the family and his father wanted the DJ fired to keep relations cordial between them.

      Tristan knew from past experience of working with his old man at the family business that he was often too quick to take the more convenient way out of a problem instead of taking time to look at the whole picture.

      He needed to be careful here.

      Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his face, trying to relieve his building frustration.

      He really didn’t need this right now.

      After taking the last couple of months to get his head together following a humiliating end to a four-year relationship, he just wanted to be left alone to settle back into what was left of his life in Edinburgh.

      Fat chance of that.

      One of the women from the table behind him sidled past, distracting him from his thoughts as her fresh floral scent hit his nose. He watched as she click-clicked away on ludicrously high heels, her shapely rear swaying provocatively from side to side as she headed towards the bar.

      Despite his resolution to steer clear of women until he’d got his head straight again, he couldn’t help but be captivated by her petite, curvy figure. It made him think of an Amazonian woman in miniature—all delicious voluptuousness and sexual potency.

      He watched idly as she waited for the barman to notice her, appearing to sink against the high, solid wood counter the longer she was ignored, until her previously upright posture had dipped down into a full-on slouch.

      There was a particular kind of dejection to her body language that made him sit up and take notice.

      It reminded him of the time right after Marcy told him she was throwing away what he now thought of as their joke of a relationship, and he’d felt as though someone had stripped the blood, guts and air out of him.

      He’d bought her everything she’d ever wanted—designer clothes, a sports car, ludicrously expensive jewellery—but it still hadn’t been enough for her.

      She’d taken it all with her when she’d left him, of course.

      The heat of his humiliation washed through him for the thousandth time since she’d dropped the bombshell, leaving a jittery sense of unease. He’d known for a while that things hadn’t exactly been perfect between them, but he couldn’t forgive all the lying and sneaking around behind his back that she’d done.

      The two of them must have thought he was a real chump.

      As if the dark power of his thoughts had somehow penetrated through to her own, the woman at the bar seemed to pull herself together and she straightened her posture, giving a little jump in her heels as if to remind herself to stand tall—which, judging by her diminutive height, he guessed was something she’d probably done ever since she’d stopped growing.

      He really should get back to the hotel, and get stuck into the mound of paperwork that waited for him there, but something kept his gaze fixed to the woman’s skinny-jeans-clad rear view.

      She had very long light brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, which swung like a pendulum as she jiggled on the spot. He bet she had a cute little nose and huge, sensual eyes too, which would draw him into a world of what the hell the moment he looked into them.

      Had he guessed right?

      The thought of leaving now without at least catching a glimpse of what she actually looked like was curiously unthinkable. Suddenly, he really needed to know for sure, to reassure himself that he wasn’t totally ignorant when it came to reading women, as Marcy had so unsubtly suggested.

      Getting up from his chair, he strode over to where she stood at the bar. Maybe he’d have one more drink before he went back to the hotel. After all, he was in for a pretty dull night on his own, so he might as well get his kicks where he could.

      Rubbing a hand over his