Access All Areas: HarperImpulse Contemporary Fiction

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Afternoon tea in the lounge? He immediately checked the room. Miss 214 was nowhere to be seen and there was not a bloody cupcake or teapot in sight.

Operation Betsy, Take Two. Anna tried to take shallow breaths because she was squeezed into Lucy’s slightly-too-small uniform and it threatened to pop a button with the slightest wrong move. The effect was topped off with a rickety linen cart which she trundled into the service lift. She took a deep breath and pressed the button marked 2. As she waited for the lift to rumble into life beneath her feet, her mind wandered to her father. In their back garden, just the two of them and a camera. Endlessly patient, explaining to her over-eager and full of big ideas teenaged self about lighting and weather conditions, how to take and develop a picture that captured a moment flawlessly. She wondered what he would make of her now, wearing a disguise and using her feminine wiles to get an unsolicited photograph. Warmth crept uncomfortably into her cheeks.

He would surely care a lot more about her losing the house. She clung to that justifying thought. Her parents had poured their heart and soul lovingly into every brick and they were no longer here with her. This was her best shot at hanging on to what she had left of them.

Stick to the plan, Anna.

Her heart thumped thickly in her chest and her palms, curled around the handles of the linen trolley, were slick with sweat. All she needed to do was gain entry to the Purple Suite on the pretext of changing the towels, take a quick picture and then leg it. A piece of cake, according to Lucy. Instead of dwelling on the past she focused on mentally preparing herself to knock on the door of the most glamorous forty-something actress in the country. If she could get herself in the room using the towels as an excuse she would be able to see how the land lay. Maybe Betsy Warrender would be in a massively generous mood given the amount of amazing cougar sex she must be having and would offer to pose for a fan picture with her new squeeze. Job done, no guilt.

The lift came to a standstill with a ping and the doors slid smoothly open. The corridor was empty. She heaved the cart out of the lift with a bump. The Purple Suite was down the length of the corridor and then she needed to take a left. Her heart pounded thickly in her head as she pushed the cart down the hallway.

A skinny guy in a Lavington Hotel uniform rounded the corner carrying a tray of dirty crockery and she nearly leapt a foot in the air. Yet he simply nodded briefly as he passed her, with not the slightest hint of surprise or interest. Clearly Lucy must be right. Staff must come and go so frequently here that a new face didn’t deserve a second glance.

It occurred to her that this was all too damned easy as she knocked on the door of the Purple Suite. She should have known the moment it opened that it was all too good to be true. Luck hadn’t been on her side for the past few years, so why the hell would it take an upward turn now?

One of Betsy Warrender’s entourage stood before her with a notebook in one hand and the door handle in the other. She wore no make-up and had large, thick glasses and short dark hair. Then again, if Anna were dating Kip Bevan, who had the nation’s female contingent in a swoon, she’d hardly shoot herself in the foot by having model-material staff. He was a notorious womaniser.

‘Laundry,’ she said stupidly, as if she hadn’t been carrying a teetering pile of towels.

The woman opened the door wider and walked back into the suite. Anna followed, blinking around the opulence of the Purple Suite, the sparkling chandeliers, ankle deep carpet and velvet sofas. Sitting in the middle of the room was a woman in a fluffy Lavington Hotel bathrobe reading a newspaper. Anna stared. Last seen adorning the TV screen in a costume drama that was sweeping the nation, in real life Betsy Warrender looked a lot less glossy and a lot older. Her hair wasn’t as full and bouncy and her face was scrubbed of make-up. She looked pale and more than a little tired. In short, she looked normal. The kind of normal that could sell tabloid newspapers by the million if captured on film. As if on cue, Kip Bevan appeared through a door on the other side of the room, leaned over the back of the sofa and kissed Betsy’s cheek. He wore jeans and a designer T-shirt that showed off his ripped upper body, and looked dark, sleek and utterly gorgeous, like a dressed-down James Bond.

A resounding knock on the door behind her made Anna jump.

