The Most Expensive Night of Her Life

by Amy Andrews

  But when she smiled at him like a woman smiling at a man, things got a little hazy.

  ‘Two,’ he continued, dragging his mind off her mouth and taking another step back for good measure. ‘You have to be in some kind of disguise. There’s no point in you coming with me to lie low when you look like—’

  Blake paused as his gaze skittered down her body and back up again. His boxers and T-shirt did nothing to disguise her body. Not with her bare shoulder, her hair swinging in a ponytail and legs that went on for ever.

  He waved his hand in her general direction. ‘That.’

  A few months ago Ava would have been insulted at the brief survey of her body and his apparent dismissal. But she knew him well enough now to know that he was just too disciplined to give too much away.

  She guessed that was the soldier in him.

  She looked down at her body, smoothing her hands down the front to the exposed slice of her belly, which, thanks to a hundred crunches a day and regular visits to the tanning salon, she knew to be flat and toned and tanned and pretty irresistible to most people with a y chromosome and a pulse.

  ‘Like what?’ she enquired, looking at him innocently.

  Blake gritted his teeth, not fooled by her little performance one iota. ‘Like Ava freaking Kelly,’ he said.

  She quirked an eyebrow. ‘Should I shave my head?’

  Blake gave her a sardonic smile. ‘I don’t think we need to go quite that extreme. Would hate to incur the wrath of Reggie any more than I have. But maybe a wig? Or definitely hats, something to tuck your hair into. And big dark sunglasses.’

  His gaze drifted to those legs again. ‘And baggy clothes. No itty-bitty shorts and tiny little T-shirts. No red bikinis.’ For his own sanity if nothing else. ‘No make-up. Nothing that draws attention to you.’

  Although he had the feeling she could be wearing a sack and men would still look.

  ‘I don’t want some yobo at a pub along the canal recognising you and deciding he can make a quid or two ratting you out to the media. Plain is what we’re after,’ he said. ‘Baggy, too big, shapeless—they are your friends.’

  Ava blinked. None of those things had ever been her friends. Camouflage wasn’t what she did. She spent all her working hours flaunting and flattering her body. ‘Well, gee whiz, that sounds like fun,’ she said, her voice heavy with derision.

  But still, she could see his point. People had made a lot of money out of her in the past by tipping off the press. And with the furore that was bound to have been whipped up by last night’s incident and her going underground—she’d have a pretty price on her head.

  And she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be utterly anonymous, even for a short while. Not famous for a few days? She’d been on magazine covers and in the public eye since she was fourteen years old and sometimes she was just so tired of the constant attention and scrutiny.

  ‘They’re my conditions.’ Blake shrugged. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  ‘Take it.’ She nodded. She could put up with any fashion sin for a few days. ‘Not exactly clothes I have in my closet though.’

  Blake shook his head. ‘Too unsafe to go there, anyway.’ He strode over to the dining table where his mobile was on charge, pleased to be out of range of her in his clothes. ‘I’ll ring Joanna,’ he said. ‘We can break the news to her about her windfall, then you can tell her what you need and she can buy it for you then bring it here.’

  Ava blinked. ‘I can’t expect your sister to just drop everything and go clothes shopping for me.’

  ‘Trust me—’ he grimaced as the dialling tone sounded in his ear ‘—when she learns about your generosity, she’s going to want to have your babies.’

  * * *

  Finally, almost three hours later, they were under way. The groceries had been delivered and put away. So had the second lot that Ava had ordered when she’d realised how basic the first lot were. And an excitable, starry-eyed Joanna had come and gone. The only people who knew that Ava Kelly was on the boat with Blake were Joanna and Charlie.

  And Blake trusted them with his life.

  God knew between the two of them they’d practically brought him back from the brink with sheer will power alone. All those days and nights when life hadn’t seemed worth living, they’d been there getting him through. Loving him, fighting with him, crying with him, getting drunk with him. Whatever it had taken, they’d done it.

