There was a bitter edge to her voice that he couldn’t fail to miss and that piqued his curiosity.
‘Then you’ll know it’s more than a job. It’s a life, really. That’s why I joined up.’ He thought back down the years to that decision. A way out, that was what his grandfather had called it. He hadn’t realised at the time it would end up being at the expense of so much. ‘I hadn’t had much direction in my teens, didn’t do well at school. I was...drifting really.’
Drifting? He had to stifle a mad laugh. He had no idea where that word had come from. Drifting was what you did when you backpacked around Asia, not what you did when you started with boredom and bad company and slid into petty crime, with a long-term potential for not-so-petty crime. Not that he had any inclination to enlighten her or anyone else about his past mess.
‘The army changed everything,’ he said. ‘For six years I lived this completely different life. The friendship, the team ethic, the physical demands of it were exactly what I needed. Exactly what I wanted.’
‘If it was so fantastic, why on earth did you leave?’ she said.
He saw that one coming. She wasn’t the first person to ask. He cleared his throat.
‘Like I said, it isolates you from your home life.’ If you let it. ‘I had responsibilities to get back to. But from the moment I left I missed the challenge, the teamwork, that kind of stuff.’
‘Is that why you do those charity expeditions? I was surprised at how much charity stuff you do.’
He paused to look at her, eyebrows raised.
‘You’re a celebrity,’ she said and he saw her notice his wince. ‘Like it or not. You have a Wikipedia page. It wasn’t hard. I just did a web search on you.’
‘Why? To see what you were in for?’
She shook her head.
‘To see what you were really like. When you haven’t got off on the wrong foot because someone’s insulted you.’
‘And?’
When he glanced her way she smiled and tilted her head to one side as if she was sizing him up. The gesture was very cute. Beneath the streaks of dried mud her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink with the cold and the blue eyes were bright and smart. To look at that delectable soft lower lip was to wonder how it might feel and taste to kiss her. Heat curled through his body at that maddeningly recurring thought.
‘It didn’t really help, to be honest,’ Evie said.
When it came to Jack Trent the Internet was big on smoking-hot pictures of him but disappointingly short on juicy detail. ‘There’s lots of stuff about your TV shows and charity expeditions, a ton of photos of you with various girls on your arm, and hardly anything about the man behind all that. Then there’s the outdoorsy websites banging on about how harrowing your survival courses are. I stopped reading after that.’
He grinned a little at that. It made the corners of his eyes crease and lit his face. He really was so gorgeous.
‘Maybe that’s the only stuff worth knowing,’ he said. ‘The expeditions have been great. The thing about leaving the army was that suddenly that team ethic had gone. I missed the challenge, missed pushing myself. And a sense of purpose. The charity things were a way of doing some good. Then the survival courses followed on from that.’ He shrugged. ‘We all need to make a living. Those of us without trust funds anyway.’
‘Ha-bloody-ha,’ she said. ‘The need to make a living doesn’t have to just be about money.’
‘Only someone who doesn’t need money could possibly say that,’ he said.
She smiled a little.
‘There’s only so much shopping and schmoozing you can do before it becomes a bit directionless,’ she said.
He leaned in close to her and lowered his voice. Her stomach gave a flutter at the sudden unexpected closeness.
‘Watch there isn’t a camera switched on,’ he said. ‘That kind of talk really doesn’t fit your socialite-princess image.’
Heat rose in her cheeks at the astute expression on his face.
FIVE
Same skeleton film crew, different location. Same churning of nerves in Evie’s stomach. This time there was some shelter from the trees and rocks. Jack delivered an introduction to the camera and it panned away from him to take in the murky green water of the river that flowed behind them, trees and foliage lining its muddy banks. On a sunny day in the height of summer she supposed it might have looked inviting. Right now it just looked hideously cold. She loitered to one side under the dripping pine trees.
‘There are rules to follow when it comes to river crossings,’ he said to the camera. ‘It’s extremely important to find the best location to cross safely. Make sure you’ve assessed your exit route on the opposite bank, allowing extra space for some drift in case you’re pulled downstream once you’re in the water.’
Her mind stuttered to a standstill as it processed those last words and she walked into shot before she realised what she was doing.
‘Did you just say “in the water”?’ she said. ‘As in you and me? No bridge? No stepping stones?’
He smiled and nodded at her interaction, always the perfect professional.
‘There are a number of ways you can approach it, but, yes, one of them is to wade across. That’s what we’ll be demonstrating today. So the location you choose is key. You need to be aware of river debris and current. And you need to keep as much of your kit dry as you possibly can.’
He stepped away from her, the camera following his every move, and unzipped his outer jacket, all the while holding her gaze with his own. Whether that was meant to be seen as challenging or encouraging she had no idea, she was far too busy watching as he followed the jacket up by reaching behind his head and tugging off his thin fleece pullover. Droplets of moisture clung to his hair. Beneath the pullover was a sludge-green T-shirt that clung to every contour of his heavily muscled chest and torso and picked out the green of his eyes to boot. Her jaw felt suddenly as if it were loose and she was sure she wasn’t alone. She could just imagine the nation’s women putting off making that cup of tea just for a few minutes to see exactly how many garments Jack Trent might remove.
