‘No one believes a word of all this, you know.’
Olivia looked up from her study of the snow-white tablecloth and beheld a well-known face and figure. Oh, just freaking fabulous. Here was a woman whose pictures Olivia had pored over in the fashion magazines—an ice-blonde supermodel who had partied with designers galore, a woman Olivia would normally have loved to speak to. But instead of discussing style this was going to be a grown-up version of the playground.
Candice’s iconic lip twisted into a sneer as she slid her svelte body, clad in shimmering gold, onto a chair to the right of Olivia. ‘Genuine article, my ass.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me.’ The supermodel crossed her legs, presumably to reveal the thigh-high slit in her dress to best effect. ‘You’re just another cheap ’n easy bagger after Adam’s money and a quick shag you can run to the tabloids with.’
The venom-tinged arrows hit their mark, but Olivia was damned if she’d show it. Gripping her hands round the edge of the table to hide their tremor, she pushed the memory of childhood taunts from her mind and met Candice’s gaze. Play it cool, Liv.
‘And you are...?’ Olivia asked, sensing that the idea of not being recognised would lance the model’s ego—or at least divert the attack.
A hiss showed she’d bullseyed the target, but before Candice could respond Olivia heard the chair to her left scrape back across the marbled floor.
‘Candice, here, paid good money to be here tonight in the hope of bagging Adam herself.’
Olivia turned as another catwalk regular, Jessie T, vivid in an electric blue sheath dress, dropped gracefully into the seat. Olivia’s stomach plummeted; this really was the resurrection of her childhood nightmare—only instead of being surrounded by pigtails she was surrounded by stylish coiffures. For a second she was tempted to push the table over and do a runner.
Until the newcomer gave her a ghost of a wink as she pressed one elegantly manicured turquoise fingernail to her cheek. ‘In fact, let me see... My guess is that Candice sees herself as a “high-class” bagger, who is after one night of making sweet love before she gets herself a slot in Frisson or Glossip. Sound right, Candice?’ Jessie grinned as Candice pushed her chair back and rose to her stillettoed feet. ‘She’s just annoyed that her plans have been foiled by you, darlin’.’
With a swing of her trademark raven bob Jessie turned her back on her rival, apparently impervious to her poison-tainted glare, until finally Candice sashayed away towards the podium.
‘Hey, Olivia, I’m—’
‘Jessie T. I know. And...um...thank you.’
‘No worries. Adam asked me to keep an eye on you. He figured you might have to take some flak.’
Olivia blinked, feeling that insidious warmth resurging in her chest. Adam might be using her as a shield but he was doing his best to protect her, as well.
‘Don’t look so surprised. Adam’s a good guy. Hell, darlin’, if I wasn’t a happily married woman I’d give you a run for your money.’
Before Olivia could come up with a response Jessie rose to her feet with feline grace.
‘Have fun. But a word of warning—watch out for Candice; she can get her panties in a tight twist if things don’t go her way.’
The dark-haired woman turned and high-fived Adam as he approached the table, before heading towards a group that contained her Hollywood producer husband.
Olivia looked at Adam and wished her pulse-rate would calm down. ‘Thanks for asking Jessie to look out for me. And...’ she nodded at the podium ‘...you did an amazing job up there.’
‘No problem—and thank you.’
There was pride in his voice, pride and something else. Almost as if he had a personal stake in the charity. Which would explain his dedication all night, his attention to every detail, and the way he had interacted with those guests whose lives had been touched by the terrible pain of cancer.
‘It’s a great cause,’ she said softly.
‘Yes, it is.’ Silence lingered in the air between them and he rubbed a hand over his face as if to clear unwelcome thoughts. ‘Now it’s time to dance.’
Dance? ‘I’d rather not.’ In fact she’d rather stick needles under her nails. Because instinct told her that until she got her errant body under control dancing with Adam was a disastrously bad idea.
‘It wasn’t a request.’ There was that steely undertone again—the voice of someone used to getting his own way.
‘And I don’t take orders.’ Irritation added to her jangled nerves as she glared at him. Clearly his hormones weren’t tripping over themselves at the thought of a dance with her.