  It was slow going through the busy London canal system as he headed west along the Paddington arm of the Grand Union Canal. Tourists were out enjoying the narrow-boat lifestyle either through private hire or with the many companies that ran canal transport services. The weather was glorious—the sky blue and cloudless, the sun warm, a light breeze ruffling his shirt—and had it not been for his unwanted passenger, it would have been perfect.

  Although, to be fair, Ava was exceedingly easy company—so far anyway. Dressed in a pair of baggy shorts that came past her knees and a loose T-shirt with her hair tucked into a cap and dark, saucer-like sunglasses completely obscuring her eyes, she looked like any other tourist standing at the helm. Watching the world go by as she soaked up some rays and intermittently answering half a dozen calls, all from Reggie.

  Sure, if someone looked hard enough they’d be able to make out the slenderness of her legs, the erect, model-like way she held herself, the superb bone structure of her heart-shaped face. But at a quick glance she looked as far removed from a supermodel as was possible and no one gawked at her, nudged each other and whispered or pointed their fingers.

  She was just another one of them.

  Mission: Disguise Ava Kelly, accomplished.

  But what surprised him was how much she didn’t seem to care. Having braved a rabble of paparazzi most mornings for three months, who she kept sweet with the occasional gourmet snacks and frequent photo opportunities, he’d have thought she’d be missing the limelight already. But she seemed content to rub shoulders with him and make occasional conversation.

  Not long after they’d cast off she’d disappeared for a while then reappeared twenty minutes later with two crunchy bread rolls stuffed with ham off the bone, crisp lettuce, a slice of sweet pineapple, seeded mustard and rich mayonnaise. Blake had been hungry but hadn’t wanted to waste any more time getting away to stop and eat something, so the food had hit the spot.

  ‘Thanks,’ he’d said as he’d licked mayonnaise off his fingers and tried not to notice her doing the same.

  ‘The least I can do is feed you,’ she’d said.

  And feed him she did. Popping down below every now and then, bringing back blueberry muffins warm from the oven one time and a bowl full of cut fresh strawberries another.

  By the time they reached Bulls Bridge it was six in the evening, but with the days still staying light until nine they descended into Brentford via the Hanwell locks.

  And Ava proved herself even handier with a windlass. Blake knew that the trip he’d planned out would be slow and physically demanding for one person and he’d been looking forward to the challenge. But having Ava operate the locks while he drove the boat did speed things up considerably.

  He held his breath as she chatted with people from other boats at each lock, waiting for the moment of recognition. But it never came and they were mooring along a towpath in Brentford just before eight.

  The smell of cooking meat hit Blake twenty minutes later as he stepped inside from making sure the boat was secure and helping the novice narrow-boaters who had pulled their boat up in front of them. His stomach growled at him.

  But it was nothing to the growl his libido gave as his eyes fell on a scantily clad Ava shaking her very delectable booty to the music that was obviously filling her ear buds.

  The baggy was gone.

  She was in a short flimsy gown that fell to mid-thigh
and seemed to cling to every line and curve of her body from the hem north—it certainly clung lovingly to every contour of her butt. It was tied firmly at the waist, which was just as well as she sang along, in a truly terrible falsetto, and stirred something in a bowl.

  Ava Kelly might have excelled at a lot of things but singing was not one of them.

  Her hair was wet and down. Her feet were bare.

  The supermodel was back.

  After standing gawping like an idiot for a moment or two he moved closer and cleared his throat to get her attention.

  Ava looked up from the dressing she was mixing. ‘Oh, sorry.’ She grinned, pulling the ear buds out. ‘This song always gets me going. Are you hungry? I’m cooking steak. Plus I think this is probably the most divine salad dressing—’ she dipped her finger in and rolled her eyes in obvious pleasure ‘—I’ve ever made.’

