Free The Walk of Fame by Heidi Rice Page B

impossibly sexy kiss had been served up for public consumption, to titillate people over their morning coffee. A snarled expletive cut the country quiet as his stomach turned over.
    ‘Hey, man. Don’t sweat it.’ Mickey’s voice drifted on as Mac’s temper surged out of control. ‘They’re long-range but you both look really hot. All we need here is our own angle.’
    He hated those damn parasites. Why couldn’t they leave him the hell alone?
    ‘It’ll be great publicity for the European release of
Death Game,’
Mickey wittered on. ‘Especially as the girl’s British. Hey, she’s not there with you, is she?’ Mickey’s voice peaked with excitement. ‘Could I get a quote?’
    Mac took a couple of deep breaths. ‘No, she’s not here,’ he growled, suddenly glad of her temporary absence.
    He wanted to kill someone and it might as well be the messenger. ‘I don’t want any damn quotes. Not a one. I’ve told you before, my sex life is no one’s business but my own and if you give a single column inch of mileage to this story you’re fired.’
    There was a pregnant pause on the end of the line, then Mickey’s voice came back on, considerably subdued. ‘Understood, Mac. How do you want me to spin it, then?’
    Was he hitting his head against a brick wall or what?
    ‘No spin, Mick. No nothing. Tell them no comment and that’ll be the end of it.’
    Mickey cleared his throat. ‘Not quite, man.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘They’ve got the girl’s name.’
    Damn. ‘I’ll take care of the girl,’ he said and realised he meant it.
    Juno would be completely unprepared for what was about to hit her—and he planned to be there to protect her from the worst of it. He decided not to think about the fact that he’d never been the knight-in-shining-armour type before.
    He went to hang up and then a thought occurred to him. He brought the phone back to his ear. ‘Mick, wait. By the way, what
is
her name?’
    He didn’t know where she’d popped off to or how long she’d be and he needed to put the wheels in motion. He’d start by booking them a couple of flights to LA to get her out of harm’s way.
    ‘Man, you didn’t get her name before you nailed her?’ Mick’s laddish chuckle grated on Mac’s last nerve. ‘Boy, oh, boy, you’re such a player. If I had that kind of power, I’d be hitting on everything that moved too—’
    ‘Shut up, Mick, and give me her damn name,’ he snapped, not liking the renewed spurt of guilt at his publicist’s insinuations.
    He listened to the rustle of paper before Mickey spoke. ‘According to this one she’s called Juno Delamare. Works in some dress shop in Portobello Road in West London named The Funky Fashionista and—’
    Mac slammed the phone down, having heard all he needed to. Swinging his legs off the bed, he ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbed his hands down his face. He stared out of the open terrace doors, and noticed how high the sun was in the sky.
    What time was it? If it was past six in LA it had to be pastnoon here. After yesterday’s emotional roller coaster—not to mention the mind-blowing sex—he’d slept like a dead man.
    No wonder she wasn’t here. She could have woken up hours ago. She must have headed off in search of breakfast.
    His heartbeat evened out for the first time since he’d spotted her empty pillow. He’d have a quick shower and then hunt her down—and tell her how they were going to handle the press.
    He stood and stretched, deciding not to dwell on the little resolution he’d made to himself last night to send her packing first thing in the morning. He couldn’t let her go. Not after he’d got her into this mess. She’d just have to spend a couple of weeks with him in LA where she’d be safe from prying eyes.
    His lips curved as he wrapped the bed sheet round his waist. After the way things had gone last night, he didn’t see it being a hardship for either one of them.
    He took a step forward, heard the crunch