Man vs. Socialite. Charlotte Phillips
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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.
‘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