Jill Mansell - Sheer Mischief

‘Come on, Val, give us a smile,’ one of them shouted. ‘You know you can do it!’

‘And you know what you can do,’ she retorted, tossing her inch-long black hair.

‘How about a quote then?’ another ginger-bearded freelancer said hopefully. ‘Are you and Guy Cassidy an item?’

‘Are your legs breakable?’

‘Hey, Guy! What’s the idea? Did you take her out for a bet or something?’

Guy simply grinned and said nothing. He was content to leave the insults to the experts.

‘Hey, Val. show us what you’re hiding under that cheap jacket!’ goaded one old hand who knew her well. ‘Is it true you’ve had your tits fixed?’

This was the moment Valentina had been waiting for. This was the man who had started the rumour a fortnight ago, and she was ready for him.

‘Why don’t you come and take a closer look?’ she said sweetly, and the other men grinned.

Guy, who knew what was about to happen, took a discreet step to one side.

‘Yeeuch, you bitch!’ howled the photographer as the bowl of ice cream she had been concealing beneath the folds of the pink leather jacket cascaded down his face and chest. It was particularly splendid ice cream, honey and walnut, but well worth wasting on such a good cause and wonderfully photogenic against a black polo-neck sweater. Serve him right, Valentina thought happily, for being too stupid to tell the difference between plastic surgery and a tissue-packed Wonderbra.

Another volley of flashbulbs exploded, another feature in the tabloids was instantly guaranteed. Having made her mark, Valentina handed the empty bowl to one of the other members of the pack and reached for Guy’s arm.

‘Come on,’ she murmured under her breath, as they moved towards their waiting cab.

‘That’s the business taken care of. Now for the pleasure ...’

Chapter 47

‘No?’ Valentina shrieked, scarcely able to believe what she was hearing. In her agitation, she almost catapulted off the bed. ‘No? What the hell do you mean, no?’

The realization that he was making a huge mistake had crept up on him even as they made their way up to his hotel room. Having initially fended her off with a drink from the mini-bar, Guy had spent the last fifteen minutes searching for an acceptable way out of the situation he’d so stupidly got himself into. And it was a supremely ironic situation, he couldn’t help thinking, because ninety-nine per cent of men would no doubt drool like dogs at the prospect of a night of passion with Valentina di Angelo.

It wasn’t even as if she had done anything wrong. Beauty apart, she was funny and honest, great company and altogether about as engaging a person as anyone — paparazzi excluded —

could wish to meet. But he just couldn’t go through with it. For some unfathomable reason, he knew he would be making a terrible mistake.

‘I’m sorry.’ Guy shook his head, forcing himself to look at her. There was resignation in his dark blue eyes. ‘I really am. It’s been a great evening, but ...’

‘But what?’ wailed Valentina, overcome with a sudden rush of fear. ‘What have I done wrong? What’s the problem, for God’s sake?’ Casting around for a reason ... any reason ... she said helplessly, ‘Am I too fat?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ It was every model’s greatest fear. What was worse, he thought with an inward sigh and a glance at her stick-thin legs, was that she really meant it. ‘You aren’t fat and you haven’t done anything wrong. It’s me.’

Relief mingled with suspicion. Valentina’s fingers continued to clench and unclench against the bedspread. ‘What, then? If you’re going to try and tell me you’re impotent,’ she warned, ‘I may have a bit of trouble believing you.’

Guy had to smile. If he had been impotent, it would have been so much simpler. She would have felt sorry for him and he would have been off the hook. But ‘won’t play’ was harder for Valentina to bear than ‘can’t play’, and now thanks to him she was feeling sorry for herself.

‘No,’ he said gently. ‘Look, you’re a gorgeous girl and I’m probably going to kick myself in the morning, but right now I just know it would be ... well, the wrong thing to do.’

Valentina didn’t. As far as she was concerned it was the most absolutely right thing to do in the entire world. Her brown eyes clouded; what the hell was the big deal anyway, she thought with renewed frustration. It wasn’t as if she was asking him to hitch-hike barefoot across bloody Antarctica. It was only sex, after all.

‘More like you get a kick out of leading girls on,’ she retaliated, still smarting from the humiliation of being rejected for no good reason at all by the most attractive man she’d clapped eyes on in years. And after such a promising start, too.

‘It’s not that, either.’

‘Bastard,’ murmured Valentina under her breath.

She wasn’t taking it at all well. Guy pushed his fingers through his hair in a gesture of mild despair. ‘Look, that’s just what I’m trying not to be. If we spent the night together, I’d be a real bastard. You see, there’s .. . somebody else,’ he admitted with reluctance. ‘I’m already involved with someone, and it wouldn’t be fair to either of you if I ...’

His voice trailed away. He took a slug of brandy, swallowed and shrugged.

‘Oh.’ Valentina’s fingers began to unclench. A man with a conscience was something of a novelty in her experience. It was just a shame, she thought sorrowfully, he was so intent on being faithful to someone else rather than her. ‘Who is it, anyone I know?’

Guy shook his head. As far as he was aware it wasn’t anyone at all, but it appeared to be doing the trick, which was all that really mattered. He still didn’t understand why the idea of sleeping with Valentina should suddenly have become such an undesirable proposition. It just had. Maybe, he thought with a mixture of resignation and alarm, there really was such a thing as the male menopause and it had arrived a decade ahead of schedule. Damn, what filthy rotten luck. Of all the nights to be hit with it .. .

‘Well, she’s a lucky girl.’ Acknowledging defeat with as much good grace as she could muster, Valentina smiled and reached for her jacket. ‘Whoever she is. No, don’t worry, I can find my own way out. I’ll ask the night porter to get me a cab.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Guy, meaning it. Opening the door for her, he planted a brief kiss on her cheek. ‘I was tempted, you know. This monogamy thing is pretty new to me.’

‘Invite me to the wedding,’ Valentina quipped. ‘I’ll tell her what a hero she’s married. After all, I can personally vouch for your fidelity.’

He grinned. ‘Thanks.’

But she was still wildly curious. Guy wasn’t giving much away. Unable to resist it, she paused in the doorway. ‘Is she beautiful?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it ...’ — a stab in the dark, now — ‘the girl I spoke to on the phone? What’s her name, Maxine?’

Guy started to laugh. ‘No,’ he said, patting her shoulder. ‘Nice try, sweetheart. But it definitely isn’t Maxine.’

Thea, lying in bed with Oliver’s arm around her, was looking pensive.

‘What is it?’ Pulling the duvet up to her shoulders, for the central heating in Thea’s house was about as predictable as Thea herself, he gave her bare shoulder a squeeze. ‘Worried about Janey?’

She was, of course, but that wasn’t what was uppermost in her mind right now. Indirectly, she thought, the problem was Oliver himself. The trouble with being in love was the fact that it was so time-consuming. Whilst this might not be a problem for Oliver, who could easily afford to have his time consumed, it was an undoubted drawback when you were a not altogether successful sculptress with work to do and bills to pay. The sale of the Ballerina had temporarily stalled the boring letters from the bank droning on about her overdraft, but the increasing displeasure of Tom Sparks, the owner of the studio, was somewhat more ominous. She was falling behind with the rent in a big way, and he wasn’t amused. Sadly, not working meant not selling. And whilst at first it hadn’t seemed to matter — how, after all, could financial security even begin to compare with all-consuming happiness? — the prospect of losing her beloved studio was fast becoming a real possibility.