He continued talking to camera as he stripped, banging on about crossing the river at a forty-five-degree angle as if anyone cared when he was removing his underlying T-shirt to reveal the tightest, most toned abs and chest she’d ever seen. Her tongue crept into the corner of her mouth and she realised both he and the camera were looking at her expectantly. Oh, crap. Had he asked her a question? What had she missed?
‘Ultimately the aim is to keep your clothes as dry as possible, so you undress to the minimum layer you can manage,’ he repeated.
He looked at her expectantly.
She held up a finger.
‘Could we just...’ she beckoned him over to her ‘...one moment. Quick discussion?’ The cameraman followed and she scowled at him.
Jack’s skin was taut and tanned and she swallowed hard as she leaned in to speak to him privately.
‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘Make it quick. It’s bloody freezing.’ He shifted from foot to foot in his shorts, his breath coming in fast audible bursts.
She shook her head at him.
‘Are you actually expecting me to undress?’ she said. ‘On camera? I thought I’d better check.’
‘It’s a serious documentary,’ he said, as if stripping to your underwear on prime-time TV was perfectly acceptable. ‘It’s practical. It’s not about titillation.’
‘You’re joking,’ she said. ‘Half the women in the country will be freeze-framing you.’
He gave an exasperated eye-roll.
‘There’s no need to get naked,’ he said. ‘Just the outer layers. This is standard for every single course I run. It’s an absolutely fundamental survival skill.’ He paused. ‘But if you’re really not up for it, that’s fin
e too. I’ll do the crossing solo.’
His smile was reassuring. He looked as if he were in his element and suddenly all she wanted was to go home to her cosy flat, take a long hot bath and curl up in her pyjamas. And possibly never go out again. As if falling out of nightclubs had ever been her pastime of choice. The whole Miss Knightsbridge social-bunny image was a means to an end, no more. Her stepping stone to independence. The producers wouldn’t have looked twice at her if they’d known her real clothing of choice was loungewear. She gritted her teeth.
‘The public would love that, wouldn’t they? I do the show from the sidelines instead of getting involved.’
‘Sod the viewing public. Your remit is to guest on the show—doesn’t mean you have to take part in every bit of it. I never expect anyone to undertake a task unless they’re absolutely sure about it.’
The location director hastily joined them.
‘But the more you take part in, the better it will look,’ she pointed out.
‘There are safety issues to think about,’ Jack countered. ‘River crossings are tough. The segment will still work if I go it alone.’
His support brought a surge of warmth. There she was thinking he might enjoy seeing her submerged in horrible river water and when it came down to it he was the only one here in her corner. There was no compromising on safety, not on his watch. He was looking out for her. That more than anything made her go ahead. She wanted to show him she was up to the challenge.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to give this one a miss?’
‘And let you have all the fun in that freezing river?’ She laughed manically.
* * *
The TV crew exchanged resigned glances and it was clear they were expecting, no, scratch that, hoping for some kind of diva tantrum. It was obvious she hadn’t been properly briefed about what the show would involve, undoubtedly so the camera could record the full shock value when each task was revealed. She’d started out a bit shakily with the ‘mud on the face’ thing, but since then he found himself admiring her more and more for throwing herself into it.
Now she was unzipping her thick outer jacket in his peripheral vision and he found it nigh on impossible to make his eyes look anywhere but at her. He forced himself to concentrate on rolling up his own discarded clothes and piling them into the waterproof backpack. When his eyes traitorously strayed back towards her, she was tugging her own fleece top over her head, followed up by a T-shirt. Underneath was a black vest top and clinging shorts that made her perfectly toned legs look longer than ever. He could imagine her jogging around Hyde Park in the sunshine in designer sportswear, top-of-the-range MP3 player plugged into her ears, and he latched onto that image hard. They were from totally different worlds and he needed to keep his head. That would be so much easier if she weren’t exactly what he went for in terms of looks: fit and sporty and especially now without the extra gloss of the make-up and hairstyling.
‘OK?’ He managed to peel his tongue from the roof of his mouth and speak.
‘Let’s just get it over with,’ she said, through chattering teeth. ‘It’s freezing and we’re not even in the sodding water yet.’
He distracted himself by talking up the task requirements as he climbed down the river bank.
‘You need a location with good footholds on both sides of the river with a broad exit area,’ he said. ‘Backpack over one shoulder only, facing downstream, so you can dump it if you need to in case you lose your footing.’
He held a hand up to her and after a moment she took it and climbed down next to him, her feet sinking into the gritty mud.
‘Just follow my lead,’ he said loudly, over the soft rush of the water. ‘Take it steady.’
It was too cold to speak. The icy water seemed to squeeze all the breath out of her as Evie pressed her teeth together and plunged into the water behind him. She shrieked as the water slopped above waist height. There was a light current tugging at her legs, wanting to pull her downstream, and she concentrated hard on leaning against it, following Jack’s path. Mud oozed grittily between her numb toes and clouded up around her through the water. Every step involved a teetering balancing act with her backpack and her bodyweight versus the pull of the undertow.
