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‘Shut up, Mick, and give me her damn name,’ he snapped, not liking the renewed spurt of guilt at his publicist’s insinuations.
He listened to the rustle of paper before Mickey spoke. ‘According to this one she’s called Juno Delamare. Works in some dress shop in Portobello Road in West London named The Funky Fashionista and—’
Mac slammed the phone down, having heard all he needed to. Swinging his legs off the bed, he ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbed his hands down his face. He stared out of the open terrace doors, and noticed how high the sun was in the sky.
What time was it? If it was past six in LA it had to be past noon here. After yesterday’s emotional roller coaster—not to mention the mind-blowing sex—he’d slept like a dead man.
No wonder she wasn’t here. She could have woken up hours ago. She must have headed off in search of breakfast.
His heartbeat evened out for the first time since he’d spotted her empty pillow. He’d have a quick shower and then hunt her down—and tell her how they were going to handle the press.
He stood and stretched, deciding not to dwell on the little resolution he’d made to himself last night to send her packing first thing in the morning. He couldn’t let her go. Not after he’d got her into this mess. She’d just have to spend a couple of weeks with him in LA where she’d be safe from prying eyes.
His lips curved as he wrapped the bed sheet round his waist. After the way things had gone last night, he didn’t see it being a hardship for either one of them.
He took a step forward, heard the crunch and looked down to see a piece of notepaper snagged under his big toe. It had his name written on it in block letters.
He picked it up and opened it.
His heartbeat skipped up as he read the two short sentences, three times over.
Dear Mac,
Thank you for a memorable night.
Have a wonderful life.
Juno
Astonishment came first.
Unbelievable. She hadn’t gone out for a croissant, she’d run out on him.
Swiftly followed by temper. He crushed the letter in his fist.
She hadn’t just run out on him, she’d left him a damn kiss-off note.
What exactly did she mean by ‘memorable night’? Like he was some convenient stud she could dump when it suited her.
And that crack about having a wonderful life. So she’d decided they were never going to see each other again, had she?
He stalked across the room and shoved open the door of the en suite. What gave her the right to decide these things all by herself? And then hare off like some scared rabbit before they had a chance to discuss it.
She could forget that. No woman gave Mac Brody a kiss-off note, especially once he’d decided he didn’t want to be kissed off.
Dropping the bed sheet, he whipped back the shower curtain with enough force to rip part of it off the rail. He stepped into the tub, cursing the sight of his morning erection standing proud despite his aggravation.
Wasn’t that just fine and dandy?
He switched the shower dial to Froid and gritted his teeth.
If it wasn’t bad enough she’d mortally offended him and done another damn vanishing act, she’d now added injury to her insults.
The frigid water hit him like a slap in the face.
‘Wonderful life, my arse,’ he growled as he reached for the soap.
CHAPTER EIGHT
