Close supervision. Kitty opened her mouth to protest then shut it quickly as her common sense finally disciplined her thoughts.
She nodded, mustering polite professionalism. “Why such short notice, may I ask?”
“My sister’s photographer fractured her collar bone.”
“I’m sorry. That sounds painful,” Kitty said, feeling some sympathy for the woman, even as her creative juices surged at her good luck.
“I consider it a fortunate accident,” he continued with the merest nod of matching sympathy, totally at odds with his words. “Her glamorous style was not my choice.”
He adjusted the cuff of the crisp white shirt beneath his suit and glanced at the gold Rolex on his wrist. “So are we in agreement? A few days of your time and my technical supervision?”
Not so fast, she thought. She’d deal with the supervision clause and his arrogant boardroom manner later, but the paparazzi was another level of complication she couldn’t ignore.
“I’ll need that contract to cover the possible media fallout from my arrival,” she said, vulnerability gnawing at her confidence again. She worked to steady her nerves, unable to stop one clammy palm from smoothing her coat over her knees. “I want anonymity.”
He shot her a sharp, skeptical look. “Is there something you’re hiding from me?”
“I told you, I’m a professional.” She returned his direct tone. “I don’t want any association with tabloid journalism.”
He continued to evaluate her, and she schooled her face to hide the turmoil she felt. Business only. The contract was nearly hers.
He grimaced, looking less than convinced, and Kitty held her breath.
“We’ll proceed,” he said with a curt nod. “I can’t speak for rogue photographers, but between us, anonymity is agreed.” He added a handwritten paragraph to the contract. “I certainly won’t be releasing your name to the press, but the confidentiality implied will be mutual. I’ll need ongoing assurance you are not working with the press.”
He raised his eyes, a dark blue storm, back to hers. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” she said, returning the bite in his tone, unable to tear her gaze from his. His insinuations were insulting, but more importantly, she needed to know more about the situation she found herself in.
“Who is the duke and why might I, in my Titania decoy guise, be of interest to him?” she asked, barely hiding her annoyance at the autocratic power he packaged so immaculately in his suited armor. “Pertinent to my anonymity, I think?”
His jawed clenched tight, and she felt her own molars grind as she waited.
Finally he spoke, with obvious reluctance and a cold glance of warning. “My company is competing for a photography contract recording the history of a private palace owned by the Duke of Sandford and his wife Trinity St. George. I believe this media rubbish is being driven by our competitor.”
The only words she heard were “Trinity St. George.” Surely there could be only one.
The name jittered along her nerves, back to bad memories and old dramas. Her late mother’s on-again, off-again friend from all those years ago. An “it” girl who had played and won the trump card of ambitious models. Marriage into the aristocracy.
“Will they be at the wedding?” she asked, her voice sounding thin.
“No. I don’t mix business with pleasure. You won’t be involved.”
Kitty nodded her understanding, no longer trusting her voice to conceal her anxiety. As long as they never met, Trinity St. George wasn’t important. Kitty couldn’t endure this Titania mix-up if it threw her into Trinity St. George’s orbit and back into the spotlight of her late mother’s life.
What mattered was the next few days. A wedding and quality photography. A challenge she could meet and use to impress Rosco Redmond.
She looked past him to the comforting flames of the fire and let them sooth her frayed nerves—she needed some control and clarification here.
“You hugged me. The cameras will freeze frame that.” She willed her voice to be strong as she returned her attention to his face.
“I did not hug you,” he said as she watched deep anger blaze again in his eyes. “I don’t hug employees. I merely pulled you to safety, away from the cameras.”
“So you accept I have no part in their ambush at your door?” She wouldn’t let that fiction linger between them any longer.
He barely inclined his head, his face unreadable.
It wasn’t good enough for her.
“Concern for my safety implies you accept I was also at risk. I don’t have affairs with employers.”
He gave her a hard stare, and she met it head on, anger stiffening her spine. “Surely you were also concerned about your own safety.”
She had no problem loading the word “safety” with innuendo. He was the public figure under threat here. She was merely a bit player, a private person who had walked into his high-powered, complicated life.
“Yes.” His tone was so curt it offered no hint of trust or information sharing. “The appearance of a hug between us was purely accidental, unavoidable in the circumstances.”
Unavoidable? She wasn’t convinced. How much had been reflexive self-preservation and how much had been employer intimidation?
His voice again dripped disdain. “The last thing my professional reputation needs is an implied alliance with Titania’s youthful partying and late night clubbing. But the less you know the better,” he said, and snapped his attention back to the contract in his hand.
So he thought he had more to lose than she did. She allowed herself a welcome break from the hard lines of his face and once again took comfort in the flicker of the fire.
For now, she was on the CEO’s professional radar, and she wasn’t letting the past, or the sexy haughtiness of the man himself, mess with that.
But it niggled her that he seemed as disdainful of her as he was of Titania. Almost as ashamed of being associated with her as he was with the pop star’s public image.
