AFTER THE WONDERFUL week in Miami, the house in London seemed even emptier than usual. Anna was feeling unsettled, and loneliness clung to her, wrapping her in a cloak of depression.
Nick had seemed so contented, so keen to do well at this new career. Anna was happy for him. But she had to admit that a tiny part of her was disappointed, too—she’d hoped that he’d tell her he was ready to come home. He hadn’t, and she wasn’t going to beg. She’d promised herself years ago that she’d never beg another man for anything. Ever. But if he’d have asked her to move back to New York, she would have gone without a second thought.
Great. The self-help author who can’t help herself.
Sighing, she stared at the length of her to-do list—it didn’t seem to be getting any shorter. When she heard the front door open, she’d never been happier for Brendan’s distraction.
“What?” he stared at her suspiciously when she met him with a beaming smile. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m just happy to see you, Brendan, honey-pie.”
“Are you on drugs?”
Anna shot him a glare then sank back in her chair.
“Can’t I just be happy to see you?”
Brendan dumped his laptop on the kitchen table and shrugged out of his jacket.
“I’ve told you before, you’re not my type and I’m not going to have sex with you. Workplace harassment!”
“Ha ha, very funny. Oh wait, I’m not laughing.”
Brendan smirked at her.
“Now tell Auntie Brenda what’s really got you all menopausal?”
“I’m thirty-seven!”
“My cousin went through the menopause at 29. Tick tock, Dr. Scott.”
Anna felt her heart contract and tears form in her eyes.
Brendan was by her side immediately.
“Oh, crappy-crap! I’m so sorry. I’m not usually so insensitive.”
Anna let out a noise that was halfway between a cry and a snort.
“Yes, you are.”
“Yes, I am, but not about something that matters. I was hoping Nick would have knocked you up when you were in Miami. I’d assumed all those moony looks led to lots of sexing. I can’t wait to be Auntie Brenda for real.”
Anna gave a small smile.
“There, that’s much better,” he said. “My Anna-banana should always have a smile on her face.”
“Ugh, I’m a mess. Sorry, Bren. I just miss him.”
“And yet again, you’re telling the wrong man.”
Anna pressed her lips together.
“I told you: I’m not going to guilt him into coming home.”
“And I told you,” Brendan enunciated clearly. “Men are simple creatures and need to have everything spelled out to them in foot high letters with the blood of a vestal virgin or an Arsenal supporter. He doesn’t know that you miss him unless you tell him.”
They stared at each other across the kitchen table until Brendan cracked his knuckles and leaned over to the coffee machine.
“You know what you need?”
Anna scowled.
“I’m really kind of afraid that you’re going to tell me.”
“Very funny, Ms. Laugh-Your-Arse-Off. You need a night out. Glam yourself up, put on some slap, comb your hair at least twice, and wear your push-up bra. Those pancakes of yours need all the help they can get.”
“You … that’s … ugh!”
Brendan shrugged.
“Speaking as one girl to another.”
Anna drew a breath.
“So your great plan to cheer me up is to dress me like a…”
“…tart.”
“I was going to say hooker, but okay, as we’re in Britain, like a tart … and what? Go pull some guy?! Go and cheat on Nick?”
Brendan rolled his eyes.
“You’re talking out of your arse, and there’s so much hot air, you must have windburn.”
“Brendan! That’s gross!”
He ignored her.
“What you need is a night on the town. Something to make you remember that there is life beyond sex-god Nick Renshaw.” He raised a hand as she started to argue. “All I’m saying is go out and have some fun. Take a break, do something different. You do remember how to party like a single girl?”
Anna looked down.
“I’m not single.”
Brendan raised an eyebrow.
“Anna, you’re sitting around watching life pass you by because all you’re doing is waiting for Nick while he gets on with his life.”
Anna felt the sting of his words and it hurt.
“That’s not true! I’m a professional working woman. I have my next book to complete and I still have my self-help column. I’m busy. I have deadlines!”
Brendan leaned back in his chair, studying her closely.
“It’s not a crime to be broody, Anna. And for the record, I think you’d make a great mommy.”
Anna swallowed. Sometimes Brendan’s insight was scary. She didn’t know whether to kick his ass or kick her own.
