Two's Company

by Jill Mansell

  Beads of perspiration trickled down between Imogen’s breasts. She hoped she didn’t look as flustered as she felt.

  “Why don’t you tell me your plans, and I’ll decide how much our devoted readers can take?” She gave him a prim smile.

  “OK.” Dino Carlisle grinned back. “Well, I guess I’ll be looking up a few old friends. And hopefully making one or two new ones. I’m sorry. Do I have the heating turned up too much in here? Is this temperature uncomfortable for you?”

  “Well, maybe a touch…”

  “My fault.” Dino grinned again, revealing Hollywood-white teeth. “You came here dressed for a misty April morning in London, and I’m suffocating you with summer in California.” Mocking his own accent, he drawled, “I’m sorry. I’m just a selfish, pig-ignorant, ill-mannered actor. Here, let me open a couple of windows.”

  Imogen began to relax. She removed her gray Jasper Conran jacket and allowed Dino to take it from her. In true California style, he was wearing a casual white cotton shirt and well-worn 501s. His toffee-brown tan looked as delicious as the body beneath it. The temptation to reach out and touch that almost too-perfect flesh was overwhelming.

  “Right, well, better get on.” Dragging her attention back to the interview, Imogen glanced once more at her notes. “Your agent granted us thirty minutes, and I realize how busy you must be—”

  “Take no notice of him.” Dino gave her a disarming smile as he sat back down, stretching out on his side across the yellow sofa. “He only does that to make the press think I’m more important than I really am. It’s the old Garbo thing, see? Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.” He winked at Imogen. “But it’s all bullshit. You can stay here as long as you like.”

  * * *

  Imogen was enjoying herself. The interview was going like a dream, Dino Carlisle had kept her thoroughly entertained for almost two hours, and room service had supplied them with a fab lunch of asparagus, gingered sea bass, and raspberry brûlée. Dino had even refused to let her pick up the tab.

  “Hell, why should you? I’m having fun,” he had protested. “The least you can let me do is buy you lunch.”

  He really was a tremendously nice man. Charismatic too. Basking in the pleasurable glow of such undivided attention, Imogen smiled and nodded when he offered her another glass of white wine. Being flirted with was always an ego boost. When the man showing such obvious interest was none other than Dino Carlisle, it was almost impossible to resist.

  It was just about impossible not to flirt back either. Glancing down at her feet, Imogen saw that without even realizing it, she had kicked off her shoes. Her skirt had ridden a couple of inches higher up her thighs, and she had swiveled into a relaxed, sideways position in her chair with one foot comfortably tucked beneath the other leg. Talk about body language, thought Imogen. What a dead giveaway.

  Leaning forward and checking the recorder again, she tried to concentrate on the questions she was supposed to be asking. Oh help. Next on her list, she had written “sex life.” She took a deep breath.

  “OK, girlfriends. I know you like to keep your private life private, but is there anyone special at the moment?”

  Beneath the mane of unruly, dark hair, Dino’s eyebrows twitched.

  “Now there’s a question.” His voice softened. “Well, what can I say? How about possibly?” He hesitated. “Or should that be hopefully?”

  As a journalist, Imogen was unable to resist the dig. “How about enigmatically?”

  “Sorry, I’m not trying to be enigmatic.” Dino was looking at her in such a way that Imogen’s throat went suddenly dry. “The thing is, I’m not too sure myself. I know I’ve met someone special. I just don’t know how she feels about me. It’s early days, you see.” He paused, then said, “Actually, that’s not true. More like early hours.”

  Heavens. In her chest, Imogen’s heart was going nineteen to the dozen. Her palms were damp. She found she couldn’t drag her gaze away from those mesmerizing, emerald-green eyes. Damn, she must look like a rabbit paralyzed by headlights.

  “And before you ask, I don’t make a habit of propositioning pretty journalists.”

  Stalling for time, Imogen said, “No?”

  “No.” Dino’s smile was rueful. “Dangerous hobby. You never know when you might be being taken for a ride. Imagine the blow to the ego if you thought you’d acquitted yourself with honors, then discovered in print that the last time they’d had that lousy a time in bed was when they’d been struck down with the flu.”