Then the front door slammed, stopping her thoughts, and she was grateful to shrug them off as female laughter filled the foyer and another round of paparazzi shouting could be heard from the street.
“Time’s up.” Rosco jumped to his feet and thrust the contract toward her. “Sign it quickly.”
She jerked her attention from the warmth of the flames and watched him stride out of the room with an urgency that had her flicking directly to the last page and adding her signature.
Whatever complications lie ahead, and her gut told her there would be plenty, they weren’t going to derail her future. She now had a signed contract.
Chapter Two
Rosco swore under his breath and readied himself for arguments as he shepherded his two sisters, Amanda and Fiona, and his four-year-old niece, Cara, into the living room.
Home from yet another pre-wedding shopping trip, they jostled designer bags and coffees-to-go with ease, excited about the paparazzi scrum outside the house in a way that set his teeth on edge.
Their chatter stopped as Kitty rose to meet them, smoothing the short woolen creation she was wearing over her slim hips.
He found her unexpected youth an annoyingly attractive complication.
He was usually immune to her sort of colorful femininity, especially in the workplace where, years ago, his late father’s history of dalliance had shattered his mother and blighted the company’s professional reputation. But the shock of Kitty’s long, long legs and thigh-high boots had taken him off guard. Hardly surprising, as he was expecting a middle-aged, comfortably shod, senior professional. He would kick HR’s ass for their sloppy record-keeping.
Their error had forced him into the sort of public spotlight he hated. And his fumbled attempt to get Kitty inside and away from paparazzi was a monumental gaffe that had made matters worse. He’d had no intention of hugging her, but she was right. It would be framed to look like something it wasn’t.
He abhorred any hint of coercion or threat
to integrity, yet he’d acted without his usual caution. The assault on his privacy and the hint of horror he’d glimpsed on Kitty’s face had knocked him off-balance.
She’d seemed vulnerable, her hair soft against his cheek, for the brief second she was nestled against his chest.
It was almost as if she had fit there. Just right.
He let go of that fanciful sentiment immediately. She’d argued her point and the contract details like a professional. Forget the feel of her against his body… She wasn’t his type. And he never had personal feelings about employees.
He shook his head, marshalled his grip on business, and commanded the attention of his soon-to-be-married sister. “Amanda. Meet Kitty Mayfair, your new photographer.” It was a done deal. He wasn’t giving his sister any wiggle room.
“I told you, Titania is sorting someone from her PR team.”
Damned if he’d allow any more attention-seeking Hollywood flashiness in what was quickly becoming a publicity fiasco.
“We don’t have time for debate. Kitty is contracted through the company and available now,” he said, completing the formal introductions to his family.
“In charge as usual, Rosco.” Amanda’s tone purred dangerously mild to his suspicious ears as she smiled warmly at Kitty.
“If her photos are as fabulous as her boots, we’ll be instantly on the same page.” She wrinkled her nose at him in obvious amusement.
Kitty smiled at Amanda and ignored him. She wasted no time whipping out a tablet from her bag and showing the women her website and portfolio.
Annoyance and foreboding crawled through him as his sisters and excited little niece clustered round her. He smelled trouble and the beginnings of a familiar female conspiracy.
Let them think they were in charge for now.
The restraint required to put up with never ending trivial details, all for the sake of giving his sister the wedding experience she wanted, was testing to say the least.
He’d known when he’d woken up that morning to find his niece sprinkling him with fairy dust that this was just the beginning of an excessively female few days.
He adored having Cara stay in the house. It didn’t happen often enough. Apart from the worry of having to remember to wear pajamas, in case of sparkly wake-up calls, he couldn’t think of a better reason to take a break from work.
In fact, Cara was about the only reason he would consider not working. And the fact there was another wedding saga about to begin.
He’d been through it all five years ago with Cara’s mother, Fiona, when he’d had total control of the wedding planning.
Fiona shared his preference for privacy, and she’d been content to let him manage all the photography and low-key media exposure.
Their mother had been alive then, too, and had Amanda’s exuberance under control.
Now his publicity-loving youngest sister had hurtled out of student jeans into corporate suits and bought a designer wedding dress he was forbidden to see. As an event agent to the stars, her taste for an occasion was bound to demand a dress way outside his own formal preferences.
She’d inherited their late father’s “sociable” personality and would happily be all over social media and the celebrity pages.
The timing couldn’t be worse.
His negotiations to win the contract for the pictorial history of the Duke of Sandford’s private palace were nearing completion.
The duke, teetering on the brink of commitment, was known for his conservative social commentary and insistence on high journalistic standards.
The paparazzi were not an acceptable part of Rosco’s strategy.
And neither, on a personal level, was the visitation of his aunts. Yet again he was just a few days away from a wedding and matchmaking hell. This time without the moderating influence of his mother.
The bridesmaid jokes, made ominously worse this time with the Titania connection.
The invitations to dance. He didn’t do dancing. Especially at weddings with his aunts, Cupid’s elderly cohorts, watching.
His mind was kept busy strategizing his way through the whole performance with as little human interaction as possible.
