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‘Don’t hang up, Mac. I’m begging you, here.’
He exhaled slowly and brought the handset back to his ear. There was no point hanging up on Mickey. He’d call the management and have them storm the hotel room. ‘All right, Mick.’ He opened his eyelids and got blasted by five thousand watts of sunshine in both retinas for his trouble. ‘But keep your voice down,’ he whispered, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m not alone.’
He eased over onto his back and blinked groggily at the indent on the fluffy goose down pillow beside him.
Holding the phone away from
his ear, he strained to hear any sound from the en suite. All that greeted him was Mickey’s muffled voice and the rustle of a breeze in the terrace vines.
He frowned. Strange. Where was the woman who had starred in the dream Mickey had so rudely interrupted?
‘Hold up, Mick,’ he said, interrupting the whining monologue he hadn’t heard a word of. ‘Can I call you back?’
Mickey heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘Sure. But do me a favour. Next time you decide to rearrange the tonsils of some London shop girl, give me a heads up, will you? I’ve been fielding calls from the British tabloids most of the night. They haven’t quit yet and it’s now six in the morning LA time.’
Mac bolted upright, his knuckles whitening on the handset. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, somewhat redundantly, as he’d heard every word this time—and was having the heart palpitations to prove it.
‘The photos are all over the morning papers in the UK.’
‘What photos?’ Why couldn’t Mickey ever get to the point?
‘Of you and the shop girl,’ Mickey said, sounding taken aback. ‘Getting physical on some balcony in France.’
Mac’s astonishment turned to fury.
Some bastard had snapped their photo last night. And now that private, impossibly sexy kiss had been served up for public consumption, to titillate people over their morning coffee. A snarled expletive cut the country quiet as his stomach turned over.
‘Hey, man. Don’t sweat it.’ Mickey’s voice drifted on as Mac’s temper surged out of control. ‘They’re long-range but you both look really hot. All we need here is our own angle.’
He hated those damn parasites. Why couldn’t they leave him the hell alone?
‘It’ll be great publicity for the European release of Death Game,’ Mickey wittered on. ‘Especially as the girl’s British. Hey, she’s not there with you, is she?’ Mickey’s voice peaked with excitement. ‘Could I get a quote?’
Mac took a couple of deep breaths. ‘No, she’s not here,’ he growled, suddenly glad of her temporary absence.
He wanted to kill someone and it might as well be the messenger. ‘I don’t want any damn quotes. Not a one. I’ve told you before, my sex life is no one’s business but my own and if you give a single column inch of mileage to this story you’re fired.’
There was a pregnant pause on the end of the line, then Mickey’s voice came back on, considerably subdued. ‘Understood, Mac. How do you want me to spin it, then?’
Was he hitting his head against a brick wall or what?
‘No spin, Mick. No nothing. Tell them no comment and that’ll be the end of it.’
Mickey cleared his throat. ‘Not quite, man.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’ve got the girl’s name.’
Damn. ‘I’ll take care of the girl,’ he said and realised he meant it.
Juno would be completely unprepared for what was about to hit her—and he planned to be there to protect her from the worst of it. He decided not to think about the fact that he’d never been the knight-in-shining-armour type before.
He went to hang up and then a thought occurred to him. He brought the phone back to his ear. ‘Mick, wait. By the way, what is her name?’
He didn’t know where she’d popped off to or how long she’d be and he needed to put the wheels in motion. He’d start by booking them a couple of flights to LA to get her out of harm’s way.
‘Man, you didn’t get her name before you nailed her?’ Mick’s laddish chuckle grated on Mac’s last nerve. ‘Boy, oh, boy, you’re such a player. If I had that kind of power, I’d be hitting on everything that moved too—’