  A dark drop of the balsamic-looking liquid landed on her chest, just above the criss-cross of her gown at her cleavage and, God help him, Blake’s gaze followed it down. She scooped it up quickly but not before he’d taken note of unfettered breasts. Not a line or a strap mark visible through the clinging fabric of the gown.

  He looked back at her face. Hell yeh. He was hungry all right.

  Freaking starving.

  ‘I thought we’d eat at the pub up the tow path,’ he said.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she dismissed, waving her hand and turning back to the job at hand. ‘If you want to have a shower, you have six minutes until these babies are ready.’

  Blake shook his head. He was going to need much more than six minutes to calm himself down—even in a cold shower. He’d settle for alcoholic fortification instead.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked as he opened the fridge and grabbed the long neck of a boutique beer, twisted the lid off and took a long deep pull.

  Ava looked up, watching the movement of his throat as he swallowed. There was something very primal about a man guzzling beer. She wondered what he’d do if she sauntered over and slicked her tongue up the hard ridge of his trachea.

  She looked back at the steaks cooking in the pan. ‘I’ll have one of those, thanks.’

  Blake cocked an eyebrow. ‘Beer. You drink beer?’ he said as he pulled one out for her and cracked the lid.

  Ava heard the surprise bordering on derision in his voice and looked at him. ‘Yes. Why? What do you think I drink?’

  ‘Wheatgrass smoothies,’ he said, remembering how she often came home from somewhere in her shrink-wrapped gym gear slurping on something disgustingly green.

  She took the beer from him. ‘Not when I’m relaxing.’

  Blake leaned against the fridge. ‘Champagne? Fruity cocktails? Dirty cowboys...or whatever the hell those shots are called that women seem to like to knock back in bars these days.’

  Ava laughed. He didn’t sound as if he approved. ‘I like champagne and fruity cocktails, sure. But underneath it all, I’m just a pint-of-beer girl.’

  Blake snorted in disbelief.

  But, just to prove him wrong, she tipped back her head and took three very long, somehow very erotic, swallows. His gaze drifted down her undulating neck, to her breasts again—not too big, not too small and extremely perky—then back up. She was smiling at him with that knowing little half-smile of hers, her eyelids shuttered, when his gaze returned to her face.

  Ava’s pulse skipped a beat as their gazes locked for long moments. Heat bloomed to her belly and breasts, making them feel heavy and tight. She toyed with the neck of the bottle, running her fingers up and down the frosty glass as their stare continued.

  After three months of scrupulous politeness, he was finally looking at her. Really looking at her.

  And there was a very definite vibe between them.

  ‘You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Blake,’ she murmured.

  Blake sucked in a breath as her voice broke the connection between them. Her cover had sure fallen away fast these last twenty-four hours since being shot at. And he wasn’t sure he liked the unpredictable woman in front of him. At least he knew who the other Ava was.

  ‘I’ll set the table,’ he said, turning away, grateful for something to occupy his mind and his hands.

  Other than putting them all over her.

  SIX

  Ava was starving by the time they sat down to juicy steaks, a fresh green salad and warm rolls from the oven complete with garlic butter she’d whipped up.

  ‘Where’d you learn to cook?’ Blake asked as he bit into his steak. His groan of satisfaction caused a spike in her pulse and a pull in her belly that was entirely sexual.

  She shrugged. ‘My dad. He was a chef. My earliest memories were being in the kitchen cooking with him. It was our thing we did together. I think I learned through osmosis.’

  Blake quirked an eyebrow. ‘You said he died?’

  Ava nodded. ‘When I was twelve. Heart attack.’

  Blake watched as the drying strands of her hair glided over each other, the caramel burnished to toffee beneath the expensive down lights. ‘That must have been hard.’

  Ava nodded. He didn’t know the half of it. ‘Emotionally and financially. He had his own restaurant, which was almost bankrupt. It was a tough time...’

  Blake could tell she didn’t want to elaborate on the subject of her father any more and he didn’t push as he shifted the conversation to their route tomorrow. He understood. He was a private person too, he wouldn’t want a virtual stranger prying into his personal business either.