  Imogen managed a shaky laugh, then drew breath. “How do you know I wouldn’t say that?”

  “I don’t. I just happen to think you’re worth the risk.” His gaze flickered for a moment. “I also hope you wouldn’t need to say it. I don’t know if you realize how attracted I am to you, but—”

  “Stop,” Imogen said unhappily. “Please, don’t say any more. I’m sorry. You really are one of the nicest men I’ve ever met, but you must stop. I’m already involved with someone else, you see. And I love him. I’m tremendously flattered by all this”—her vague gesture around the suite included Dino himself—“but nothing can come of it. I’m…spoken for, I suppose. And I could never be unfaithful to Jack.”

  * * *

  Cleo was utterly disgusted.

  “Well,” she grumbled, “all I can say is you can’t have tried very hard.”

  “I did.” Dino grinned, unperturbed. “I gave it my all. And if I say so myself, I was magnificent. She just turned me down flat. She even apologized but said she loved your old man too much to ever cheat on him. I thought it was kinda cute.” To infuriate Cleo even more, he couldn’t resist adding, “And I know you described her as the hag from hell, but she really wasn’t half as bad as you made out. She’s an attractive girl, great body, good company—”

  “Fine. Let’s hope she writes a good obituary.” Cleo seized a blue tasseled cushion and pressed it across his face.

  “At least you know she really is in love with your father,” Dino protested when she let him breathe again. “OK, so maybe it wasn’t the result you wanted, but isn’t that still a reassuring thing to find out?”

  “What a completely dumb thing to say,” howled Cleo. “I don’t give a stuff whether or not Imogen Trent loves my father. All I want is for him to stop loving her.”

  Dino and Cleo had first met two years earlier at a stultifyingly dull celebrity party in New York thrown to publicize the launch of a new perfume. The perfume, named after and supposedly created by a face-lifted, drug-addicted movie star in her fifties, was being touted as the explosive new fragrance of the year.

  Cleo, walking into the hotel ballroom where the launch was being held and breathing in the scent for the first time, had declared, “Smells like donkey droppings to me.”

  Sadly, she had failed to recognize the drastically relifted face of the middle-aged movie star standing less than three feet away. The star, who favored boytoys and maintained a pathological fear of having them enticed away by stunning young girls, had spun around, bagless eyes blazing.

  “You. Smart-mouthed English bitch. Out.”

  “Oh, heavens…” Too late, Cleo realized her mistake. Clapping her hands over her mouth, she gazed in abject dismay at the furious female before her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. Your perfume doesn’t really smell of donkey droppings—”

  “Out,” hissed the star, her capped teeth bared in a snarl. “Now.”

  “But—”

  “Come on.” Dino Carlisle, whom Cleo had never met before in her life, took her arm and swept her toward the exit.

  “Dino!” cried the star, who had pinned her hopes on his becoming her next boytoy. “You can’t leave…”

  The paparazzi, thrilled that something photogenic was at last happening, began frenziedly snapping away.

  “Right, let’s get out of here,” Dino told a speec
hless Cleo. Loudly enough for the press to hear, he said, “And find somewhere that doesn’t smell of Eau de Zoo.”

  They had been friends ever since that night, the friendship cemented still further by the realization that although they liked each other tremendously, there wasn’t so much as an iota of sexual chemistry between them.

  “I can’t understand it,” Dino had once drawled, amused but at the same time perplexed. “You’re gorgeous, and I love you to death…so why don’t I fancy you?”

  “Maybe you’re gay.”

  He looked appalled. “I am not.”

  “Anyway, who cares?” Cleo shrugged and grinned. “I don’t fancy you either. We must have been brother and sister in some past life.”

  Now, putting the tasseled cushion with which she had tried to suffocate him back on the sofa, Dino refused to be bullied into submission by Cleo’s pigheaded attitude. She had done her best to catch Imogen out and had failed. It was something she was simply going to have to accept.

  “You’re being unreasonable,” he pointed out. “The whole point of doing these check-up things of yours was because you wanted people to be happy and faithful. You told me how depressing it was, watching everyone fail their tests. I think you should be pleased someone finally passed.”