He was considering joining the washing-up staff, or developing a short but highly infectious illness.
Matrimonial man-flu.
Unfortunately, he was famed throughout the family for his excellent immune system.
If only this damn wedding was equally immune to drama.
For his family, he’d have to accept the fallout from this morning’s photos of himself and Kitty Mayfair, as if caught in some way only a tabloid could hint at. At least his impromptu hug with Kitty gave him some control over the Titania rumors.
Any hint he was personally involved with the pop star would throw him into the type of spotlight he’d spent his entire adult life avoiding.
The type of spotlight his late father’s reckless, alcohol-fueled sense of fun would have reveled in. Disregarding the financial and reputation consequences.
The instant rapport happening in front of him now did nothing to allay his fears. Amanda’s and Kitty’s shared laughter was raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
Time to break it up.
He scooped his niece up into a hug and she squealed with delight, as he knew she would. If only her look-a-like aunt was as cooperative.
He kissed Cara’s blond curls and handed her to her mother. “Time for a nap while I organize a pre-wedding photography shoot.”
Fiona grinned as she took her daughter from him. “Good luck with that, brother.” She waggled her fingers at him. “Back soon for the battle score.”
Rosco scowled after her as Amanda rounded on him. “I’ll oversee the photography. I know what I want.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Amanda you don’t know what you want.” He threw his arms in the air, beseeching her and the silent, amused-looking Kitty to listen to him. “It’s been white bows, then pink roses, then silver ribbons, then gold sequins, and that’s just for the pew decorations.”
“That’s me thinking aloud.” Amanda tossed her hair. “Go away, Rosco. It’s my wedding.”
“And it’s my responsibility.” He ground out that last word, hoping his authority covered the exasperation and, surprisingly, the exhaustion he was feeling.
What a tidal wave of feminine frippery this week had been. And there was worse to come when Titania, and then his aunts, arrived. Two very different but equally galling threats to his peace of mind.
At least he could control the public perception. This was about family reputation, about his mother, her legacy, and the coup of a deal he was about to seal on her behalf with the duke and his wife.
He planted his hands on his hips and faced Amanda. “I will oversee all the photography. Evaluate technique and suitability of the photos.” He wanted formal, serious photos of the same excellence as the journalistic shots he’d seen in Kitty’s portfolio—images of Bedouin family life and historical cityscapes bursting with respect and understated talent.
Amanda huffed at him, but he ignored her. “This is a family wedding, not a circus. I want to see quality photographs that won’t be leaked to the media.”
He turned to Kitty then wished he hadn’t. Luminous brown eyes shone back at him with a lingering hint of amusement that had his breath catching in his throat. She was beautiful.
Make that three female threats to his equilibrium.
No. That was nonsense thinking. He was never attracted to work colleagues. He wasn’t in the business of creating his own mayhem.
“I have a contract with Kitty. It includes my supervision.” He nodded at Kitty, keeping his gaze carefully on her chin—he’d look at nothing above or below it to distract him.
“Please complete a series of portraits now. They will be our baseline for the full wedding album.”
Kitty barely nodded as her demeanor sobered.
He moved to the doorway and watched as she swiveled in a slow circle, s
urveying the room.
Her lively face, when she turned his way, was subdued in thought. No longer animated by humor or the anger she had used to counter-attack him when they hammered out their contract.
Her mouth formed a soft pout of concentration. Beautiful without the artifice of makeup. Too late, he forgot he was only there to watch her work.
She had already removed her beret but now started to undress as she moved, apparently oblivious of him.
She slowly unwrapped her woolens in obvious response to the heat of the room. The belt at her slender waist, a wide green textured-leather affair with an oversized silver buckle, was cinched tighter as the buckle was eased and then released.
He swallowed, suddenly thirsty as his body responded with an unwelcome increase of tension.
Next, she dropped the belt gently onto the floor beside her camera bag, with barely a glance.
The woolen wrap-coat flapped open, and she pushed it aside, her hands spanning her waist as she looked critically at the furniture in the room.
She drew a curtain and moved a chair. Unhurried. Proficient.
Standing back, still lost in her set-up plans, she shed the coat completely and let it fall in a raspberry red pool beside the belt.
She reminded him of a Christmas present, red and green, multi-wrapped to frustrate and excite the lucky recipient.
He groaned. That was the sort of Redmond thinking he never indulged in. The sort of thinking his father would have said aloud and laughed, the center of attention. Drinks all around, live-for-the-moment sort of thinking.
Risk-everything-you-worked-for thinking.
Rosco frowned.
Kitty’s next layer of clothing was some sort of see-through, loose-weave top, falling off one shoulder and doing nothing to hide the skintight black leggings and tank top beneath it.
He couldn’t take his eyes off that smooth, slender shoulder. A sudden desire to know what that creamy skin felt like wound his tension up another notch.
The camera came off next—a heavy professional model and perfect for the job, Rosco was forced to admit. Kitty looped it carefully over her head and checked it thoroughly.
Tangling with the London Tycoon Page 2