Betsy and Kip glanced up in unison and the minion with the glasses turned on her heel and returned to the door just as Anna realised with a spike of churning nerves that she was staring at the celebrity couple, rooted to the spot, like a starstruck peeping Tom. Worse, as voices became louder behind her she spun round to see none other than Joe Marshall entering the room, undoubtedly to perform some security sweep or other. Same black suit that set him apart from the hotel staff, same crisp white open-neck shirt, same broad shoulders and muscular build. His dark good looks were jaw dropping. He easily gave the man of the moment Kip Bevan a run for his money and her stomach gave a melting flip in spite of her resolve. His eyes widened in incredulous disbelief as he caught sight of her.

Oh crap.

She’d just witnessed the perfect money shot and had missed her chance.

Chapter 3 (#ub144eaae-75b7-59e3-9927-872a27b5bc78)

Joe Marshall spread his hands.

‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he said to the room. ‘I’ll just take the opportunity to brief your housekeeping assistant on the security update for the day.’

As Anna floundered, he took her by the elbow and escorted her from the suite with zero fuss or fanfare. For all Betsy and Kip knew, no one more threatening than a chambermaid had entered their perfect bubble of happiness. Her heart sank as he closed the door of the Purple Suite behind them. She might have been able to somehow pass herself off as a guest after their first encounter, but there would be no second chances this time. He stood over her as she pushed the stupid linen trolley until they reached the end of the corridor, well clear of the Purple Suite and anyone who might emerge from it.

As she came to a standstill he met her eyes with his stern grey ones.

‘Bedding change?’ she attempted brightly.

‘Really?’ he snapped. ‘Are you taking the piss?’ He held out a hand, palm-up. ‘Where’s the camera?’

This whole thing had been doomed to failure. Her shoulders sagged.

‘How did you know?’ she said.

A grin touched the corner of his mouth, lighting up the gorgeous face and causing another ill-judged surge of squidginess in her stomach. She imagined just how perfect he would look if the grin hadn’t been laced with sarcasm.

‘You are joking?’ he said. ‘Could you be any more conspicuous? Laurel and Hardy would do a better stakeout than you.’

‘I fooled the concierge,’ she countered defiantly.

‘He’d probably pass his own mother on the street.’

She gazed innocently up at the ceiling.

‘Where’s the camera?’ he repeated, not to be distracted.

She shrugged.

‘Don’t play games with me. I don’t have time for this. I’ll ask you one more time – where’s the camera?’

She made the mistake of glancing at the huge pile of towels on the linen trolley and saw the instant flash of comprehension on his face. Less than five seconds later, he’d uncovered the camera underneath the top layer of towels, primed and ready for action.

Bugger it.

She followed him meekly down the stairs to the ground floor with a heavy heart, the laundry trolley abandoned somewhere on the second floor, toying with making a run for it as they crossed the lobby. Who was she trying to kid? The nearest she’d got to fitness this past year had been nipping to the corner shop to pick up her father’s newspaper, whereas Joe Marshall looked like he chased down errant photographers every day of the week. She braced herself for being kicked out onto the pavement in full embarrassing view of the gawping public.

Instead, he showed her into what was apparently his office, a tiny room behind the reception and not far from the staff quarters. Floor plans of the hotel adorned the walls, along with what looked like staff rotas.

‘What’s this about?’ she said, a brief stab of concern in her gut as she wondered if he was going to call the police. She hadn’t really broken any laws, had she? Seeing as she hadn’t actually managed to cop a photo. Groping for a way to smooth things over, she wondered if she might be able to charm him into letting her go. It was a long shot at best – he probably had glamorous women throwing themselves at him constantly; he was hardly about to be seduced by boring Anna Clark from the back of beyond. Then again, anything was worth a try.

‘Sit down.’ He nodded at a beige office chair next to the desk.

‘I’m fine,’ she said.

‘Suit yourself.’

Joe sat down behind the dark wood desk and leaned back in his own, larger chair, trying to keep his expression professionally neutral when his libido was zipping hotly into action at the view before him. The pink and grey hotel uniform was definitely not meant to look that sexy. Clearly too small, it hugged her every curve. The A-line skirt was a good couple of inches too short.

He needed to focus. The Betsy Warrender booking was clearly not the top secret that he’d demanded it be. In short, that meant there was a security leak at the hotel, and when he found out who it was, heads would roll.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked. He really couldn’t keep thinking of her as Miss 214.

‘Are you going to call the police?’ she countered.