The cold was unbelievable but still she thought she was holding her own. In only a few minutes Jack’s backpack was thrown onto the opposite bank, and he’d pulled himself out of the water. The camera recorded every detail.
‘Think about finding a good strong foothold,’ he called back to her.
She grabbed at a tuft of grass with one hand and put her weight on her left foot, all ready to pull herself out, early triumph kicking in that she’d done this. She even had a fleeting moment to be grateful that he’d gone first so he wouldn’t be behind her and watching her backside as she flailed about and tried to get out, and then the current ruined it all by sweeping the mud out from under her foot and she fell back into the river with a reeling splash.
She surfaced with a spluttering scream and floundered to find her footing. Her backpack floated away on its own. And, OK, so it wasn’t exactly white water and they’d obviously dumbed down their river choice to novice level, but with its icy-cold temperature and shifting muddy bed it was hard to pull herself back to a standing position. Dark panic rose in her chest as she tried to grab for the bank, for anything at all, all the while feeling colder and drifting further downstream, and then he was suddenly there. A huge splash as he threw himself straight back into the water and plunged towards her, arms pumping at his sides to propel himself along until he reached her. Pulling her into a standing position until she was on her feet, he shouted instructions into her ear and moved behind her to push her towards the bank, where the production team had dropped everything to help. Unfortunately with the exception of the cameraman, eagerly recording every dripping-wet and humiliating moment.
As they landed on the bank, Jack right next to her, both of them soaking wet and smeared with mud, there was a spattering of claps from the small production team. And then she realised his arm was curled tightly around her waist and she was holding his hand in a vice grip in her own numb fingers.
‘Get me a towel!’ he snapped at a production assistant. Then he was wrapping it around her shoulders and rubbing her goosebumpy arms vigorously. Someone else swept in with a flask of coffee. His concern for her, putting her safety above everything else, brought a surge of happiness that warmed her to her icy cold toes. Just the basic sensation of having someone concerned about her, let alone someone who would haul arse through a freezing river to help her, was a totally alien feeling.
‘If I’d known there’d be coffee I might have lost my bloody footing at the beginning,’ she managed.
* * *
He sat next to her on the soft mud of the river bank while the crew packed up their kit. Tendrils of her hair still clung damply to her neck but he was glad to see that her lips had lost their blue tinge and her cheekbones had a bit more colour. He’d stood over the cameraman while she changed back into dry clothes behind one of the trees, every so often catching a glimpse of her with two corners of the towel clamped between her chin and her chest to preserve her modesty. No entourage tending to her every whim, no stylist. And no complaints.
Still she hadn’t asked once if she could jack in the show. There was no grumbling, she simply nodded whenever he asked if she was OK. Her sense of humour hadn’t disappeared. His opinion of her quietly rose.
‘You did really well,’ he said. It didn’t raise a smile and he leaned in towards her and gently bumped her shoulder with his to make her look at him. ‘You did,’ he repeated.
She looked sideways at him and pulled her thick jacket more tightly around her.
‘I made a colossal moose of myself,’ she countered. ‘It wasn’t exactly the Zambezi in spate, was it? Yes, there was a bit of a current but a twelve-year-old k
id could probably have crossed that river without a hitch.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘The cold makes everything much harder. Your heart rate spins up, you’re so busy coping with how freezing you suddenly are that thinking about where to put your feet isn’t the piece of cake it seems when you’re watching from the bank.’
‘But I wanted to get through every task with full marks,’ she said, not looking at him. Instead she fixed her eyes on the river as it flowed past. ‘Show people there’s more to me than the shopping-obsessed diva who bad-mouthed the national treasure.’
He laughed awkwardly, never comfortable with the public approval.
‘National treasure? That’s a new one. Flavour of the month, more like. That’s why I’ve tried to use the TV show to boost the charity work as much as I can—you never know when the public will get fed up with you.’
‘I didn’t help, did I?’ she said. ‘With my stupid comments. I’m really sorry.’
Her voice was defeated, no sign of the in-your-face diva now. The apology made his heart turn over in his chest.
‘It’s probably done good,’ he said. ‘Like that insane PR guy said, the one that follows you around: there’s no such thing as bad publicity. If you want to feel appreciated maybe you’re looking in the wrong place—the public are too fickle for words. You should be interested in what your family think, the people that care about you. I bet they’d be as proud as hell that you haven’t walked away from those comments and you’ve gone through with this show.’
She pulled a sceptical face.
‘Maybe.’
It was clear from her tone that she’d only agreed with him to fob him off. He wondered again exactly where her family was in all of this. Were they all too worried about distancing themselves from the scandal to offer her a bit of support?
‘Come on,’ he said, standing up. He held his hands out, keeping them there until she took them, and then he tugged her to her feet next to him.
She looked steadily into his face.
Man vs. Socialite Page 7