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He lifted a glass from one of the nymphettes’ trays, grimaced weakly at her bright-eyed beauty and decided to get the duty bit out of the way. So he talked to a few of the journalists; they all gushed about the tour they’d been on.
‘And your room is satisfactory?’ Mr Suave Hotel Magnate himself.
‘The most amazing view actually.’
Coming from this hardened hack it was some compliment and James knew he had no need to worry about what the reports were going to be like in the papers, magazines and TV shows over the next week.
Liss hadn’t just invited the sycophants. She’d invited some cynics as well. And she’d won them over.
Of course it wasn’t all down to her. The hotel was beautiful, with a fabulous location and outlook. No detail had been spared and whatever the hell they were drinking it tasted damned nice. But without the X-factor of Princess Elissa, the night wouldn’t have been nearly such a success.
‘Have you got all the information you need?’
The guy flashed a little booklet. ‘Press pack from our princess has all the info necessary.’
‘Good.’ James itched to grab it off him and see what she had written.
But now the journalist was looking over to where Liss stood encircled by several guests. ‘She does the decorative bit well, doesn’t she? Still, I guess it’s easy when you’ve never had to do a decent day’s work in your life.’
James paused. Not so much suave but stiff now. ‘On the contrary, Princess Elissa works very hard at both her job and her charity work.’
The hack turned to James, cynical laughter deepening the lines etched into his face. ‘Princess Elissa doesn’
t do any charity work.’
James stared at the journalist—then saw his own astonishment reflected as the other man’s expression changed. He clamped his jaw shut and stared him out, deciding not to argue as he saw the million questions leap in the journalist’s eyes. The guy was practically sniffing the air for the story. He opened his mouth, but James got in first, murmuring tightly, ‘Please excuse me, I must see to something.’
James left the ballroom, needing a second to steer clear of journalists and reorder his thoughts, which were suddenly going chaotic—no one knew about her visits? Her volunteering? It wasn’t all for show?
Breathing hard, he found a stack of spare press packs out by Reception. Opening one, he saw it included brochures on the other hotels in the chain as well as a small leaflet about tonight’s event. It listed details of what was being served, the key players in the hotel chain—including his business bio. He flicked through the service listings—the dress designer’s contact details were there, the lighting guy, the DJ. Apparently the additional waiting staff were courtesy of Ellos Modelling Agency. That explained all the beauties, then.
It got him thinking. She must have put in some hours getting this together— all hours. God, he was an idiot.
Here he was thinking she hadn’t been taking it seriously, had just been partying on. Instead she’d been incredibly focused and incredibly productive.
What else had she been taking seriously? What about him? Had she been taking their affair seriously too?
He hadn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact. Right from the start he’d pigeonholed her and based on what? The bitter lens that Jenny had left him with—the warped one. He blinked, refocused and thought—really thought about how things were. The way she’d persevered even when she was so completely hopeless at typing; the effort she’d made with those girls at Atlanta House; those nights in Sydney when he’d watched from his apartment as she’d come home—always alone and not once stumbling in her ridiculous shoes; the way she took him so completely into her—giving everything, wanting to give him maximum pleasure every time. The bad feeling inside simply grew.
He went back to the ball. For a while he did more watching than participating. Cynically studied the socialites and dignitaries and their love-hate relationship with press hounds and paparazzi. Tonight was a love night. They greeted each other, most having encountered many times in the past, with smiles and air kisses and the occasional camera click. It was a night for courting, and photos of ‘my best side’ and time to forget uglier scenes of thrown punches and non-molestation orders.
But there were press people here who were celebrities in their own right, world-famous photographers for whom even the most publicity-shy superstar would beg to sit. It was an incredible line-up. And under the rich tapestries and sublime lighting, they all seemed to glow. It wasn’t just her contacts that made it a success, but the ambience she’d created.
