CHAPTER TWO
Seated at the circular dining table in a conference room of an exclusive London hotel, Willow wished she could just get up and walk out. Unfortunately her publishing company had insisted she attend. Her third novel, A Class Act Murder, had been nominated for the Crime Writer's Prize, and Willow stood a good chance of winning.
More importantly, an appointment had been arranged at five this evening for Willow to meet American producer, Ben Carlavitch, to discuss the proposal of buying the film rights to the book. If by some miracle Willow won the prize it would ensure she got a much better deal.
Three days ago, Willow had been thrilled when Louise, her editor, had informed her about meeting Carlavitch. It had meant staying in London overnight, but excitedly she had agreed. However, Willow was now beginning to wish she hadn't bothered.
She glanced around the room full of intense literary people, and felt hopelessly out of place. She had left school at eighteen and had become a writer more by accident than design. She loved reading, especially crime novels, and at the age of twenty she had decided to try to write one. Now, seven years and three books later, she found herself, much against her better judgment, in the spotlight.
The award winner was to be announced after lunch, and Willow wished it were over and done with. She felt pretty certain that she had no hope of winning; the other five nominees were all well-established crime writers.
But two hours later Willow walked out of the conference room in a daze. She had won. Her acceptance speech was a blur. She had immediately called her son, Stephen, on her editor's mobile and told him the news before being swamped with people wishing to congratulate her.
She still felt weak at the knees with excitement and was grateful for the steadying hand of her editor on her arm as they approached the lift.
'We have to meet our MD and company lawyer in Reception, and then across town to meet Carlavitch. He is really enthusiastic about your book,' Louise said, grinning happily. 'Especially after you winning the award, the publicity will boost our bargaining power immensely. You have it made, Willow. Carlavitch is leaving for Los Angeles later tonight, so we have to make the most of this opportunity, and hopefully secure the deal.'
'What is going on?' Theo Kadros asked the hotel manager as a reporter and cameramen he recognized from the national press hurriedly crossed the foyer. 'You know the company policy: no reporters are allowed to hassle the celebrity guests,' he said curtly.
Theo, as the owner of a multinational company that dealt with property worldwide, including a string of exclusive hotels, had arrived in London this morning on business. As always he was in the process of making a quick inspection of the hotel lobby. Experience had taught him that the unheralded visit gave him a much better idea of how his hotels were being run.
The manager's smile slipped a little. 'Strictly speaking the person in question was not a celebrity when she booked in; no one had ever heard of her. We are hosting the Crime Writer's Prize ceremony lunch, and all the excitement is because the author J. W. Paxton has been announced the winner.'
'Good choice. I read his latest book and thought it was excellent. However, I would hardly have thought the ceremony warranted attention by the national press. It must be a slow news day,' Theo responded.
'Maybe, but then you obviously have not seen J. W. Paxton.' The manager chuckled, his glance swinging to the lift doors opening at the mezzanine level. 'Here he comes now, but he is a she—and what a she! She could double as a model any day. Willow Blain is her real name, apparently.' And he chuckled again.
On hearing Willow's name Theo stiffened and glanced across the crowded foyer to the lift. His dark eyes blazed for a moment, then narrowed on the woman who slowly stepped out. He would recognize that face anywhere. Willow, the woman who had haunted his dreams for nine long years. Now to see her in the flesh again shocked Theo rigid. A sudden anger, fierce and primitive, had him instantly stepping forward, but then just as quickly he stopped himself and stepped back.
He had charged like a bull at the gate the first time he'd met Willow, and lived to regret it. Theo had learned never to make the same mistake twice. His unfinished business with the lovely Willow was private and very personal—he could wait. . .
Casually leaning back against a marble pillar, he studied her with hot dark eyes. The years had been good to her; she had barely changed at all. Her figure a little fuller perhaps, but she was still sex on legs. The eager faces of the male reporter and photographer proved it, he thought angrily as his glance skidded over them.
The fact that she was a successful crime writer surprised him, and then with a wry smile he thought again. Emma had called her The Mole, not just because of her name, but because she was quiet and always had her head buried in a book. Perhaps it was not that unusual that she would choose to write, but as a man—now that was unusual.
The book he had read, A Class Act Murder, had appealed to him because the plot had been strong and had tested the intelligence of the reader. The writing style of the author was full of vigour and passion. The passion of Willow he could personally vouch for, and as for the intrigue, well, she had certainly fooled him the first time they had met.
For a moment the sudden camera flash blinded Willow and she was completely unaware of the tall, dark-haired man's silent scrut
iny of her as she exited the lift.
'What was that for?' she asked Louise, blinking furiously. 'I thought the man at the lunch was the official photographer from the Crime Writers' Review.'
Louise chuckled. 'Yes, but the fact that J. W. Paxton is actually a woman, and the fact that Carlavitch is interested in buying the film rights, make it a much bigger story. Obviously, the news has already reached the nationals.' Louise grinned up at Willow. 'And let's face it, Willow, you are pretty gorgeous.'
'I wish I'd stayed a man,' Willow muttered darkly, walking by Louise's side towards the shallow flight of stairs that led down to the reception.
'Hold it there, Willow,' the photographer shouted, and the two women halted a couple of steps from the foyer.
Straightening her slender shoulders, Willow flicked a tendril of black hair from her cheek and tried to appear relaxed. She wished she had not left the jacket that matched the mint-green dress she was wearing in her room. She was suddenly terribly conscious that the heart-shaped neckline revealed more of the upper curve of her breasts than she was happy with. The rest of the dress fitted smoothly over her shapely figure but the skirt ended two inches too far above her knee for Willow's liking. Living in Devon, and, until recently, undecided whether to attend the awards ceremony, it was the best thing she'd been able to find to wear at the last minute.
Her hair had started the day severely tied back with a matching silk scarf but had now begun to escape, tendrils softly curling around her face and her elegant neck. Hot and flushed from the excitement and the attention, she still managed to stand tall and face the numerous questions the reporter fired at her.
Louise raised her voice. 'Right, that is enough, gentlemen, we have a very important meeting at five so—'
'One more shot, Willow, please,' the photographer shouted. 'How about this time with your hair loose and leaning forward over the stair rail, with a hand on your hip?' he suggested with a cheeky grin.
Willow blushed scarlet and, laughing, said, 'No way.' She was a writer not a pin-up and her initial pleasure in actually winning the award was now fast diminishing. It suddenly dawned on her that it probably wasn't the best idea in the world to have her picture featured in the national press. One never knew who might see it, and she valued her privacy above all else. She lifted her hand and brushed past the pushy photographer, and froze.