‘That’s pretty much what happens. Well, it would, if I let it. No offense, but your gender sucks.’
He stared directly at her. ‘That activity is not gender specific.’
‘See, there you go with the sleazy come on.’
‘No, I was just pointing out the obvious. You know, being objective.’
‘Most men I know wouldn’t be able to define that word, let alone act on it.’
‘Most women I know would be able to use objective in a sentence.’
‘That’s because the women you know are probably all hookers. After all, who would put up with you if you didn’t pay them?’
For some reason, he found that hilarious.
Great, thought Rosie. In spite of his looks, he is probably one of those escapees from a high security asylum. When he asks you to dinner, he means you are the main course – and there is no sex involved, only a sharp carving knife and some loud jazz music to cover up the screams.
‘Let me buy you a coffee, I have a proposition for you.’ He cocked his head at a nearby bunch of plastic tables and chairs and a small coffee cart.
‘Do you think I am stupid? Why the hell would I have coffee with you?’
‘I am not crazy, I promise. Just hear me out, okay.’
Hear him out? How could someone so good looking be so bloody infuriating?
Because he is nuts! her subconscious screamed.
Given Rosie had no options; nowhere to go – except, apparently, to the pizza maker’s in Queens – she decided that she could use a double decaf latte. And the opportunity to insult Mr Up Himself a few more times.
‘Two cappuccino,’ he told the cart man.
‘I want a latte, decaf, two shots,’ she told the barista, loudly enough so that she wasn’t contradicted. Who the hell asks someone to have coffee then doesn’t bother asking what they want. She wasn’t used to this level of discourtesy, and it was really pissing her off now.
Paper cups in hand, they sat on what appeared to be two garden chairs that threaten possible collapse without warning.
‘I have a proposition for you,’ Mr Arsehole said without further preamble.
As bloody well if! She began to stand, but he grabbed her hand.
‘Please, just listen. It’s not like that. It’s a business proposition. Nothing to do with me, or us.’
‘There is no us.’ Mentalist. Total, bloody mentalist.
Passing over a card, he told her that it was a job offer. Of sorts. ‘Freelance.’
The card read:
Alex Clunes
AC New York Inc.
Private Investigator
It was embossed in simple silver, on thick textured card. There was an Upper East Side address. It looked legitimate enough, but Rosie knew anyone could have a bunch of cards like this printed. And a mental patient probably would, in order to attract his prey.
‘So what?’
‘So that’s me, I run it.’
Rosie was unimpressed. ‘So what, my father owns and runs a bank.’
He seemed unperturbed by that. ‘Not sure the two are related.’
‘Just saying, it doesn’t impress me, your little cottage business.’
‘You’re not supposed to be impressed. Jesus, are you always this much hard work?’
Rosie bristled at the accusation. ‘You approached me, remember? I am only sitting here because I have no idea what the hell I am going to do next.’
Why the fuck did she say that?
‘I think if you shut your mouth for 60 full seconds I can help you.’
Rosie’s mouth sprang into a petulant pout. She held up her arm and tapped the simple Rolex that adorned it. ‘Go on then.’
‘My agency has offices in New York and LA. We do spouse surveillance, mainly. But we are branching into another area which we believe could be a big money spinner.’
‘Who is this we?’
Reluctant to answer, he said, finally: ‘My ex-wife and me.’
‘Strange, but whatever. Go on.’ Rosie figured that if you got divorced, you still had to make a living. What other reason could you have for seeing a person you, in all probability, couldn’t stand, day in and day out?
‘A couple of clients have approached me, asked for a new sort of service.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, you see, they found out their partners were lying, cheating bastards, divorced them, got a truckload of cash, but they still feel like shit.’
‘They want revenge.’
‘Exactly. And that’s where you come in, if you are interested.’
‘What the hell are you on about? They are divorced, what use could I possibly be?’
‘Have you ever heard of a revenge date?’
‘No.’ Rosie didn’t believe in re-dating anyone for any reason at all, particularly revenge.
‘Well, the classic revenge date is where the person who breaks up a relationship realizes their mistake, goes to the ex and asks for a date. The ex – bitter and twisted from the breakup – goes, but only to show the other person what they are missing, and make them feel like shit.’
‘Pay back.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Sounds pathetic to me.’
‘Sounds like good money to me,’ Alex Clunes grinned. ‘My first client will pay 50 grand to have her ex brought to his knees.’
Now that was interesting.
‘The problem is, the guys we are talking about can have almost any woman they choose.’
‘They couldn’t have me,’ Rosie commented blithely. Famous guys with small dicks and big heads were a major turnoff to her.
‘Exactly.’
‘What?’
‘You are what my agency needs to make this work. The classic revenge date. I’ve noticed the way guys look at you; there is something about you that seems to send men crazy. I need that magic ingredient. And if you need cash, we could be the perfect team.’
