Man vs. Socialite

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

‘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.’