Brendan didn’t push his point. Instead, he picked up his phone and sent a quick text message to someone, poured two cups of coffee for Anna and himself, and smiled as he got an almost immediate response to his message.
“Good, that’s sorted. You’re having dinner and drinks with Jason tonight.”
Anna gaped at him.
“I’m what?”
“Jason Oduba is picking you up at eight. Look fabulous and thank me tomorrow.”
“What? I can’t!”
“Don’t even try to argue with me, Anna. Call it research if you have to—you said you needed to interview him.”
“Interview, yes; dinner, no.”
“So mix a little work and pleasure. Jason’s hot.”
Anna argued for fifteen minutes, but Brendan was adamant: a night out with Nick’s fun-loving friend and former teammate was just what the doctor needed.
FOR NICK, DISILLUSIONMENT had set in.
The colourful memories from Miami were fading already, and he was back in the grey grind of New York: castings every day; more people saying no than yes; back to being told he was too fit, too tattooed, too muscled, too big, too small, too white, too British—whatever the reasons were this week.
Since his success at Miami Swim Week, he’d had no further work, not even a sniff of something, and he missed Anna more than ever. Hell, he missed Brendan. At least he knew that Anna had a good friend looking after her in London and that she wasn’t lonely.
Nick frowned.
Taking care of Anna was his job—and he couldn’t do it from New York.
He also knew that he needed a goal, something to work towards, and that was rare in modeling: most work came in out of the blue with no warning, or maybe 48 hours to get yourself to a studio or location, or even on a flight somewhere.
It did mean that he was careful to keep in shape at all times, although that was nothing new, and he’d struck up a friendship with another Brit, Rick Roberts, who’d recently opened up a gym in Manhattan and was pulling in some very nice business.
Roberts was a fellow Yorkshireman and also from a sporting background, but dour and monosyllabic.
Nevertheless, the two men became friends. And it was also one of the best equipped gyms that Nick had ever been in. It had Pilates machines, air bikes, functional equipment, prowlers, farmers walks, atlas stones, chains, plus a café bar, steam room, sauna, juice cleansing bar, swimming pool, in-house nutritionist, physio and a team of masseuses, plus all the usual classes and several well-known celebrity personal trainers.
It was something he might consider doing himself one day if he could get the financial backing. Possibly. Maybe. Or maybe not. He didn’t know, and that frustrated the hell out of him.
All Nick’s uncertainties came flooding back. Had it been the right decision to come to New York or was he wasting his time here? When it was fresh and challenging, he’d enjoyed it, but since Miami, it seemed more of a grind than fulfilling. And he couldn’t stay apart from Anna forever.
What the hell am I doing here?
He had no idea that his entire life was about to change again.
It was a Wednesday afternoon when Adrienne called Nick’s phone to inform him that a new client had booked him for a studio shoot the following day.
“I don’t know the photographer,” she admitted, “but they asked for you by name.”
“Yeah? How did they hear about me?”
There was a pause before Adrienne spoke and he heard the click of her keyboard in the background.
“Honestly, I’m not sure. I don’t think they said. Does it matter?”
“Not really, just wondering. What’s the job?”
“A couples shoot—another romance book cover. I know, I know! You said that you didn’t want to do anymore of those, but I gotta tell ya, Nick, this is the first bite you’ve had in a while. You should think very hard before turning it down.”
Nick scowled. If it had been with Golden again, that wouldn’t have been so bad.
“Who is it?” he asked grumpily.
“I’ll tell you what I was told: it’s for an up and coming author. Underwear, no nudity. Okay with you?”
Nick still had regrets about the steamy shoot he’d done with Cee Cee, even though the photographs had been beautiful.
“Nick? You there?” Adrienne huffed on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, okay I’ll do it. No nudity, right?”
“Yes, and I made sure that’s in the contract—I know how you feel about it. Be at the studio 2.30PM.”
“Got it.”
“They’re flying in from the UK. I’ll messenger the details over to you tonight.”
Nick did his usual careful preparations: limited his food and water intake, shaved his chest and made sure that his beard was neat and tidy. Although he’d shave it off if they wanted him to, but he wasn’t cutting his hair for anyone. Well, he might cut it for Anna, but after years of keeping it short, he was enjoying seeing how long he could wear it—maybe even Aquaman long. Maybe.