  “Even if it is my father’s tart of a girlfriend?” said Cleo gloomily. “Oh, Dino, I know I wanted my faith in humanity restored. I just didn’t want it done for me by Imogen bloody Trent.”

  Chapter 33

  The sixth and final episode of Sean Mandeville on Show was in the can. Each thirty-minute segment was interspersed with behind-the-scenes footage of Sean preparing to go onstage and winding down after each performance. In keeping with his image, there were girls galore to help him wind down. When the Pandora story finally broke only days before the last episode was due to be filmed, the producer was desperate to have her included.

  “We need her if we’re going to be topical,” he explained to Sean. “Come on. It’s all good human-interest stuff. Get the girl down here.”

  But Pandora was still smarting over Sean’s accusation that she might be trying to gain attention simply by being associated with him. She steadfastly refused to be involved.

  “Just a two-minute piece,” the producer urged over the phone. That Pandora was black, as far as he was concerned, only heightened the intrigue. “You wouldn’t even have to come to the club. We can do it at the house.”

  “Sorry,” said Pandora, “but no. It’s Sean’s series, not mine.”

  “You’re Sean’s family,” the producer reminded her. “People are interested. They want to see you.”

  What? Pandora thought sadly. So they can snigger and wonder what Sean Mandeville ever saw in me?

  “Please?” wheedled the producer.

  “No. Just tell everyone I’m pregnant and the size of a whale,” said Pandora. “And it’s not a pretty sight. They really wouldn’t want to see me.”

  * * *

  The end-of-series party was held at Comedy Inc. the following Friday. By ten o’clock, the club was straining at its grubby, nicotine-stained seams.

  It was, Sean decided, probably just as well Pandora had chosen to stay at home. He hadn’t the least idea why she had so stubbornly refused to appear in front of the cameras, but steering clear of tonight’s party—when it was packed with this many people—was undoubtedly a sensible move.

  It also meant he was free to relax and enjoy himself without having to look after Pandora and perpetually wonder if she was all right. Not, he hastily excused himself, that he minded; it was just one of those things. Pandora wouldn’t know a soul here, whereas he knew just about everyone.

  Sean’s attention at that moment was caught by a face in the crowd over at the far end of the room. It was a face belonging to one of the few people there he didn’t know but whom he nevertheless instantly recognized…

  Since breaking off her engagement to Colin, Linda Lazenby had discovered just how painful being single could be. Desperately unprepared for the loneliness that had engulfed her like a tidal wave—for since the age of fourteen, she had simply fallen from one relationship into the lap of the next—Linda had taken on more and more work in a panicky attempt to blot out the horror. Only the even more terrifying prospect of having to face the wrath of Cleo Mandeville had kept her from begging Colin’s forgiveness and crawling back into his unfaithful arms.

  But Cleo hadn’t warned her that being young, free, and single would be this vile. Nor had spending the last six weeks in New York helped. Male New Yorkers were a decidedly off-putting lot. Now, back in London, she couldn’t find anything that could be called an improvement. Help, thought Linda with a renewed pang of fear. Won’t I ever meet anyone nice again?

  And then she saw Sean Mandeville coming toward her, and her heart did an odd little skip. Not that his being here was in any way a surprise, seeing as the party was in his honor, but she was jolted by how good-looking he was. It really seemed, too, as if he was heading directly for her.

  “Sorry,” said Sean, “no gate-crashers.”

  “Oh…” Linda’s hands fluttered to her bony chest. Chronically insecure, it didn’t occur to her for a moment that he might be joking. “But I was invited, honestly. I’m here with Margo Hamilton, only I think she’s gotten lost in the bathroom or something…”

  “Calm down.” Up close, Sean was able to see the fear in those slanting, violet eyes. “Of course you’re invited. I just came over to say hello because I know you’re a friend of Cleo’s.” He broke into a grin. “Hello, friend of Cleo’s. I’m Sean.”