‘And what about your ex-wife, what does she think of all of this?’ Given his devastating looks, Rosie assumed the wife wouldn’t be a hairy troll. She would, in all probability, hate Rosie. Not that there seemed any need. This Alex seemed absurdly immune to her charms, which was just as well, because he had the personality of a major twat.
‘She agrees that for the new business offer to work, we need someone irresistible to your average, horny, millionaire.’
Rosie thought for a moment. ‘There is no way I would sleep with someone for money.’
‘No, that’s not what I am asking. I want you to make them squirm; make them fall deeply and irrevocably in love with you. How you do it is up to you. Sleep with them, don’t, tie them up, whatever it takes. If you succeed in breaking them, you get half the takings.’
$25,000? For doing what came naturally?
Rosie couldn’t quite believe it.
‘How did you decide on me? It’s a bit strange that you feel I am the only person in the world who could satisfy this exacting criteria.’
She was still suspicious of his sudden appearance in the airport. Was he one of those guys who recruited girls for sale in overseas slave markets?
‘Firstly, you actually might be. Most girls with your looks are already famous models or actresses. And ordinary looking girls won’t cut muster with the type of men we are talking about.’
‘And secondly?’
‘I’ve actually been looking for the right girl for over six months, since this commission was offered. The client can confirm this. That’s why I was in the café that day – Tribeca is home to lots of incredible-looking women, but they all seem bland now, in comparison to you.’
‘So, you did follow me here today?’
He had the sense to look bashful. ‘Yes, you’ve got me. I lied about the trip because I didn’t want you to run off before I’d had the chance to explain.’
‘So you had me followed to my hotel?’
‘I do own an investigations agency. It wasn’t difficult to organize.’
All his answers s
eemed to stack up. But still, it seemed crazy.
Sensing her reluctance, the suave thirty-something pushed his card, which she had thrown back onto the table, towards her again.
‘Think about it, and give me a call. We could meet with the client tomorrow. I promise you, there will be no doubt the offer is legit then.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because she is the wife of an international rockstar. And a major film star herself.’
Which meant Rosie would recognize her.
She fingered the card.
Why not? After all, she needed the money, and there was no sex involved.
But if the guy was hot, she wouldn’t say no.
The no would come later, just like it always did.
‘I’ll need an advance, if I say yes.’
Alex finally relaxed his shoulders. ‘Five grand, cash, the moment you give the go ahead.’
What choice did she have? Mr Burger the gay pizza man and his rank bedroom in Queens? Or a continuing relationship with her Tribeca hotel room?
‘Okay, I’ll do it.’
Standing up, the private investigator waved his arm towards the door.
‘Let’s get to the bank then.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
JULIA HASTINGS WAS BRITISH BY BIRTH, but from the age of seven had lived in the Fifth Avenue apartment of her adoptive, American parents.
‘Can I get you both a drink of something?’
‘Decaf latte, double shot for her,’ Alex said, throwing Rosie a brief grin. ‘Cappuccino straight up for me.’
The doyenne of stage and screen called for her maid, a lovely Hispanic woman Julia called Hissy.
Then both Julia and Alex sat and stared at Rosie for a good minute.
She hoped they weren’t deciding which sauce to use after they’d barbequed her.
‘I didn’t think you’d find anyone,’ Julia finally said.
‘It was magic, as if it was fate. For all of us.’ That was directed at Rosie, who had enjoyed dinner at the Four Seasons courtesy of Alex last night, whilst they discussed tactics.
And he hadn’t tried to come on to her once, which was a first.
To say nothing of being rather disappointing.
She’d gone home and masturbated to the thought of Alex’s stern expression as he told her that as his employee, she was to behave in a professional manner. She imagined what he looked like under his loose Polo shirts – definite signs of an amazing six pack! She’d come in about thirty seconds, testimony to the fact that playing hard to get was the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Still, given that she was about to go and ruin the life of Felix Hastings, thirty-five year old bad boy of rock, she figured the growing lust for Alex could be satisfied in other, more profitable ways. Hastings had married Julia, fifteen years his senior, ten years ago. Then, just before Christmas, he had informed her she was past it, said some extremely unflattering things about her private parts that had her racing to her therapist faster that the Grey Virgin to the large pants’ department, and began divorce proceedings, trying to enforce a fictitious pre-nup that gave most of their $500 million assets to him.
What a total and utter prick. Rosie couldn’t wait to start making Felix the Fucker squirm.
Sitting there in an amazing apartment that overlooked Central Park, she pondered the delicious fact that no only was she making good money doing the only thing in the world she had any sort of experience in, she was also sending a very distinct ‘fuck you’ to her controlling parents.
If they never saw her again, it would serve them right.
‘So, dear, you understand that he has women throwing themselves at him. You might be gorgeous, but he is, well, Felix.’
Rosie moved from the armchair in which she sat next to Julia on the opulently upholstered chaise longue.