  The army shrink had been bad enough.

  But it wasn’t what he’d expected from her. From what he’d witnessed these last few months she seemed to live so much of her life as an open book. In a goldfish bowl. It had been easy—and far preferable—to think of her as a brand, a product. As Ava Kelly, Inc. instead of a flesh and blood woman.

  Except for the last twenty-four hours. Sleeping in his bed, cooking in his kitchen, dancing at his sink.

  In her gown.

  Her very short, very clingy gown.

  * * *

  Ava slid out of the booth and picked up their plates after they’d finished eating.

  ‘Leave them,’ Blake said, also standing. ‘I’ll do them.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Ava said. She was very aware that she’d hijacked his holiday, completely disregarding his plans and inserting herself into the middle of them. The least she could do was make herself useful. She didn’t want Blake to think that her jet-set lifestyle had made her too big for her boots—she didn’t expect to be waited on.

  He grabbed the plates. ‘You cook, I clean. House rules.’

  Ava resisted for a moment, holding onto the edges as he pulled them towards him, dragging her in close to him, just two dinner plates separating them. She became aware again of the vibe. It hummed between them, filling each breath with his essence, enervating each heartbeat with anticipation. What would he do if she just leaned in and kissed him? That was the beauty of being tall—she didn’t even have to go up on tippy-toes. His mouth was right there, level with hers.

  ‘Boat rules,’ she murmured.

  Blake swallowed as she looked down her nose to his mouth, lingering there for a moment before returning to his eyes. He had no doubt she was thinking about kissing him and he quelled a sudden urge to lick his lips for fear of what it might give away.

  Or encourage.

  She seemed to sway a little closer and he quelled his next urge—to do a little kissing himself—too. Instead he gave a brief smile and took a step back, the plates transferring easily to his hands. ‘Boat rules,’ he agreed briskly.

  Ava blinked as he turned away from her and headed to the sink, gathering wits that had taken up residence somewhere south of her belly button. She’d been sure he’d been about to kiss her.

 
So why hadn’t he?

  Was he one of those guys who got a little stage fright when it came to kissing her? Intimidated by her being a supermodel? Performance anxiety? Funny, he hadn’t struck her as the type. She’d have thought the whole good-with-his-hands thing would translate to the bedroom.

  ‘Okay, fine,’ she said, finally finding her voice. ‘Your boat, your rules. Knock yourself out.’ She looked around the saloon, for a distraction, her gaze falling on the television. ‘Would you think me terribly vain if I turned the news on and see what they’re saying about me?’

  Blake shook his head—anything was preferable to her standing there, her gaze boring into the back of his head. ‘Nope. Remote on top of the telly,’ he said. ‘I’ll make us a coffee.’

  Because staying awake all night on a caffeine high thinking about nearly kissing her in a gown that should have come with a highly flammable label was just what he needed.

  Not.

  * * *

  Ava tucked her legs up underneath her as she flipped through the channels till she found some news. Apart from updates from Reggie concerning her situation, she’d been out of touch with the big wide world for twenty-four hours. And it was good to get engrossed in something other than Blake’s big brooding presence.

  By the time he joined her fifteen minutes later she was reasonably absorbed in the news. He passed her a mug and was just settling himself into the other chair when a segment on her was introduced. There was nothing new—no arrests, no suspects, just speculation as the events were recounted. And a little air of mystery as the anchor woman speculated as to Ava’s whereabouts now that the famous model had gone underground.

  There was footage of her house and brief glimpses of her last night in the back of an ambulance as well as loads of file footage of her strutting catwalks, shooting a commercial and her smiling at the gaggle of paparazzi as she left her house, patiently moving through them as they surrounded her.

  Blake shook his head at the rabble, half of the photographers walking backwards—completely hazardous—to ring every last photo op out of her. ‘I don’t know how you do that every day,’ he said.