The following day, Nick turned up at the Greenwich Village studio at the appointed time, but the moment that he walked up the stairs, there was a weird vibe in the room, a tension that was unusual.
The photographer shook hands but seemed to have trouble meeting Nick’s eyes, and kept glancing at his watch as if they were running late, although Nick had arrived a few minutes early.
He’d seen nerves and tension on other shoots where there were too many shots needed and not enough time, and everyone was under pressure; or the frenetic energy backstage at the Miami swimwear catwalk where dozens of models vied for space, elbowing each other by accident as they dropped their clothes and changed on the spot. But this was different.
For a start, the photographer was British so he knew that this was the Nick Renshaw, and he was jittery, although Nick didn’t think it was drugs but nerves. Which didn’t make sense. And when Nick asked him about the shoot, the photographer was evasive. It all added up to Nick becoming increasingly skeptical about what the shoot would be used for other than the romance novel he’d been told about.
As there was no one else in the room, he asked about the female model he’d be working with and was told that the model and author were the same person. Apparently, she was doing her makeup and would be on set soon. Once again, no name given.
It was strange that there was no stylist or makeup artist, and Nick’s costume, if you could call it that, was a pair of very skimpy Speedos, what his Samoan friend, Fetu, would have described as ‘budgie smugglers’. He wasn’t offered a robe.
“These?” Nick asked in disbelief, holding up the glittery gold briefs on one finger.
The photographer gave a fake smile.
“Part of the story. All very tasteful, mate.”
I’m not your mate, Nick thought, eyeing the photographer in a way that made the other man step back.
It seemed obvious to Nick that the ‘no nudity’ clause was just a blind, and even though he wouldn’t actually be naked, clever angles on the day or photoshopping after the fact would make it seem as though he was nude.
“What’s the name of the model?” he asked casually. “Or should I say author? So I can look at her covers and see the style she likes.”
“Oh, she’s really new,” said the photographer with a sleazy smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “This is her first book. But trust me, this is going to be huge.”
Was this woman famous? Was that the reason for all the secrecy? Nick tried to remember if there was any clause about public disclosure in his contract. He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure.
There was definitely something unsaid going on, some hidden agenda, but Nick had no idea what it could be. His gut told him the set up was wrong. So instead of changing into the ridiculous Speedos, he waited, pretending to read emails on his phone.
“Get changed whenever you like,” the photographer said encouragingly.
“Yeah,” Nick replied, without looking up. “What did you say your name was? Mate?”
“Ah, um, Roy.”
“You got a surname, Roy?”
The man paused before answering, licking his lips nervously.
“Greenside.”
Nick searched for the name, his eyebrows drawing together as he read the man’s online profile.
“You work for the Red Tops?” he asked, frowning as he glanced up, using the colloquial name given to the British tabloid newspapers.
These were journalists who’d tormented him and printed lies when his and Anna’s unorthodox relationship had first been revealed.
His bad feeling deepened.
“Man’s gotta make a living, mate. You know that,” the photographer said defensively.
Nick didn’t reply, continuing to scroll through Roy Greenside’s online pictures.
One image jumped out at him and Nick’s bad feeling twisted his gut.
“You’ve photographed Molly McKinney—several times.”
The man licked his lips nervously again, his eyes darting to a small room off to the side.
“Once or twice. But that’s all a long time ago, Nick. Water under the bridge, right, mate?”
Nick stared at him hard-eyed.
Nick had made his peace with Kenny, but there was no way he’d forgive Molly or…
“Yeah, water under the bridge,” said a laughing female voice.
The hairs on the back of Nick’s neck stood up and he turned slowly to face the woman he despised most in the whole world.
“You.”
Molly McKinney was walking towards him, strutting from the changing room wearing a ton of makeup and a barely-there string bikini.
“Hello, Nicky.”
Nick waited for her head to start rotating or a swarm of locusts dive-bomb the studio.
“Surprised to see me?” she asked, gazing up at him from between her false eyelashes. “You weren’t very nice to me at your testimonial, but I forgive you.”