‘I don’t want to be blunt but I am rich, well-educated and couldn’t give a shit who you or your husband are. That makes it quite easy for me not to be impressed, and as we all know, rejection can be quite the aphrodisiac.’
Alex looked at her with a queering look. As if he knew she was thinking about last night, and what she was thinking as she pleasured herself.
Shit, he didn’t have her hotel room bugged, did he? Fuck, she had actually called out his name when she came, hadn’t she? The distant arsehole would love to hear that, wouldn’t he?
Reminding herself that the hotel had moved her to a different room, and that Alex hadn’t even be there when she checked back in, Rosie decided to stop being paranoid. Nothing wrong with a little manual appreciation, anyway, she thought, feeling herself become wet at the thought. Bloody Alex, what was he doing to her?
Julia seemed satisfied with Rosie’s confidence. She passed over a sheet of paper.
‘These are all his engagements for the next two weeks. His agent is the same as mine, and a woman.’ The familiar brown eyes looked up at her. ‘She understands how humiliated I have been.’
Rosie nodded. ‘So do I, and you know what, even if you weren’t paying me, I would do this for ladies everywhere, who have been screwed over by jerks who ditch them when something better comes along.’
‘Is he dating anyone right now?’ Alex asked quickly, obviously worried by the freebie comment.
‘No, he seems to be working his way through every model on the books of every agency in town.’
‘Where does he live?’ Rosie took out a small notebook she’d picked up from a trendy stationery store on the way uptown.
‘The Plaza, of course. Where else?’
‘Didn’t go far, did he?’ The refurbished hotel and apartment block was on the corner of Central Park, two buildings away from the much taller one in which they now sat.
‘Fucking bastard, he did it on purpose. Bought that apartment so that I would see him around constantly. If I didn’t fear the death penalty, I would just take a gun and . . .’
The poor, poor woman. She couldn’t wait to get started in on this Felix. If he wasn’t squirming in pain by the end of the week, her name wasn’t Rosie Matchall.
She stood up, holding out the list she had been given. ‘Well, he is recording downtown in about an hour; I think I’ll get started.’
‘They won’t let you in the studio,’ Julia warned her.
Smiling knowingly, Rosie insisted it wouldn’t be an issue. ‘You’d be surprised how little it takes for men to notice me.’
Crying softly now, Julia Hastings pleaded with her to make him pay. ‘I can’t move on until I know he understands what he did to me.’
‘Trust me, Julia. Greater men than Felix Hastings have fallen at my altar of rejection. If he hasn’t checked into some clinic after a major suicide attempt within a month, then I am losing my mojo.’
Spying Alex looking at her with something resembling appreciation, Rosie felt a surge of satisfaction. Yes, my friend, you too shall fall. It’s only a matter of time. In the end, every man falls.
And that’s the best time to dig the boot in.
Start causing the emotional pain.
She’d done it so many times without meaning to that it was a learned behavior.
Felix Hasting stood no chance.
Rosie was sure of it.
The recording studio was down a dusty little driveway, off the main road. Rosie’s plan for a ‘bump into’ was blown out of the bitumen, because there was a shiny black car down near the front of the squat grey building that was probably Felix’s limo. She couldn’t possibly saunter nonchalantly into a private area and hang about.
It wasn’t as if she could make herself inconspicuous, was it?
A couple of builder-types slowed down to fully check her out as they turned down onto the track that led to the studio.
‘Woooooooo, baby doll. Fancy a ride with me?’
An idea suddenly popped into her head. It wasn’t the most brilliant of plans, considering that she could easily be arrested, but what the hell, no pain for Felix without a little pain on her part too.
; ‘Actually, yes please.’
They couldn’t believe their luck. Pulling over close to her, the sliding door of the white van swung open and inside, four weasely looking white dudes wearing overalls were liberally salivating.
Either they had never been in such close proximity to someone who looked as she did, or they all had rabies.
Whatever the reason, Rosie momentarily questioned the wisdom of her plan. Being gang-raped in the back of filthy van was not worth a million pounds, let alone the rest of the $25,000 fee for rumbling the rockstar.
Taking a breath, she decided to chance it. If need be, she had a full Chanel No 5 – that should take out a few sets of squinty, lust-filled eyes, at least.
‘Move over,’ she commanded, swinging her bejeaned leg onto a pallet of tiles.
‘Baaaaaby,’ the shortest guy, sporting her pet-hate, the goatee, clapped, clapped, his hands. How old was he? Twelve?
‘NYPD,’ Rosie continued, with all the authority she could muster. ‘We have reason to believe that the building down there on the right houses not a recording studio, but, in fact, a factory manufacturing drugs. I need your help for an undercover operation. The other officers are in the immediate vicinity.’
She added that last part just in case these losers weren’t above molesting a cop.
The Revenge Date/Ten Reasons to Say I Don't Bundle (Romantic Comedy) Page 5