Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
A job. Focus on the mission. That’s it. That’s all I have.
I pull out my phone and dial my lifeline.
“I was just about to call you,” Lucinda says in greeting.
“The Logan job. I’ll take it.” I don’t give a shit who the client is. A woman, a kid, a fucking monkey. I just need to work. Nothing could be worse than this.
“Good,” she replies simply, not making a big deal of it. “Glad you’ve saved me from having to kick your arse into shape.”
My heart starts to ease up a little. “Someone needs to,” I mutter.
“Where are you?”
“Chelsea.”
“In a bar?”
“Just leaving.”
“With?”
“No one.”
She laughs, like she doesn’t believe me. Which she undoubtedly doesn’t. “Get a good night’s sleep, Jake. And be at Logan Tower tomorrow at three. One hundred grand will be deposited into your account in the morning.” She hangs up and I head home, my mind now centered on the job ahead and that alone. I’m the best at the security firm I work for. I’m not blowing smoke up my own arse. It’s a cold, hard fact.
You want to keep someone safe, you hire me. I have a clean sheet. I plan on keeping it that way.
My head is in the game.
Chapter 2
CAMI
Camille!”
I spin around, my bags whirling with me, creating what I know will be the illusion of a huge elaborate paper tutu. I smile when I see Heather hurrying toward me, her eyes bright and excited. Wrestling my hand up to my face, my bags bashing against my side as they lift, I pull off my sunglasses before the weight of my shopping forces my arm back down.
“Hey!” I sing, matching her excitement. “No work today?”
Heather’s happy face takes on an edge of repulsion, just before she throws her arms around me. I’m unable to return her hug due to the obscene amount of shopping bags in my grasp, and I’m not in the slightest bit sorry. She’ll love what I have to show her. “They fired me,” she spits resentfully, squeezing me to her.
“Oh, shit! What happened?” I ask as she releases me, flicks her glossy auburn hair over her shoulder, and rearranges her Chanel purse.
“Tuesday night. That’s what happened.” She links arms with me and starts leading us down Bond Street.
“Ohhh.” Tuesday night comes flooding back to me. Or what I can remember of Tuesday night. Champagne. Lots of it, and some questionable dance moves at our favorite bar.
“Yes, oh,” she counters, giving me a sideways smile. “I got to work on time yesterday, but I couldn’t for the life of me read the autocue. It was all blurred.”
I laugh, picturing her squinting at the monitors beyond the camera. “Being on form is kind of necessary when you’re live on TV.”
We cross the road and head toward a café like homing pigeons. I need an iced lemon tea pronto. “So what now?” I ask, letting all of my bags drop like lead from my aching hands when we reach a table.
Heather rests her neat arse on a chair. “Now I get to focus on our dream, Camille!” Her eyes dance excitedly. “Any developments?”
“We have another investor interested,” I tell her, trying to sound casual. I’ve not allowed myself to get excited about the potential of getting our clothing line off the ground. Not until we have a firm deal on the table. We’ve made that mistake already. We virtually had the pen on the dotted line when I noticed a clause that wasn’t mentioned in the negotiations. Something about making clothes up to a certain size, which basically meant that any woman with even the slightest curve or hint of an arse wouldn’t be wearing our fashion line. It was a deal breaker, and something Heather and I feel strongly about. We made it clear that our clothes should be available to every woman of every shape and size. The investors wouldn’t budge, and neither would we. “They sound keen.”
“Really?” She gives me a big, toothy grin.
“Really,” I confirm, unable to stop myself from matching Heather’s smile, but I’m so nervous. At the moment we’re just two pretty faces with bodies that look good in clothes. I love my job modeling, but the urge is fierce to prove to everyone, including my father, that I can be more than just a mannequin. I know Heather feels the same. Neither of us is willing to compromise on our dream, and on top of that, neither are we prepared to accept any funding from our fathers. Heather’s dad is minted, too. Not as minted as mine—granted, not many are, if any in London—but he’s obscenely wealthy, nevertheless. “We have a meeting with my agent tomorrow. She has a few things to run over with us.”
“I’ll be there!” She smirks and points at my bags. “What have you been buying, since the Camille Logan and Heather Porter fashion range isn’t yet available? You do realize that we’ll only ever be able to wear our own label when it’s available.”