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Her finger paused over another link. This one was harder to justify. This one, if she was honest, was just Faith being incurably nosy. As usual. It really wasn’t any of her business what Katarina Forrester got up to, or why she’d split up with Dominic.
Of course, she pressed it anyway.
And was instantly glad that she’d turned off the sound on the tablet. The video that sprang to life was really not one to be watching in public. Eyes wide, she paused it, then stared for a moment longer before closing the window down. That had to be Katarina, with that long blonde hair let loose from the chignon it had been contained by in every other photo. But the naked guy there with her? Definitely not Dominic.
Well, she supposed that answered the question of why they’d broken up. And it kind of made her wonder exactly what she’d find if she Googled her own name. Possibly best not to know.
Except...she was back in Britain, working the kind of job that might get her spotted at any minute. Wasn’t it better to know what was out there waiting for her if she was recognised?
Before she could change her mind, Faith tapped out her real name in the search bar and waited to see what popped up, apprehension stirring in her chest.
At the top of the page, a row of photos loaded. Two of her looking bleary-eyed in a too-short dress, blinking at the camera as she left some nightclub. The rest...all from that night. Or, rather, the morning after.
God, was it really even her? She barely recognised the woman she was now in the girl on the screen. She’d thrown away the clothes she wore in the photos—the tight black jeans and the corset top, moulding her curves and pushing up her breasts. Her hair was shorter than it was now, just curling around her jawbone. The hotel name, high end and far more expensive than she’d have been able to afford on her own, was clearly visible in the back of the shots.
And on her arm, Jared Hawkes, a little too pale and scowling, but otherwise giving no indication of the hellish night before. Or that he was about to go home and beg his wife for another chance.
No, the photo looked exactly like what everyone had believed it was—a money-grabbing girl stealing a famous, and famously troubled, rock star away from his patient, wonderful wife and adoring kids.
The guilt had faded over the years. She’d made a lot of mistakes when she was younger, sure, but who hadn’t? And this one, that one time, she really hadn’t done anything wrong, as much as the world’s media had tried to convince her—and everyone else—otherwise. It had taken her a while to accept that and forgive herself, after she dropped out of the public eye. But she was done with guilt. All she had left now was the resentment, and the pain of the injustice.
Faith clicked the browser closed. She didn’t need to see any more.
She took a large gulp of coffee and tried to clear her head. Time to get back to the matter at hand—finding somewhere to take the Americans that evening.
She took her time perusing the usual websites, and also reading the best London blogs, to get some more unusual ideas. She’d forgotten how much there was to do and see in London, how much she loved being there. Sure, Rome was romantic as hell and had plenty to offer, but London...it was more of a patchwork. More bits and pieces and scraps from all across history, and across humanity. She liked that in a city.
By the time the hotel lobby doors opened to reveal chattering Americans, she’d worked up a decent plan for the week and got some provisional bookings in place. The name ‘Lord Beresford’ had opened plenty of doors she suspected might have stayed closed to Faith Fowler, Event Planner and Tour Guide, and while she’d vowed not to use her own title for the purpose of getting ahead, she had no qualms about using Dominic’s.
Pushing aside her empty coffee cup—the third of the afternoon—she packed up her notes and tablet and headed out to greet the Americans before they disappeared up to their rooms to change.
‘How did the meetings go?’ she asked Dominic as his clients got in the lift on the other side of the lobby.
He shrugged. ‘As well as I could hope, I suppose.’
Which sounded rather Eeyore-ish to her. Maybe he was depressed. After all, he’d just lost his fiancée to a muscly premiership footballer in a YouTube video. Hardly surprising if he felt a bit down about things. ‘Well, I’m sure they’ll all be on board with anything you propose after the evening I’ve got in store for them.’
He raised his eyebrows at her, and his forehead crinkled up. ‘Really? Do I get to know the plan in advance?’
‘You kinda have to,’ Faith replied. ‘I need you to pay for it. They’re holding the reservation for another hour.’