Nick didn’t answer. He simply picked up his bag and started to leave.
“You can’t go!” Roy shouted after him, picking up his camera and snapping away, catching the furious expression on Nick’s face.
“The fuck I can’t,” Nick growled.
Molly laughed again, thoroughly enjoying being in the spotlight, and inching closer to Nick so Roy could get them both in the same shot.
“Stay and have some fun, Nicky,” she grinned at the camera. “You’re being paid well enough.”
“That’s right,” said Roy. “You can’t leave or you’ll be in breach of contract.”
“Fuck the contract!” Nick snarled.
“Aw, don’t tell me you’re still upset about our little misunderstanding? I thought you’d be over all that by now.”
Nick stared at her incredulously.
“You cheated on me with a teammate when I was injured, the guy I’d asked to be Best Man at our wedding; when I finished with you, I even let you keep the sodding ring which you flogged on eBay; when I started seeing Anna, you began a vendetta that cost her career; and you lied to the Press about everything. Did I leave anything out?”
Molly gripped his arm and gave him a hard look, her false nails sinking into his flesh.
“You signed the contract, Nicky. The money has already been transferred to your account. If you leave, my publishers will sue you.”
He shook her hand off, staring down at her coldly.
“You think I give a shit about that? I don’t. Let them sue me—but I’ll be damned if I pose for a book cover with you! If there ever was a book in the first place.”
She put one hand on her hip and struck a pose, making her fake breasts jiggle oddly.
“Oh, there’s a book alright,” she smirked. “Naughty Nick: My Life with the Real Nick Renshaw by Molly McKinney. It’s going to be a bestseller.”
Nick’s icy rage continued to grow. He knew that if he didn’t leave now, they’d all regret it.
“Is this the person you want to be, Mol?” he said, biting out each word. “You want to be remembered for being a cheat and a liar? And just for the record, you never did know anything about me.”
Her eyes sparked with malice.
“Oh no? A little bird told me that you’ve been partying it up on tramadol … or was it diazepam?” Her gaze narrowed. “I wonder what Dr. Anna Scott would think about that. She’s been very vocal about the misuse of prescription painkillers in sport, hasn’t she?”
Nick shook his head, disturbed at the level of sleuthing Molly had being doing.
“I had career-ending surgery for a torn rotator cuff. Christ, you’re unbelievable.”
“Ooh, Nicky! Hit a sore spot, did I? You thought no one knew. Well, let me tell you this, Mr. Big Shot, there are always people watching. And anyway, I’m not the one trying to make it as a professional model,” she laughed coldly. “Your agent told us you were available any day this week or next. Not having too much luck, are you? And where’s dear little Anna? Home alone with all your old teammates to keep her company?”
Nick’s voice grew stone cold as he leaned toward her, his eyes dangerously dark.
“You’re the one who’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Molly? I spoke to Kenny at my testimonial. He told me everything, how you’d come onto him when I was laid up after surgery, and then he apologized for making the biggest mistake of his life. Yeah, that’s what he said. And he dumped your cheating arse, didn’t he?”
He turned and left the room.
As he strode past, the photographer got in his face, continuing to take shot after shot.
A younger Nick would have grabbed the man’s camera and slammed it against the wall, shattering the lens. A more hot-headed Nick would have punched the sleazy photographer, the consequences be damned. And a less mindful Nick would have told Molly that she was a sour-faced cunt and the worst lay he’d ever had.
But Nick was older and wiser now, and knew that confrontation was exactly what they wanted.
Nick pushed past them both as Molly screamed obscenities at him.
“You’ll be sorry for the way you’ve treated me, Nicky!” she yelled. “You’re so fucking finished! A has-been! I hate you!”
With grim satisfaction, Nick slammed the studio door behind him and jogged down the stairs.
Out on the streets of Manhattan, he stood breathing deeply, his hands shaking and his heart pounding from the strain of reining in his fury.
Think, he told himself. You need to think.
He pulled out his phone and called Adrienne.
“Nick? You’re supposed to be at a shoot. What’s going on?”
“It was a set up,” he snarled into the phone as he stared up at the pale blue sky. “Fuckers set me up.”