  “Oh.” The fear left Linda’s eyes. Hugely relieved that she wasn’t about to be turfed out on her ear and unsure what to do next, she seized Sean’s hand and shook it so vigorously the chain belt around her waist rattled like a jailer’s keys. “Yes, Cleo and I’ve known each other for years. She’s brilliant, isn’t she?”

  “Hmm.” Sean looked doubtful. “Try being her brother.”

  “It’s so lovely to meet you at last as well.” Too busy gushing to think, Linda went on, “I asked Cleo to introduce us ages ago, but she wouldn’t.”

  “Really?” Sean raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “Oh…um…”

  He looked amused. “Let me guess. I’m the big bad wolf.”

  “Well, kind of. Though I’m sure you aren’t.”

  Sean said gravely, “I’m much misunderstood.”

  “Here comes Margo.”

  Glancing behind him, Sean saw Margo Hamilton making her way through the crowds. Now there was a model he didn’t care for. Margo was a big-boned, big-mouthed Texan. And she was taller than he was.

  “She’s got her coat on.” Linda sounded unhappy. “Oh dear, it looks as if we’re leaving.”

  Rapidly, before bossy Margo could butt in, Sean said, “You don’t have to leave just because she is. Look, how about coming for something to eat with me? To celebrate meeting each other”—he smiled at Linda—“against all odds and my interfering sister’s wishes.”

  Thank goodness Cleo was in Milan this week, safely out of the way and unable to stick her oar in.

  “Come along, Linda. We’ve had enough now. Time to go. Oh, hello, Sean.” There was no warmth in the greeting. Sean’s dislike of Margo was entirely reciprocated.

  Linda glanced nervously from one to the other. Sean’s brief nod of encouragement was accompanied by a ghost of a smile.

  Margo began to chivy her toward the door. “Come on.”

  “I’m OK here actually.”

  Linda blurted out the words, realizing that Sean wasn’t about to intervene. He was leaving it up to her. It was scary but thrilling.

  “What are you talking about?” Margo’s eyes narrowed. Linda had never answered back in her life.

  “You go. I’ll stay.” Linda vividly recalled Cleo’s urgent pleas that she shou
ld learn to stand up for herself. What better time to start, Linda thought with a rush of pride, and who better than Cleo’s own gorgeous brother to start with?

  “Have you been drinking?” Margo demanded crossly.

  “Only Diet Coke.”

  “Come on now, Linda. I really think—”

  “It’s all right. I’ll take care of her.” Highly amused by the spectacle of the worm turning, Sean slid his arm around Linda’s quivering, wafer-thin waist. “She’ll be fine with me.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take long for the gossip to filter back to Cleo when she arrived home from Milan three days later. Due to appear at a charity fashion show at the Four Seasons that afternoon, she turned up early. Linda, one of the other celebrity models doing their bit for Children in Need, greeted her with delight.

  “You’re back! Oh, I’m so glad to see you again. You’ll never guess what I did the other night—”

  Cleo sincerely hoped she couldn’t. Unable to face playing along, she said flatly, “It’s Sean, isn’t it? Linda, whatever it was you did, you must never do it again. I can’t believe you even spoke to him. What did I tell you,” Cleo wailed, “about getting involved with bastards?”

  “I know, I know.” Linda gazed at her in earnest. “But that’s just it…he isn’t a bastard. Oh, Cleo, he’s really nice—”

  “Balls,” said Cleo, terrifying one of the show’s organizers.

  The little man backed away in alarm.

  “Sean said you’d say that.” Linda shook her head in sorrowful fashion. Her raspberry-pink taffeta frock crackled in sympathy. “Well, maybe not balls exactly, but he knew you’d get funny.”

  “Believe me, I’ll get even funnier when I see him.”

  “You could at least be a bit pleased for me.” Cut to the quick by Cleo’s unsympathetic attitude, Linda’s heavily mascaraed eyes swam with tears. “You know how unhappy I’ve been since—”

  “Since you gave Colin the boot.” Such gratitude, thought Cleo despairingly. “Yes, yes, I do know. But getting involved with my brother isn’t the answer. He’ll make you unhappier than Colin ever could. You’ll end up unhappy beyond your wildest dreams.”